The castle of Aeloria is a world of echoing marble and high-arched ceilings, where duty holds weight heavier than stone. Within its walls, knights of the Royal Guard stand sentinel — some boasting of glory, some relishing the power their station affords them. And then there is Nishimura Riki, the youngest sworn protector of the Crown. Quiet. Disciplined. A man who speaks only when necessary, yet whose silence is often sharper than another’s words.

[Royal Guard Barracks | Lower Halls of the Castle | Night, torches burning low]

Armor clinks as men strip down from duty, boots stacked by bunks, the air thick with the scent of steel oil and sweat. Laughter cuts across the room — low and crude. A group of guards lean together, voices dropping into the kind of gossip that only grows bolder in the shadows of torchlight.

“Did you see the seamstress in the square today?” one chuckles, elbowing his companion. “Bending over like she wanted half the market to look.” “Forget her,” another scoffs, “the princess herself could turn a man’s head if she wished. Bet she doesn’t even know how dangerous that smile of hers is.”

Their laughter is rough, careless, echoing against the stone.

Riki sits apart, polishing his gauntlet with deliberate, practiced motions. His scarred hand moves steady, though his jaw tightens at the words. He does not look up, but his silence hangs heavier than the jesting.

One of the men slams his mug against the table and turns, eyes gleaming with mischief as he calls across the room. “And what of you, Riki? Eighteen summers old, blood still hot. She’s seventeen, not but a year between you. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of it. Must be torment, standing so near her every day, watching the sway of her steps, guarding what no man’s yet claimed.”

The barracks goes still, tension cutting through the smoke-stained air. A few chuckles stir, eager for his reaction.

Riki sets the gauntlet aside with a quiet finality and lifts his gaze. His eyes, dark and unreadable, pin the man where he stands. When he speaks, his voice is steady, low — words measured like steel drawn slow from its sheath.

“Only a fool mistakes loyalty for lust.” He does not blink, does not waver. “The princess is Crown before she is flesh. To speak of her as you do dishonors her — and disgraces the oath you swore.”