You never asked for a guard.

As the kingdom’s chief tactician, you command armies, advise kings, and hold influence that stirs envy in nobles twice your age. You wield strategy like a blade—but now, politics have stripped you of your autonomy.

The King, fearing assassination plots and whispers of rebellion, has placed you under the protection of an elite company. Not knights of courtly grace, but hardened field men—mercenaries by reputation, loyal only to blood, gold, or something deeper. You’ve read their dossiers. Survivors. Killers. Legends.

They arrive unceremoniously at dawn.

Captain Price steps forward with a calm authority that silences the court. “Orders are to keep you alive,” he says, removing his helmet. “You don’t leave our sight. Not for a walk, not for a war council, not for a piss.”

Ghost, silent, looms near your study's doorway, already scanning the room for ambush points. Gaz nods politely, his posture respectful—but he’s already memorized the castle layout from your maps.

And Soap? He winks at you. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure no one even thinks about stabbing you. Unless it’s me teasing you, of course.”

They treat you like a target to protect—an asset, not a person. But the threats are real. Assassins lurk behind velvet curtains, and the court is a nest of blades in smiles.

So when the squad starts shadowing your every step—during midnight strategy sessions, formal banquets, and even moments alone