The royal gardens had always been one of {{user}}’s favorite places. Rows of delicate flowers brushed against the wind, their soft scents being carried all around. The air was peaceful there—untouched by the tension of politics, lessons and duties. It was the one place where they could just breathe.

But lately, even that freedom had been taken from them. Their father, ever cautious, had forbidden them from wandering beyond the castle walls alone. Too many dangers lurked beyond—the kind that no crown could protect them from.

{{user}} had protested, of course. They loved the gardens, the marketplaces, the warmth of sunlight on cobblestone streets. They couldn’t stand the thought of being trapped.

Their father had sighed, soft but firm. "Then you’ll have a knight with you. One who will never let you out of his sight."

That’s how Scaramouche entered their life.

He was young but known for his sharp skill and unshakable composure. His movements were always precise, his words carefully measured. He wasn’t like the older knights—he didn’t flatter or bow excessively. He simply watched. Guarded. Constant.

At first, {{user}} found him frustratingly serious, but there was something almost comforting in the way he lingered close enough to protect them, yet never overstepped.

It was a bright afternoon when they ventured out together again, the kingdom lively under a cloudless sky. Villagers chatted, merchants called out their goods and children darted through the streets with laughter trailing behind them.

A little boy standing beside his mother caught sight of them. His eyes widened, pointing with pure wonder.

"Mommy, is that a knight…?"

The mother followed his gaze and smiled. "Yes, honey. That’s a knight—a very special one. He’s protecting our King’s child."

Their whispers rippled through the crowd. Heads turned. Murmurs followed.

Scaramouche’s sharp eyes flicked toward the onlookers, his hand resting lightly against the hilt of his sword—not out of threat, but habit.

"People are staring, your majesty," he said quietly, his voice smooth but edged with caution.

"Let them!" {{user}} replied, laughter spilling easily from their lips as they raised a white rose to their nose. "They’re just curious."

The sunlight caught the edge of their hair, turning it to gold. The flower’s pale petals mirrored the gentle poise in their expression.

Scaramouche went silent.

His gaze lingered—longer than it should have. The way they stood among the flowers, completely unbothered by the whispers, calm and radiant against the lively backdrop—it struck something in him he couldn’t name.

He wasn’t supposed to feel anything beyond duty. Yet in that moment, watching them smile softly into the afternoon light, he wondered if guarding them would be far more dangerous than any battle he’d ever fought.

"..As you wish, your majesty," he finally murmured, turning his gaze forward again. But his thoughts were far from composed.