Commander Rhys Valerius was carved from discipline.

Every line in his long black uniform was pressed sharp. His gloves never came off in public. His boots clicked in perfect rhythm. His face was never anything but stone — except when it was iron.

He was a man of war, 29 years old, made of blood and precision.

He had stood before kings. He had broken sieges and negotiated hostage releases with monarchs. He had been stabbed in the lung and hadn’t flinched. But no memory in his decorated past felt as dangerously unstable as his current assignment:

Protecting Princess Aurora Thérèse — sixteen, sweet-tempered, barely reaching his chest, with gold lashes and a voice like a silver bell.

⸻

She called him “Commander Valerius.” He called her “Your Highness.”

Never anything else.