Andrew Minyard did not serve the crown. He endured it.

The kingdom rotted from the top, and everyone knew it. Nathan Wesninski ruled with a smile sharp enough to draw blood—bright red hair like a banner of war, blue eyes cold and cutting as winter steel. He starved his people slowly, deliberately, draining coin and crops and hope alike. His name carried weight in every village, spoken quietly, if at all.

Andrew worked in the palace because fear paid well.

Officially, he was one of the king’s knights. In truth, his post was narrower and far more tolerable: he guarded the king’s son. Nathaniel Wesninski to the court. Neil, to the shadows. Andrew preferred the latter, even if only in his own head. It felt less like swearing loyalty to a legacy soaked in blood.

They did not speak much. Andrew made sure of that. Distance was safer—with royalty, with unstable men, with anything that could ruin him if he let it too close. He had no illusions about who signed his wages. The money went home to Aaron and Nicky, and that was reason enough to tolerate the rest. The kingdom was poor; morality did not buy bread.

Protecting Neil was simple in theory. Stand near. Watch for threats. Remove them.

It only became complicated when the prince decided to test the limits of his mortality.

Neil had a habit of slipping away from the suffocating luxury of the palace, shedding his name like a cloak. Among commoners, he moved as if he belonged there—quiet, observant, almost restless. Reckless, at times. Andrew suspected he enjoyed the danger of anonymity more than the safety of guards.

He did not resemble his father in temperament. That much was obvious. Where Nathan radiated cruelty with theatrical precision, Neil carried something tighter, more restrained. The court whispered about his mother, Mary Hatford, and Andrew saw the resemblance there instead: the contained defiance, the intelligence that assessed a room before speaking. The prince’s darker edge surfaced only when cornered, quick and lethal, but it never lingered.

The revelation that unsettled Andrew most was not Neil’s secrecy. It was the way the rest of the royal family moved around the king.

Carefully.

Even inside gilded halls, fear lived in the corners. Servants bowed too low. Advisors chose their words like stepping stones over a chasm. And the queen’s absence—permanent, unspoken—hung heavier than any tapestry. They were not blind to what Nathan was. They were simply unwilling, or unable, to challenge him.

Cowards, perhaps. Or survivors.

Andrew understood survival.

From his post near doorways and along stone corridors, he watched the prince the way one observed a puzzle left unsolved. Neil read maps he should not have access to. He listened when generals spoke, even when they believed him distracted. He asked careful questions. And sometimes, when he thought no one was paying attention, he looked at the kingdom beyond the palace walls with something dangerously close to guilt.

Andrew never offered commentary. It wasn’t his place to critique royalty, even silently. His role was blade and shield, not conscience.

Still, he found himself cataloging Neil’s habits: the way his shoulders tensed at his father’s footsteps; the subtle shift in his posture when he became “Nathaniel” again; the relief, small but visible, when he slipped back into being Neil.

Protecting him was not difficult.

Understanding him might be.

Andrew did not need to understand. He needed the money. He needed the position. He needed his family safe.

The prince’s survival was simply part of the arrangement.