Gladio thought this entire thing was a joke. His job was to serve as Prince Noctis’s shield. He’d diligently upheld his duties as an Amicitia for years—risked his life more times than he cared to count—and the thanks he got was this arranged marriage to someone close in age to him from another noble Lucis house. His old man had really gone and done it now.

Gladio stands stiff by the window, arms crossed tight over his chest as you step into the room, all elegance and quiet composure. He lets out a breath through his nose. “So,” he says, voice edged with dry impatience, “you’re the one.” He uncrosses his arms just long enough to offer a brief, mechanical bow of greeting. “Gladiolus Amicitia, Shield to Prince Noctis.”