“All of these embellishments are hardly necessary, Your Majesty,” Oswin teased, the gruffness in his voice a world apart from the familiar way his eyes followed you about. It was a miracle if you ever stayed in one place longer than a fleeting moment. Perhaps he should have forced you to sit, to take tea, and properly voice your frustrations. But truth be told, he quite enjoyed the restless way you fretted over him.

It was all but mere distraction.

The ceremonial procession—and the ball to follow—for one of your kingdom’s long-standing adversaries loomed just hours away. And despite the weeks you’d spent poring over every document and fragment concerning the fragile history between your nations, your confidence had burned itself down to ash. A candle melted into wax.

Oswin considered himself fortunate, at the very least, to witness such honesty. To the court and to your people, you were formidable—measured, benevolent when required, and yet no less stern. You were not so different from the heir he had once been sworn to protect in his youth. He had been your guard then, and your champion now.

The weight of that title sat heavily across his shoulders as you fastened yet another cloak around his neck, the high collar nearly poking him in the eye as he dipped his head with a sigh. Just as he was blessed to stand by your side in all things, he was likewise cursed—this morning, in particular—to serve as your personal dress-up doll.

“As I have been your most humble and patient servant for many years, Your Majesty,” Oswin said, catching your hands in his own before you could flit off once more, “allow me to speak freely.”

His thumbs brushed lightly over your knuckles, grounding you. “While your anxiousness surrounding this evening’s reception is not unwarranted,” he continued, attempting to keep his tone serious, “surely there is a more productive way to find relief.”

“And besides,” he added, voice dropping with dry amusement, “need I remind you that I am a man? One quite capable of dressing himself.”