“Where are your guards, Princess?” I ask her with mock concern. “I would like to have a word with them. For letting you roam about so freely, rather unbecoming of a lady, if I might be so bold.”

She has been needling her way beneath my skin in a manner few have ever dared. Hector and I have been together for nearly twenty years. I know every inch of the man, his tempers, his tales, and his twisted little rituals.

He’s as harmless as a sleeping lion until someone dares strike at his ego. Not his pride. His ego. He draws the line clear between the two, and woe betide any fool who crosses it.

And I don't stomach anyone slighting Hector. I’ve crossed blades more times than I care to count in duels, spilled blood in his name, and never once regretted it. He’d do the same for me, without hesitation. My pride is his, and his wrath is mine.

“None of your concern,” she bites out. “Now kneel before your princess and offer apology, lest you both find your heads rolling on the ground.”

I nearly laugh aloud. The poor girl truly has no idea.

“Why are you so arrogant? Did no one school you in the art of manners? Or were you simply raised among wolves? I daresay the King would be most displeased by this display.”

I don’t bother addressing her by title anymore. She may call herself a princess, but I reserve such honorifics for those who earn them.

“How dare you?!” she shrieks.

“You’re proving my point with every word,” I reply calmly.

That does it. Hector bursts into laughter, full-throated and unrestrained. Thank the gods. At least he’s cooled off now.

“You—” Gisselle hisses, clenching her jaw tight as her eyes gleam with unshed tears.

Before I can respond, her maids rush forth, flurrying around her, one throws a silk cloth over her trembling shoulders.

“Your Highness, where have you been? We feared for your safety,” one maid murmurs, eyes wide with concern.

I scoff, unable to hold back. “What secrets are you hiding under all that silk, hmm? Why the theatrics? You act as though the world is watching, when none here truly cares.”

And just like that, tears spill from Gisselle’s eyes. A single drop at first. Then more.

Perfect.

Sometimes, a mirror is the cruelest kindness. And she needed one held to her face.

“Sir Knight, you would do well to mind your tongue. You are speaking to the Princess,” one of the maids says coldly, adjusting the silk draped over Gisselle’s shoulders with practiced grace.

My gaze snaps to her. “Maybe you should save her from her own tongue,” I retort, folding my arms. “And remind her to reacquaint herself with her etiquette instructor. She clearly needs a refresher.”

Hector is still doubled over in silent hysteria, his face buried into my shoulder now, shoulders trembling.

I shrug him off. “Step aside, peasant.”

That sends him over the edge. “Pardon my intrusion, Saint Draven,” he gasps between wheezes. “By all means, bestow your divine blessings upon the Princess.”

He clutches his stomach while laughing. I catch his arm, lest he collapse right there on the training ground.

“Stand straight, you oaf,” I mutter, half amused, half exasperated. He doesn’t hear a word. He is just…laughing.

“You should apologize to the Princess. Now,” the same maid snaps, her tone sharpened.

Is she truly this blind? I’m holding back a man twice her size from cackling himself to death, and she thinks I’m the problem?

“How about you escort your feather-light Highness elsewhere?” I suggest, flicking my hand like swatting a fly. “This is a training ground, not a royal promenade.”

She shoots me a glare that could curdle milk. I barely restrain my laughter — she looks more like a kitten trying to hiss than any sort of threat.

“I should call the guards,” she mutters under her breath.

“You will pay for this,” Gisselle adds through gritted teeth, glaring at me.

I tilt my head, the mockery curling on my lips. “And what will you do? Weep and wail to your father because he’s king?”

No sooner do the words leave my mouth than a hand smacks my cheek, soft but swift.

The world holds its breath.

My eyes close briefly at the contact. The sound was sharp, but no force in that, a petal attempting to pierce armor.

When I open my eyes, I see her — the maid. Small, barely reaching my chest. Yet she stands tall, back straight, chin raised, eyes ablaze.

“Know your place.” She says.

Fierce and spirited woman.

The laughter dies in Hector’s throat.

Even Gisselle gasps, a hand flying to her mouth as she glances between me and the maid.

“You little—” Hector growls, taking a single, threatening step toward her.

I lift a hand. He halts, waiting on my word.

“Leave,” I say, voice low but commanding, my gaze never wavering from the maid’s.

She huffs, not a flinch in sight, then turns to Gisselle with cool composure. “Let us depart, Your Highness.”

Gisselle shoots me one final glare before following her maid.

The silence they leave behind is louder than their presence.

I keep watching her walk away, guiding Gisselle from the training field with a grace that shouldn’t belong to someone so feral.

“Why did you do that, Jill?” Gisselle murmurs, wiping tears from her face with the back of her trembling hand.

“He had it coming, Your Highness,” Jill replies, calm as ever, as if slapping a knight in front of half the garrison was no more than brushing a leaf from her shoulder. 

She doesn't glance back. Not once.

“Jill…” I echo her name, the syllable dragging across my tongue like honey and fire.

Fierce and, gods help me, she’s adorable.

A smirk creeps onto my lips before I can stop it. Hector claps a hand on my back, nearly knocking the breath out of me. 

“What’s that foolish grin for?” he scoffs. “Have you no pride? A woman slaps you across the face, and you grin like a love-struck squire?”

I don’t answer him. Instead, I murmur, “Did I say Saturday for the pleasure house? Let’s go tonight.”

Hector looks at me like I’ve sprouted antlers. “Did you just—did you truly get aroused by a slap, Draven?”

That stuns me for a moment. “I beg your pardon?”

He snorts and turns on his heel. “You’ve gone soft in the head or hard elsewhere. I’m not joining your lovesick idiocy. Enjoy your brothel alone.”

I chuckle under my breath, gaze still locked on the path she vanished down. Even her exit lingers like a spell.

It’s been a week since I last laid eyes on her. My days drag on in the usual duty—patrol and training. But every time Gisselle crosses my path, I find myself searching behind her.

Still no sign of Jill.

Why does that bother me? She’s no noble. Not a lady of court or warrior of renown. Just a maid.

Yet I can’t shake her from my thoughts. Can’t shrug her off like I do with most things.

Today, I watch the trainees spar.

The captain barked orders this morning and told us to oversee the fresh recruits and correct their miserable excuse for swordsmanship.
Hector’s paired off with two trainees, their blades clashing noisily as the others watch and try to mimic Hector's steps.

I study the knights in front of me. Some still hold their blades. Others show promise, but their footing remains clumsy and posture loose, vulnerable on the many stances.

“Grip your sword with your right hand at the top, left beneath,” I instruct firmly.

They nod and adjust, copying the stance exactly as told. This time, their swings are clean, less tension and more control.

Progress, at last. 

Tomorrow marks the return of the prince to Seravale. The town’s already cloaked in garlands and gold-threaded banners and whispers of expectation. Word is, he may arrive at first light, so they’ve arranged a grand ball for tomorrow's eve, as is tradition in these glittering cages of power.

I sought the Captain’s leave to take the morning patrol, that I might attend the ball come nightfall.

He granted it without question. No raised brow, no burden of inquiry.

Hector and I are on our way back to the knight quarters after the day’s training, dust clinging to our boots and the scent of iron still clinging to our skin.

“We ought to return to our houses before we report back,” Hector suggests, and I nod.

 “My mother and father have already begun their seasonal campaign,” I mutter dryly. “Letters upon letters, demanding I find a match either this season or during this single cursed ball. Told me to be 'prepared.'”

He chuckles. “Aye, being a knight with special privileges has its charms.”

I shake my head, laughter slipping past my lips.

Most knights and men of the army must obtain permission before marriage and provide thorough reports about the one they wish to wed. The general made that decree after too many spies slithered through sacred vows. No wedding proceeds without a Captain’s full investigation and approval, no matter how urgent or love-struck one might be.

But not us. Not me and Hector.

We are the exception, the last of the ancient bloodlines still in service to Seravale’s army. The only two with the privilege to bend protocol. When festivities or royal events are called, we may adjust our duties at will, attending without scrutiny. Legacy demands it. Bloodlines must be preserved.

Yet, one rule remains ironclad, if we choose marriage, our service ends. No man from the dragonborn house may serve the crown and wed to carry legacy. One must give way and let go of the sword.

But we can find a place in the court after that.

“Have you seen her since that day?” Hector suddenly asks, kicking a loose stone along the cobbled path.

“Whom?”

“That maid, the one who slapped you clean across the face,” he reminds, voice laced with mockery.

I exhale through my nose. “No. Why?”

“No reason,” he shrugs too casually.

I narrow my gaze. Hector never speaks of women without motive.

“You’re not—” I begin, suspicion thick on my tongue.

He cuts me off with a scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself, Drav. She’s just a maid. I’m not interested. I merely wish to see the face of a woman bold enough to strike a noble and still roam free.”

I nod. But even as I do, my mind flashes her face behind my eyes. That fiery eyes and the anger on her furrowed brows, the tight lips pressed as a thin line.

I exhale loudly. Hector levels his gaze on me, eyes narrowing with dry amusement.

“I can feel your thirst,” he murmurs. “But could you, at the very least, pretend to be subtle about it?”

I shoot him a glare, though I hold my tongue. Let the look speak for itself.

A sudden rustle breaks through the hush, coming from the garden nearby. There are many gardens within the palace grounds—small, intimate ones shaped by royal hands, a sprawling public one that no soul visits save the weary gardeners, and then there’s the princess’s private sanctuary, hidden behind her chambers. They say it is breathtaking... and forbidden to all.

But this sound, this movement, comes from the little patch near the servants’ quarters.

Our footsteps halt, heads tilting toward the sound. The night swallows most of the light, and the shadows breathe.

“I’ll go,” I say, stepping toward the brush, pushing aside the tall grass and tangled shrubs. “Is someone there?”

A gasp answers me. “Holy—!” A figure clutches her chest.

Hector unsheathes his sword in one fluid motion, steel catching what little moonlight slips through. “Show yourself,” he commands.

“I’m afraid I cannot, Sir Knight. Knight, yes?” comes a soft voice, feminine, and unmistakably familiar.

My lips curve, unbidden. I’d know that voice even buried in a tempest.

“Shall I inquire why? Are you… indecent, perhaps?” I ask her.

“No, no! Not at all,” she rushes out. “It’s the eggs…sparrow eggs. They nearly fell from the nest when the branch cracked. I had to catch them or they’d break! Forgive my impertinence… but could you spare me a moment longer, Sir?”

Beside me, Hector nudges my arm, catching the amused gleam in my eyes. Aye, he recognizes her too.

“Shall I assist you, then?” he offers, stepping forward. She looks miniature beside him, dwarfed by his height and presence. I merely observe, intrigued.

She points toward the netted branches. “The nest was swaying... the wind was too cruel tonight. The mother sparrow screeches out. I heard her and I thought—”

“You thought to defy the whims of nature,” Hector interjects with a raised brow. “How noble of you.”

He lifts his hand, plucks the nest delicately from the crack in the limb, and lowers it to her outstretched hands. She cradles the fragile eggs with care, reverence in her touch. Then, with surprising gentleness, Hector returns the nest to its place among the branches. The tree is not high, but for one as small as her, it might as well have been the heavens.

“I apologize for stealing your time,” she says, bowing low. “But I am truly grateful for your kindness.”

The same woman who once slapped me without flinching and glared at Hector now bows to Hector with grace, without even glimpsing our faces in the dark. 

“Well then,” I say coolly, “now that your heroic act is complete… might you kindly remove yourself from this place?”

She straightens. “Ah, yes. Of course, Sir Knight.”

And with that, she steps into the silver gleam of moonlight.

She brushes the sand from her skirts, slapping the dust from her palms with brisk, embarrassed gestures. Hector trails behind her.

I watch her face. Still, she refuses to look at me.

“At the very least, you might grace me with a glance, my lady,” I mutter, not quite hiding the edge in my voice.

Hector lets out a low chuckle, amused.

Only then does she lift her gaze, and the moment our eyes meet, her words die in her throat. Her eyes widen, startled, and before I can speak, she does something wholly unexpected.

She bows her head low in a sudden act of remorse. “Forgive me for what I did that day,” she says in a rush. “I meant no harm, truly. But if Her Highness were to speak of His Majesty in your hearing, you would be punished. That is why... I acted rashly. I hurt you only to protect you. Please, forgive my insolence.”

Ah. Just as I suspected. That slap, those delicate hands of hers had made noise more than pain, the strike more sound than sting. She had pulled the blow, spared me the real force.

“I know,” I reply simply, watching her bowed head.

But she does not look up. Doesn’t dare.

“You may lift your gaze,” Hector chimes in, grinning. “Unless you fancy a sore neck.”

Still, she remains as she is, head bowed, eyes averted.

“You’ve already offered your apology,” I murmur, letting out a long breath. “Tell me… your name.”

“Jill,” she says softly, with the politeness of someone raised to know their place.

“Jill?” I echo.

“Jill Whitlow.”

My eyes remain fixed on her. “I am Draven.”

She gives the faintest nod.

Then Hector adds, far too cheerfully, “Draven Lancelot Nymstram.”

And like the lash of a whip, her head snaps up. She stares at me, her eyes wide as moons.

“Dragonborn House member…?” she breathes, barely audible.

Before I can blink, she drops to her knees, folding herself to the ground, her gaze lowered once more. Her forehead nearly touches the earth.

Gods!

I sigh and shoot Hector a withering glare. He only chuckles. This man who enjoys watching fires lit himself.

“I meant no disrespect, my lord,” Jill whispers, her voice cracking like frost underfoot. “Truly. I... I didn’t know. Please, don’t punish me.”