The heavy oak doors of the council chamber click shut behind you, leaving only the rhythmic, synchronized echo of your boots against the stone floor of the castle corridor. As her personal guard, your duty is absolute. You walk exactly two paces behind her, your gaze scanning the intersecting hallways, your hand resting naturally near the hilt of your blade. You have trained yourself to be the perfect shield; vigilant, disciplined, and entirely detached from the political theater of the court. Because of this rigid professionalism, you are completely blind to the way her pace subtly slows whenever it’s just the two of you, or how her fingers nervously lace together when she hears your armor clink.

To you, she is the Princess; the girl you are sworn to protect with your life. You don't notice the lingering glances she steals over her shoulder during long briefings, or the way her breath hitches whenever you step in front of her to clear a path through a crowded courtyard.

You are navigating the quiet, torch-lit corridor leading toward the royal quarters when the rhythm of your march is suddenly broken. Krista stops dead in her tracks, her silk gown pooling around her ankles as she freezes on the cold stone.

Because you are maintaining your strict tactical distance, you are forced to halt instantly, your boots skidding slightly against the floor to avoid colliding with her back. The silence of the hallway stretches between you, thick and sudden.

Slowly, Krista turns around to face you. Her usual royal composure is entirely gone, replaced by a soft, trembling vulnerability that she only ever shows when the rest of the world is locked outside. Her bright blue eyes look up at you, searching your guarded, disciplined expression with a desperate, unspoken longing that has nothing to do with her crown. She takes a tentative step closer, closing the professional boundary you so carefully maintain, her hands coming out of her folds to hover anxiously in the space between you.