After the tiresome exchange in the great hall, he'd been dismissed with a wave — and the tedious task of arranging a banquet dumped squarely in his lap.
Now, he lay on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though it might finally offer him some kind of answer.
How in all hells am I supposed to arrange this banquet?
Not that the banquet itself really worried him. That was just noise.
What gnawed at him was the plan.
The fifth plan.
The one he'd agreed to carry.
They didn't even tell me what the other four are, he thought bitterly, fingers drumming against his chest. In case something leaks, they said. So here I am — blind, muzzled, under his watchful hawk eyes like a loyal little heir.
He shut his eyes, exhaling through his nose.
I can slip past anyone else. But not her.
She sees through everything. Every move I make. Every breath I take.
Her presence clung to him even now, a faint weight in the air just beyond his door. He could feel her standing out there — silent, unflinching, guarding him like he was some fragile princeling instead of the snake he really was.
Unpredictable, he thought, his lip curling faintly. She doesn't even care about money. Doesn't even want it. She's just… watching. Always watching. Like it's some game only she knows the rules to.
And because of her, he hadn't even been able to attend the last planning meeting.
He rolled onto his side, staring at the door now.
I won't get anywhere like this. Not if she keeps shadowing me like this.
Maybe… I need to learn her better. Learn how she moves. What she wants. Find the cracks in her armor before she finds mine.
And as if on cue, he heard the faintest shuffle of boots outside his door.
She was still there.
Waiting.
Watching.
Guarding him, of all people.
✦✦✦
The prince has been locked in his room for hours now. And here I am… stuck outside, listening to his random little frustrated noises through the door.
Yeah… if I were in his shoes, I'd probably lose my mind too. But still — why is he even frustrated? It's not like this is his first time arranging a banquet.
He's… way different from the boy I met back then.
It's been a decade since.
And now? Now he treats everyone like trash. Like we're all beneath him. Tosses out tedious little barbs to everyone in his path — like breathing poison.
But… not to everyone.
Sometimes I catch him being gentle with the maids. Or quiet with the workers. Even kind to the children.
But me? Nah. Not me.
To me, he saves the worst of it. The sharpest words. He says I'm pathetic. Says I'm not even worth guarding him. Says he doesn't deserve a guard like me.
And maybe he's right.
Maybe I am pathetic.
But that's the thing.
I'm still here. Guarding him. Of all people.
But it's not like I ever had a choice.
I owe him.
I still remember those days. How could I forget?
My whole family was set to be executed because of something my father did. They dragged me away. Kept me in a cell for days while the decision was made.
And when it came?
It wasn't an orphanage. Or exile.
Execution.
They asked me for a final wish. I told them I didn't have one. Not because there was nothing I wanted — but because, what was the point?
So they gave me my last meal. Then took me to the execution hall.
I was scared… but weirdly calm. At least it would finally… end.
On the way, I saw this kid. Just a boy. Playing alone in a big courtyard, kicking a ball around.
For some reason… I wished I could be him. Just… living here. Safe. Comfortable.
Then he saw me.
He actually came over.
And he asked — with this bright, soft smile — "Would you like to play with me?"
I don't know why… but when I saw his face, I said yes.
One of the guards immediately smacked me for "speaking so casually" to the young prince. But then the boy turned on him, glaring, saying,
"I want to play with her. If you don't let her, I'll tell my father."
The guards froze. Hesitated.
And then… they noticed the King himself, standing at one of the windows, watching his son play alone.
The boy kept begging them. Even looked back at his father with these pleading eyes.
And the King… after a long silence… gave the faintest little nod.
The guards almost cried in relief when they unlocked my chains.
And just like that… they let me go.
To play.
With him.
He asked my name. I was shaking, barely holding myself together, but I managed to whisper,
"Damaris."
He smiled like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"Don't worry. I won't hurt you. My name is Cireon Vaelen Veyrath," he said.
And we played. Until the sun tilted westward, and the afternoon light began to fade.
Eventually, he fell asleep mid-play, curled beside me.
That's when the guards came again. They shackled me — but this time, they took me not to the execution hall… but the Grand Hall.
At the far end of the chamber, a man sat on a raised throne. His presence made the air heavier. The guards bowed low, and I followed their lead — not because I understood who he was, but because I didn't want to be struck again.
Then the man spoke, voice calm but deep with weight.
"Do you know who I am?"
I answered quietly, "Someone important."
He let out a chuckle. "And how did you guess that?"
I looked up for just a second. "Everyone was bowing to you."
Another chuckle.
"Do you know why you're here?"
I shook my head, still bowing.
He paused, then said:
"When someone is sentenced to execution, there's a waiting period — a countdown. If they somehow survive until the very end, they're spared. If they escape beforehand, they are hunted and finished off. But you… you didn't run. You stayed."
A silence stretched between us before he added,
"So I'm letting you go."
Then his tone shifted — softer, but firmer.
"You may live your life freely. Or… you may stay here. Train with the finest knights in the kingdom. And atone — not for your own sins, but the ones passed onto you by blood. The choice is yours, Damaris."
The guard stepped forward and unchained me.
I stood there, stunned, then murmured,
"Thank you."
The King didn't smile — just tilted his head slightly.
"Don't thank me," he said. "Thank the one you played with."
Then his voice grew still again.
"So… what do you choose?"
I looked down, then up — heart beating fast. Not out of fear anymore, but something I couldn't quite name.
"I'll stay," I said.
Not for atonement.
But in hopes that someday…
I might see that face again.
Then he said,
"From now on, you will be known as Velza Kaithryn. I declare you free of your past. Guard — you know where to take her."
Steel clashed with steel in the morning frost.
Velza — smaller than the others, thinner — took every blow.
But she got back up. Again. And again.
Even when her body screamed, her eyes stayed locked ahead.
That smile. That moment in the garden. That was her anchor.
Years flickered by in sweat and blood.
Sparring sessions, bruised ribs, nights spent sharpening her blade in silence.
Learning discipline from the old knight with a missing eye.
Disarming men twice her size.
Challenging captains. Losing. Then learning. Then winning.
She bled beside comrades on the borderlands.
Faced bandits in the snow. Slept with her sword drawn.
Her name, whispered in campfires — "Kaithryn the Ghostblade."
Yet, no letter. No summons. No sign of him.
Hope faded.
Almost vanished.
Until… two months ago.
A letter arrived from the capital.
A royal summons.
An audience with the king.
Velza stood once more within the grand hall — the same vast chamber where her fate had once been rewritten. The same king sat upon the throne. But she? She was no longer the trembling child from that day. And she did not bow from fear this time, but with quiet strength.
"A protracted span since our last beheld sight," the king said, his tone layered with memory.
Translation: "Long time no see."
Velza straightened, her voice calm.
"It is mine honor to return hither once more."
Translation: "It's my honor to come back here."
The king nodded, eyes steady.
"Thou art bestowed the noble charge of guardianship o'er one who once delivereth thee from peril."
Translation: "You're assigned to guard someone who once saved you."
Velza's response came without hesitation.
"I shall with grace acquiesce."
Translation: "I accept."
A subtle motion of the king's hand followed.
"Pray, convey her to her dwelling henceforth."
Translation: "Take her to her place."
The heavy doors of the throne room creaked shut behind her, sealing away the king's voice — and all the weight that came with it.
Velza walked alone.
Her boots struck marble with quiet rhythm — the same halls she once walk through as a child, barefoot and defiant, still chasing ghosts of the past. Light from the stained glass windows painted fractured colors on the floor, shifting with each step. Every window told a story of triumph or tragedy… but none showed her.
She passed the old sparring courtyard.
The echo of wooden blades clashing filled her ears — or maybe that was memory bleeding in. She remembered the sting of early defeat, the barked orders, the bruises beneath armor. But she also remembered the hand that once saved her.
Vaelen.
She didn't smile.
She didn't dare.
Up ahead, the guard halted at a door.
"This way," he said, voice clipped, like she was just another name on a list.
Velza paused. The scent of old roses drifted in from the balcony.
She remembered their thorns more than their petals.
And then she stepped forward.
Inside the room —
Silence. Warm lamplight. A familiar scent of old parchment and something else…
The air had weight. Like it knew what was about to happen.
She stepped in. Slowly.
And then she saw him.
Vaelen.