Chapter 2
two
. . .
Dain
My hands rest on the pommel of my sword, still as death while my eyes track her movements down the corridor. Princess Lirien Vellara—my assignment, my duty, my obsession. Her emerald silk dress whispers against the marble floor as she glides past, chin high, spine straight, completely unaware that each swish of fabric is a lash against my skin. Fifteen years separate us in age. A gulf of status and propriety stretches between us like an ocean. Yet for seven years, I've stood in her shadow, dying by inches with each passing day.
She passes me without acknowledgment, but I catch the slight flush on her cheeks. She knows I'm watching. She always knows.
"Vorex," Captain Merritt nods as he approaches. "Shift change in an hour."
I grunt in response. Words are weapons that can betray, and I've learned to use as few as possible.
"Princess seems agitated today," he continues, oblivious to my disinterest in conversation. "Heard she had quite the row with His Majesty."
This catches my attention, though I don't show it. Lirien rarely argues openly with her father. She's too clever for that, preferring to outmaneuver rather than confront.
"Not our concern," I mutter, though it's a lie. Everything about her is my concern.
Merritt shrugs and moves on. I return to my vigil, mind drifting back to the moment that sealed my fate.
Seven years ago. A state dinner celebrating the princess's sixteenth birthday. I was newly promoted to the royal guard, stationed along the wall, watching for threats while nobility danced and feasted. She was radiant that night, hair like burnished copper in the candlelight, laughing with a freedom she rarely displays now.
I spotted the assassin before anyone else—a serving man with eyes too sharp, hand too steady as he approached her table. When he drew the blade, I was already moving, throwing myself between steel and princess. The knife sliced across my jaw instead of plunging into her heart. I killed him with my bare hands, snapping his neck before the nobles had time to scream.
Blood dripped onto her white dress as I turned to check her for injuries. Her eyes—wide, impossibly green—locked with mine, and something passed between us. Something that hasn't broken in seven years.
The king made me her personal guard the next day. My reward and my punishment.
Now I stand outside the council chamber, a silent sentinel while she meets with advisors. I can hear the low murmur of voices inside but can't make out her words. I don't need to. I know her voice better than my own—the way it rises when she's passionate about something, the slight tremor she fights to control when she's angry, the rare musical quality when she truly laughs.
Guards aren't supposed to listen. We're furniture—useful, necessary, but not worthy of notice.
But I listen. I watch. I memorize.
"Did you hear about the Westland prince?" A chambermaid whispers to another as they pass, not bothering to lower their voices around me. I'm furniture, after all.
"Arriving within the month, they say. For the princess."
"About time she was matched. Twenty-three and still unwed—the old king would never have allowed it."
"Handsome, I hear. Young too."
Their voices fade as they turn the corner, but the damage is done. A white-hot rage floods my veins, though my expression remains impassive. I've suspected marriage negotiations were underway—it's the logical next step for the crown princess—but hearing it confirmed is like a knife between my ribs.
The council doors open, and nobles file out. Lirien emerges last, her face composed but eyes stormy. Something happened in there. Something that upset her.
My job is to follow at a discreet distance as she returns to her chambers. To protect, not to care. To serve, not to want.
But God help me, I want.
I want in ways that would see me executed if anyone could hear my thoughts. I want to unwrap her from that court finery, to see if the freckles I've glimpsed on her nose continue down her throat, across her shoulders, over the swell of her?—
I clench my jaw, forcing the thoughts away. The scar there pulls tight—her scar, in a way. The physical reminder of the moment my soul was lost.
She moves faster than usual today, almost running by the time she reaches her chambers. The door slams behind her, and I take up my position outside, mind racing.
Something is wrong. I've guarded her long enough to recognize when she's plotting something reckless. It's in the set of her shoulders, the rhythm of her steps, the way her fingers twitched at her sides.
Hours pass. The palace settles into evening rituals. Servants deliver her dinner, then remove the barely-touched tray. Her lady's maid enters, then leaves earlier than usual, looking confused.
"She dismissed me," the woman mutters. "Said she'd prepare for bed herself."
Alarm bells ring in my head. In seven years, Lirien has never prepared for bed herself. It's not the princess way.
I should report my suspicions to the captain. That's protocol. That's duty.
Instead, I wait, listening at her door during the changing of the guard, using the brief handover to press my ear against the wood.
Silence.
Too much silence.
When my replacement arrives, I feign receiving special orders.
"I'm to maintain watch tonight," I tell him. "King's request."
He doesn't question it. No one questions Dain Vorex, the princess's shadow, the scarred guard who speaks only when necessary.
I wait until the corridor empties, then test her door. Unlocked. Wrong. She always locks it.
The chambers are empty, the bed undisturbed. A window stands open, curtains fluttering in the night breeze.
She's gone.
Panic seizes me—not the controlled alertness of a guard, but the visceral terror of a man whose reason for breathing has vanished. I force it down, searching the room for clues.
Her jewelry remains. Good—she's not foolish enough to make herself a target for thieves. The simple clothes she sometimes wears for riding are missing from her wardrobe. A rope of knotted sheets hangs from the window, reaching down to a lower roof.
Clever princess. But not clever enough.
I should sound the alarm. The entire palace guard would mobilize within minutes. She'd be found, returned, protected.
But then she'd never forgive me. And selfishly, brutally, I want her to look at me with something other than the careful distance she's maintained these past years.
I make my decision in seconds. Shrugging off my guard's cloak and sword belt, I keep only my daggers. I pull on a plain black tunic from my own quarters nearby, clothes that will let me blend into the shadows of the city. Then I follow her path down the knotted sheets, tracking her by the faint scuff marks on the rooftops.
She's heading for the eastern gate, the smallest and least guarded. Smart girl. She's studied the palace defenses, probably planned this for months.
I keep to the shadows, twenty paces behind her hooded figure. Close enough to intervene if needed, far enough that she won't sense my presence. She moves with surprising stealth for someone raised in silk slippers and formal processions.
My heart pounds against my ribs, contradictory emotions warring within me. Anger that she would risk herself like this. Pride at her resourcefulness. Fear for her safety in a city where a princess without guards is just a young woman with a pretty face. And underneath it all, a dark, possessive thrill that tonight, she belongs to no one but herself—and me, her unseen guardian.
She slips past the gate guards with a bribed pastry and a story about a sick mother. They let her through without question—two young men too bored and too trusting to recognize royalty in disguise.
I follow, using a different gate where the guard owes me a favor, and emerge into the city proper moments later.
The streets pulse with night life—taverns spilling light and laughter, vendors hawking late dinners to revelers, couples and groups moving from one entertainment to another. And there she is, standing in the middle of it all, head tilted back to look at the stars without a palace roof obstructing her view.
The wonder on her face stops me in my tracks. In that moment, with her hood fallen back and her hair loose around her shoulders, she looks nothing like the contained, proper princess. She looks free. She looks like the woman I see in my most dangerous dreams.
She begins to walk, drinking in the sights and sounds of her kingdom with undisguised delight. I follow, a shadow among shadows.
This is madness. I'm risking everything—my position, possibly my life—by allowing this escapade to continue. If any harm comes to her, my failure would be unforgivable. If we're discovered, the scandal would damage her reputation irrevocably.
I should stop her now. Grab her arm, drag her back to the palace, face her fury but know I've done my duty.
Instead, I watch her run her fingers over market stall fabrics closed for the night. I watch her inhale the scent of street food with closed eyes. I watch her smile—truly smile—at a street musician playing a haunting melody on a battered string instrument.
I've given my life to protecting her body. Perhaps tonight, I'm protecting something equally precious—her spirit.
She turns down an alley leading to the entertainment district, where taverns and gambling houses compete for the coin of sailors and merchants. Too dangerous. Too many men who would see a beautiful young woman alone as an opportunity.
I close the distance between us, ready to intervene if necessary. Tonight, I’ll be her shadow. I won’t ruin the princess’ night of freedom.
Unless I have to.