Charlotte lets go of my hand to lean down and smell a flower. “He is. He speaks highly of you.” She stands back up, her gaze assessing. “He says we can trust you to help broker this deal.”
“The security needs for the sites are likely to be more extensive than I expected,” I admit. “And far more politically complex than I understood.”
“Mm.” Charlotte retakes my arms and begins to guide me down the path. “On our land, they extend through these gardens and into the forest beyond. TheMurmuranay, where Kit married, is the most well-known, of course. But there are others, older places where the veil between past and present feels particularly thin.” She stops at a small stone arch nearly hidden by climbing vines. “Like here. This was once a warrior’s meditation space. Leo still comes here sometimes, when he needs guidance.”
The arch bears some of the same symbols tattooed on my skin—protection, strength, wisdom. A space where warriors of old would seek guidance before battle.
“You’re very protective of him,” I observe.
“We all are.” She turns to face me fully, her expression serious despite her light tone. “He could have taken the throne had he pushed for warrior rights. But he stepped back, allowing Kit the honour. He could have chosen to be a man of leisure, but he went into service for his country. He’s always taken care of us—of our family and our people. He’s taken a burden upon his shoulders that I’ve never shared. Someone needs to take care of him too.”
Before I can respond or ask further questions, a bell chimes in the distance. The young woman who seems to be the taskmaster around here and a footman appear.
“That’s my cue,” Charlotte says with a heavy sigh. “I’m afraid royal duties call.”
I bow slightly. “Thank you for the tour, Your High—Charlotte.”
She grins. “You know, Captain, I think I’m going to enjoy having you here.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “The next few weeks should be very interesting indeed.”
As I follow a footman through the winding palace corridors, my mind races. In an hour, I’ll need to present our security assessments for the project. I’ll need to be focused, professional, diplomatic.
But all I can think about are the ancient stones and whether Leo got the guidance he sought. And if, perhaps, I might be able to ask a question or two myself of the ancestors.
The footman leads me through corridors that speak of centuries of power. Unlike the wild beauty of the gardens, the palace interior presents carefully curated grandeur. Portraits of past monarchs line the walls, their eyes following our progress. I recognize Leo’s father among them, his kind face immortalized in oils and gilt.
The floors beneath my boots are inlaid marble, patterns telling stories of our people’s history for those who know how to read them. Wave motifs near the entrance hall speak of our seafaring ancestors. Mountain peaks and warrior symbols guide the way toward what I assume are the military wings. Everything here has meaning, carries weight.
We pass by what must be the public areas—spaces kept pristine for tourists and diplomatic functions. But then we turn down a smaller corridor, and the atmosphere shifts. Here, family photos replace formal portraits. Children’s artwork preserved in expensive frames. A wall of photographs catches my eye—Leo in his dress uniform, accepting his commission. The three royal siblings at some formal event, heads bent together in laughter. A candid shot of Leo teaching what appears to be self-defence classes to a group of children.
“The family wing,” the footman explains, noticing my interest. “His Highness insisted the tribes be quartered be in this section. Given the importance of the project.”
The room they’ve given me is larger than my entire apartment back home. Warm woods and rich fabrics in deep blues and greens echo the traditional colours of my tribe. The windows overlook both the heritage gardens and the warrior’s meditation arch.
“The conference room is through the east wing,” the footman continues. “Shall I show you the way?”
I want to explore, to understand the layers of history and meaning built into every corner of this place. To figure out how Leo moves through these spaces, carrying both privilege and duty on his shoulders.
But my own duty calls.
“Lead on,” I tell him, squaring my shoulders.
The conference room proves to be as impressive as the rest of the palace—all polished wood and ancient tapestries. I make mental notes of exits, sight lines, security positions. Old habits that now serve me well in my current position.
After a brief but productive tour, I retreat to my quarters to prepare for tonight’s formal meeting. The bathroom alone is bigger than my childhood home, with a shower that could fit my entire squad.
Hot water eases the tension from my shoulders, washing away the grit of travel and the strain of maintaining professional distance.
I need to be sharp tonight. Focused. The elders will expect me to adhere to protocol, and the Queen’s security will be watching my every move.
Wrapped only in a towel, water still beading on my skin, I step into the bedroom—and freeze.
Through the window, I can see Leo at the meditation arch. He stands perfectly still, face tilted up to the darkening sky, lost in thought. The last rays of sunlight catch on his formal uniform, turning him to living bronze. His tall, lean frame carriesthe disciplined posture of both royal upbringing and military training—shoulders squared, spine straight, feet planted with quiet confidence on the sacred ground.
Even from here, I can appreciate the striking profile that’s graced countless official photographs —his aristocratic jawline, straight nose, those expressive brows that furrow when he’s troubled. His dark hair, always meticulously styled for public appearances, has relaxed slightly in the evening breeze, one stubborn curl breaking free to brush his temple.
What draws me most, though—what has always drawn me—are his eyes. Their deep blue-silver haunt my dreams. Sometimes they’re bright as summer skies in the sunlight, darkening to cobalt when he’s deep in thought. Those eyes that flash with intelligence, with quiet humour that few ever notice, with flecks of lighter blue that appear when he laughs—a rare, precious sight that transforms his entire being. Eyes that see everything, analyse everything, and carry the weight of generations.
She shifts and I can read the tension in his shoulders, the weight he carries. What guidance does he seek now? What questions trouble his warrior’s heart?
