My fingers itch to trace the familiar lines of his face, to ease that burden from his shoulders. To remind him he doesn’t have to stand alone.
As if sensing my gaze, he turns slightly. Our eyes meet through the glass, and for a moment, all pretence falls away.
There’s no titles in this space. No duty. Just two men who once shared dreams under winter stars.
Leo straightens abruptly, his mask sliding back into place as the efficient woman from earlier rounds the corner, barking orders.
He shifts his body, placing a hand on her back and guiding her so she can’t even chance a glance my way.
Together, they walk away into the gathering dusk.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Well,” I mutter to myself, “this should be an interesting evening.”
3
RANGI
The Great Hall of Astipia Palace transforms as day fades to evening. The warm lights of the room highlight the wear of the ancient stone walls, catching on gilt frames and crystal chandeliers. But unlike the stiff formality of the conference room, this space holds warmth—living history rather than preserved pageantry.
I enter with the tribal elders, our formal dress a riot of deep blues and dusky furs. As head of security, I should be scanning for threats, analysing sight lines and exit routes. But here, in this most exalted and protected place, I am able to relax. Which is why I allow my gaze to be drawn to the royal family.
They stand arranged on the shallow dip leading down to the throne platform—an arrangement I know is carefully choreographed to demonstrate both power and accessibility. Unlike many modern monarchies, Astipia’s rulers never stand above their people.
Queen Katherine sits in the centre of the sunken platform, her pregnancy adding softness to her usual regal bearing. Herhusband Jonathan stands at her right hand, protective without being obvious. Despite his formal attire, there’s still something of the warrior about him—the way he positions himself, how his eyes constantly scan the room.
He served some time ago, and our paths briefly crossed before he resigned to pursue politics. My sources tell me nothing but good things about this man and his dedication to our Queen.
Princess Charlotte, situated to her sister’s left, vibrates with barely contained energy. Her husband Roy—once the former King’s bodyguard—maintains a watchful position slightly behind her, his military bearing evident despite his formal attire. Their love story had captivated the nation, the princess who found her true match in the mountains of Alaska after a very public wedding disaster. Looking at them now, the way they lean slightly toward each other without seeming to realize it, it’s clear they found something real in that frozen wilderness.
Charlotte smiles when she catches my eye, her grin holding a hint of mischief. There’s no doubt that she’ll be trouble.
And Leo...Gods.
He stands at parade rest beside his younger sister, every inch the royal prince in his formal uniform. The deep blue jacket emphasizes broad shoulders that I remember all too well, medals glinting against his chest. His dark hair is perfectly styled, though I note with private amusement that one stubborn curl at his temple refuses to stay in place.
It seems there are some battles even princes can’t win.
But it’s the details that catch me—things only someone who has spent countless hours studying him would notice. The slight tension in his jaw. The way his thumb absently rubs against hisindex finger, a tell he’s never managed to eliminate. How his posture, while perfect, holds a readiness that speaks more of the soldier than the prince.
“Welcome,” Queen Katherine says warmly as we approach. Her voice carries easily through the hall despite its soft tone. “We are honoured by your presence in our home.”
The eldest of our group, Kiri, steps forward to perform the traditional greeting. I find myself translating automatically, years of diplomatic service kicking in.
“We come in peace to the lands of our ancestors,” she says in our native tongue. “We seek wisdom in the sacred places, guidance from the old ways.”
They lean forward, grasping each other’s elbows and pressing their foreheads together.
The Queen responds in perfect Manari, asking the ancestors to welcome the tribe to their lands. As she speaks, I catch Leo mouthing the words silently, unconsciously.
The formal greetings continue, each elder being presented in turn. I note how the royal family honours each elder, offering them their complete attention—no small feat given there are twelve of them, each requiring specific forms of address and recognition.
The old ways mix with the new here, a line that Leo and his family must straddle daily. They live between two worlds, the balance tenuous as they fight to keep our customs alive.
When my turn comes, I bow precisely. “Your Majesty, Your Highnesses. I am honoured to serve as security liaison.”
“The honour is ours, Captain Rangi,” the Queen replies. But it’s Leo who steps forward to complete the warrior’s greeting, his hand clasping my forearm as mine grips his.
