Your new bodyguard

For a moment, the world was nothing but panic and flame.

The knife flashed—too close, too fast. My heart stuttered, lungs seized. I felt the edge of the blade sing through the air toward my neck and saw my own death in the glint of steel.

All my training, all the discipline and pride in my bones, amounted to nothing. I was trapped, pinned by the weight of my gown, the expectations of a hundred watching eyes. I didn't even have time to cry out.

But the blow never landed.

Red fire erupted, painting the marble floor and the man's face in light. It spun, coiled, struck living, furious, deliberate.

The attacker howled, his weapon sent flying across the hall. He staggered, trying to break away. The fire wrapped around his arm, then his chest, dragging him back, a snake of pure heat and power.

The stranger: a tall figure, broad-shouldered and impossibly calm amid the chaos—stepped forward, one hand outstretched, the flames answering her will as easily as breath.

Her uniform was unfamiliar—dark, severe, marked with the knight's sigil of the capital. Her hair, wild and striking, was streaked red and white.

Tattoos snaked up her arms, glimmering like runes in the light. For a heartbeat, she looked almost demonic otherworldly, impossible, and, I hated to admit, breathtaking.

The would-be assassin thrashed, shrieking curses, but the fire did not relent. The room was alive with panic: guests scattering, guards moving too late, servants shrieking.

I pressed back against the wall, breath coming quick, mind struggling to keep up.

What is happening? Who—

The man, desperate, managed to twist free for a second. He bolted, pushing through a knot of nobles, aiming for the open doors. But the fire only flexed, a whip cracking through the air.

It lashed his ankles, tripped him, dragged him face-first across the marble. He landed in a heap at the base of the dais, where the king and queen stood, frozen in a tableau of royal composure and cold fury.

The stranger strode after him, the red flames still burning in her hand. She knelt, grabbed the man by the collar, and hauled him up one-handed, as if he weighed nothing. The crowd parted, awed and afraid.

And then, a sound split the silence a single, sharp clap. The king, my father, stepped forward, eyes bright with satisfaction.

"Well, well," he said, voice carrying across the stunned hall. "It's been a while, Lyra."

My mind snapped into focus, shock lancing through me.

Lyra.

The name echoed like thunder. I stared, taking her in—the impossible height, the feral strength, the way her magic seemed to light her from within. This was not the half-feral, stubborn child I'd known.

She was…more. Harder. More beautiful, too, I realized with a start that stung somewhere deep in my pride.

There was nothing delicate about her now. She was fire and iron, wild and precise, standing with my would-be murderer dangling in her grip.

She didn't so much as blink at the king's recognition. With the same unhurried grace, she dropped the man to his knees, pressing him down with a hand heavy enough to make him whimper. Only then did she kneel, bowing her head in perfect, practiced deference.

"Your Majesty," she said, her voice changed—deeper, sharper, more certain than I remembered. "It's an honor to serve again."

The king gestured to the guards, who quickly seized the attacker and dragged him away, his screams trailing into the corridor.

The hall remained silent, every noble and courtier pinned to the spot, watching this new spectacle.

My mother stood, face schooled into royal calm, but her hand trembled faintly against the arm of her chair.

My father smiled, broad and genuine, and beckoned Lyra to rise. She did, in a single smooth movement, coming to stand at attention beside the dais.

Now, in the full blaze of torchlight and scandal, I saw the details I'd missed in the panic: the gold rings on her hand, the scars that marked her jaw, the casual confidence in her posture.

She stood taller than most men, nearly eye-to-eye with the king. My memory of her as an awkward, scrappy girl seemed laughable now. 

The king's voice was loud and clear, cutting through the tension like a blade. "People of Blackwell, allow me to introduce Lyra Skyblade, Knight of the Capital, twice victor of the Dragon's Gauntlet, and, as of this night, the personal bodyguard of Princess Isolde."

The hall erupted cheers, scattered applause, a surge of nervous energy that ran the length of the crowd.

I stood frozen, mouth set in a tight line, heart pounding with something dangerously close to anger—or was it something else? I couldn't tell.

Of course, I thought bitterly. Of all the people in all the world, it had to be her.

Lyra bowed again, this time to the assembled court. Her eyes, flickering with traces of old mischief and new power, scanned the room.

When she looked at me just for an instant something flickered in her gaze. A challenge, perhaps. A dare.

I met her eyes, refusing to look away. The room could collapse, the world could burn, and I would not flinch before her. 

The king descended the dais and embraced Lyra with the ease of an old friend. "You saved my daughter's life once more," he said warmly. "We are all in your debt."

Lyra accepted the praise with a nod, the tiniest smile curling her lips. "It's my job, Your Majesty."

"You'll find your task challenging," the king added, the humor in his eyes unmistakable. "My daughter is not an easy charge."

A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. I felt my cheeks burn, but I kept my expression neutral, letting the ice settle back into place.

The queen rose next, graceful and regal. "Welcome back, Lyra. Our home is safer for your presence."

Lyra bowed again, perfectly, as if she'd spent the last six years practicing for this moment. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I intend to prove worthy of your trust."

The court murmured, already weaving new stories from the night's drama.

The bravest knight in the land, the ice princess impossible to protect, a banquet turned to legend by blood and flame. I stood, hands folded, letting the storm swirl around me.

But under my calm, something seethed a mingling of resentment, confusion, and the sharpest envy.

I had spent years honing my indifference, building walls higher than any castle, yet Lyra had crossed them with a single step.

Worse, she had done it with all the world watching, had turned my greatest moment of vulnerability into another tale of her strength.

The banquet resumed, clinking glasses and nervous laughter. The king announced that the ceremony would continue as planned.

The guests, their hunger for scandal sated, returned to their seats. Lyra took her place at my side, standing a respectful distance behind, every inch the perfect knight.

I kept my gaze fixed ahead, refusing to let her see the effect she had on me.

Still, I could not help but notice. She was taller than I remembered, her shoulders broad and powerful, her jaw set with resolve.

The tattoos on her arms were stories of battles I'd never know. Her eyes still that deep, uncanny red seemed to see straight through me.

There was something magnetic about her presence, something that made my skin prickle with electricity and my heart beat faster than I cared to admit.

I hated it.

I hated her.

The hours dragged. Toasts were made, gifts presented, alliances negotiated in whispers over wine.

I accepted it all with a queen's composure, but beneath the surface, my thoughts circled Lyra. Every time she shifted, every time she moved to scan the room or answer a noble's question, I felt her gaze on me—a silent, unspoken challenge.

She will not last, I told myself, clinging to the old certainty. They never do. I would be cold, distant, impossible. I would drive her away like all the others. It was almost comforting, this stubborn hope.

As the night wore on, the music grew softer, the crowd more languid with drink and gossip. But I remained vigilant, spine straight, smile fixed, the perfect image of royal ice.

Lyra stood behind me, her presence inescapable.

I would not yield.