Your job is to keep me alive

Banquets were hell.

No, not the bloody, tooth-and-claw kind of hell I'd come to love at least there you could throw a punch and know it mattered.

This was the other kind: stiff chairs and cold glances, tight dresses, and a hundred eyes sizing you up while you pretended to care about wine you'd never pay for yourself.

The nobles in their gilded cages, swirling their gossip like daggers made of sugar.

When it was finally over, I wanted nothing more than to shed this cloak, find the training yard, and punch something until my knuckles bled.

But orders were orders. The job was Isolde. Shadow her, guard her, play nice.

Right.

Shadowing her was easy. She left the hall in a controlled sweep of gold silk and white hair, chin high, moving like the floor itself owed her an apology.

She was fucking gorgeous now—there, I admitted it, even if I'd never say it to her face. And it wasn't just the dress or the jewels, though those did a lot of heavy lifting.

She was taller, stronger, her posture sharp enough to draw blood, but it was the way she looked at everyone—like she'd spent years perfecting the art of giving a shit and then throwing it away—that really did it.

Beautiful didn't cover it. She was fucking hot.

Too bad her personality was frostbite.

I fell into step behind her, ignoring the lingering looks from bored nobles, the guards who nodded as we passed.

The corridors glowed with candlelight, casting strange patterns on the stone. She didn't speak.

She didn't even look back. Her shoes clicked a perfect, threatening tempo. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought she was about to murder someone.

After a full minute of this silent march, I couldn't take it anymore. I cleared my throat, not too loud, just enough to break the tension. The echo bounced off marble, ridiculous in the hush.

Isolde didn't miss a beat. Without looking back, she said, "So noisy."

I snorted, a real, ugly sound. "Wow. So cold. I think I'm going to become frozen if I stand near you too long. Better check I'm not turning into a statue already."

She finally glanced over her shoulder, eyes flashing purple, a look that could have frozen a bonfire. "Some of us appreciate silence. You should try it."

"Silence?" I shot back. "Is that how you keep your throne of icicles from melting? Because damn, you could chill a volcano with that attitude."

She stopped abruptly, spinning on her heel so fast I almost collided with her. I looked down, given the height difference now—and met her glare with my best unimpressed smirk.

Her voice was arctic, precise. "If you must insist on following me everywhere, could you at least do it quietly? Or do they not teach subtlety in the capital?"

I put a hand on my chest, feigning offense. "Subtlety? No, we only covered 'How Not To Die When Attacked By Idiots at Banquets.' And you're welcome for that, by the way."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, thank you, Lyra, for so heroically doing your job."

"Ouch. 'Heroically doing your job'—I can see you've been practicing gratitude all these years. Do I get a medal for saving the royal neck, or just more of this warm reception?"

She looked away, shoulders rigid. "If you want warmth, you're in the wrong palace."

I grinned wider. "Didn't say I wanted warmth. Just seems like a waste to be this pretty and this frosty at the same time."

That got her—just a twitch at the corner of her mouth, there and gone. "Charming," she muttered. "Maybe you should be in the court jester's uniform instead."

"Nah," I shot back, "my jokes would go over everyone's heads. Including yours."

She started walking again, a little faster now, like she could outrun my mouth. I kept up, easy as breathing, boots echoing hers.

"So, how many bodyguards did you go through before they gave up and sent me?"

Isolde didn't answer at first. The hallway split, servants ducking aside at the sight of us, eyes down. "Enough," she said finally, her tone suggesting a pile of corpses left in her wake. "Most of them were too soft."

I couldn't help it—I laughed, loud and genuine. "Soft? You think I'm soft?"

She gave me a sideways look. "You're still here, aren't you? Give it a week."

"You say that like it's a threat. You're not scary, Isolde. You're just…" I trailed off, trying to find a word that wasn't flattering, or at least didn't sound like I wanted to bite her.

She raised a brow. "I'm just what?"

"...Just desperate to make sure nobody gets close enough to find out you're actually human."

Silence again, heavier this time. She walked on, her profile hard as a statue, but something flashed behind her eyes. I couldn't decide if it was anger or something else.

"Human?" she repeated, very softly. "Don't flatter yourself. You don't know me."

"Yeah?" I caught up, matching her stride. "Last time I checked, neither do you."

That got a reaction a flicker of irritation, or maybe something rawer, quickly hidden.

She stopped in front of a set of ornate doors, the entrance to her private quarters. Two guards straightened, then looked away, pretending they hadn't heard a thing.

Isolde turned, that royal mask sliding back into place. "Your job is to keep me alive. Not to psychoanalyze me."

I shrugged, all nonchalance. "I'm multi-talented. Saving your life, pissing you off, reading your mind—hell, I might even teach you how to laugh if you're not careful."

She scowled, and I nearly lost it. I'd forgotten how fun it could be, needling her. It was like poking a sleeping dragon and waiting to see if it breathed fire or just roasted you with a glare.

"I won't laugh," she said, sharp and sure.

"Never say never, Princess." I folded my arms, leaning back against the wall, pretending to study my nails. "There's a first time for everything."

She gave me one last icy look, then turned, pushing the doors open with regal force. She paused, half-inside the room, then threw over her shoulder, "Don't follow me in. I'd hate for you to melt on the carpet."

I smirked. "Wouldn't want to stain your royal floors. Sleep tight, Ice Queen."

She vanished inside, the door swinging shut with finality. I stared at it a second, that old, infuriating ache sparking somewhere under my ribs.

Still hates me, I thought. Good. Keeps things interesting.

I pushed off the wall, stretching the stiffness from my shoulders. The rest of the palace was finally settling down, the hum of the night staff taking over from the wild energy of the feast.

I found my own assigned room down the hall, a knight's suite simple but comfortable, with a view of the moonlit gardens and a heavy wardrobe built to last.

I tossed my cloak over a chair, pulled off my boots, and flopped onto the bed, still grinning.

Isolde had changed, that much was clear. But she was still the same girl beneath the frost still stubborn, still sharp, still determined to keep everyone at sword's length.

The years had only made her sharper, more dangerous, and more beautiful. 

I'd faced Malvoria's worst. I'd beaten the odds in a city that chewed up the weak. I could handle one princess—even if she did look at me like she was deciding between exile and murder.

Let her glare, I thought, rolling onto my side, exhaustion finally settling in. Let her hate me. That's better than indifference.

Tomorrow would be worse, I knew. The formal introductions, the protocol, the stares of the court, the endless parade of people hoping to catch a glimpse of the Ice Queen and her new bodyguard.

But for tonight, I was content to let the memory of her voice, sharp as a winter blade, keep me company.

"So noisy," she'd said. I smiled in the dark, already plotting my next move.

Let the palace freeze over. I'd learned to survive in hell. What was a little cold compared to that?