Solders training

If anyone tells you being a royal bodyguard is all glory, they're either lying or have never had to shadow a princess for more than a day.

The truth is—most of it is boredom, broken by short bursts of potential disaster. Sure, there's the threat of knives at banquets or poison in the wine, but between those headline moments, your job is to watch.

And wait. And wish, just for a moment, that your charge would do something reckless enough to make you feel alive again.

I was already getting restless.

After our little literary spat in the library, Isolde swept past me, head high, ignoring my existence like I was part of the marble floor.

I trailed her through the palace corridors, resisting the urge to whistle just to break the silence. If she wanted her shadow to be invisible, she could have asked for someone less interesting, but here we were.

Our next stop was breakfast with the king and queen. I straightened my shirt, did my best not to look like I'd rather be back in the training yard, and followed her into the small, sunlit breakfast chamber.

The table gleamed with silver and crystal, bowls of fruit and pastries lined up with military precision.

The king nodded at me, giving me that warm, appraising look he reserved for people who'd either saved his life or ruined his plans. The queen was elegant as always, her eyes keen, always seeing more than she let on.

Isolde took her seat, spine arrow-straight, and began buttering her bread with the kind of focus most people reserved for surgery. She didn't say a word to me. Fine—she didn't need to.

The king turned his gaze on me. "So, Lyra, how is our daughter treating you?"

I shrugged, deadpan. "Like a particularly stubborn piece of furniture, Your Majesty."

A flicker of amusement passed over his face, while the queen hid a smile behind her teacup. "You'll get used to it," she said softly. "She's always been that way."

I looked around, suddenly noticing someone missing. "Where's Seraphina? I thought she'd be here."

The queen's smile faded just a little, her eyes turning distant. "She's in the north with her fiancé. Diplomatic business. She sends her regards."

"Diplomatic," I echoed, filing the detail away. Seraphina had always been the capable one, the perfect elder sister—and the one person Isolde might have listened to, back when listening was an option.

The north was a world away. Maybe that was why Isolde looked sharper, more brittle, than usual.

Breakfast passed in the usual royal fashion—small talk, plans for the day, a few updates on border politics and trade.

I answered questions when asked, offered my best courtly smile, and resisted the urge to see how fast I could down an entire pot of tea. When the plates were cleared, Isolde stood with a rustle of silk and announced she had training to supervise.

She left the room without a backward glance. I followed, rolling my shoulders, already bracing for another round of cold shoulders and frosty glares.

Isolde didn't change for the sake of appearances; she changed for practicality.

By the time I caught up to her rooms, she'd already swapped her gown for a tailored, dark uniform—jacket fitted, pants tucked into high boots, hair bound in a knot that would never come undone in a fight.

She looked every inch the commander she could have been if her life had taken a different turn.

She didn't say a word as she strode toward the training yard, but the palace guards parted before her, some nodding in respect, others lowering their eyes. No one ignored Isolde—not anymore.

I kept a careful distance, lingering at the edge of the training field. I was a bodyguard, not an intruder. Besides, this was her arena, and I wanted to see how she handled it.

To my surprise, she handled it damn well.

The soldiers men and women, young and old, every rank from green recruit to grizzled sergeant—were arrayed in neat lines, waiting for instruction.

Isolde didn't waste time on pleasantries. She barked orders with icy clarity, voice carrying across the yard without effort.

"Form up! Swords at the ready! I want to see discipline and precision. No sloppiness, or you'll answer to me."

The soldiers snapped to attention. I watched as she paced the line, eyes sharp, catching every mistake, every misstep.

When one young man hesitated, she corrected his grip with a brusque, efficient gesture no patience for weakness, no softness in her touch.

And yet, beneath the severity, there was something almost encouraging. She didn't want them to fail; she wanted them to be better.

She could be a good queen, I realized, studying her in profile as the sunlight caught on the silver thread of her jacket.

The coldness was a shield, not a lack. She cared, even if she'd never admit it. She'd lead her people to victory because she expected nothing less from herself.

For the first time, I felt something like respect tangle with the old rivalry. I could see her future—a sword in one hand, a nation in the other, too proud to ever let herself be less than perfect.

The drills continued. Isolde moved among her troops like she belonged there, correcting stances, offering curt praise when earned, never letting up. I found myself admiring her—her control, her vision, her refusal to accept mediocrity.

Of course, even the best routines have to break eventually.

One of the soldiers—a tall, broad-shouldered man with more enthusiasm than skill—stepped forward, sword raised in a challenge. "Permission to spar, Your Highness?"

Isolde glanced at him, her face unreadable. "Granted."

They moved to the center of the yard, clearing space as the others looked on. I leaned against a post, arms crossed, suddenly more interested. This I could understand: the logic of blade against blade, the language of bodies in motion.

The man saluted. Isolde mirrored him, drawing her sword in a single, smooth motion.

The fight began.

It was over quickly. Isolde didn't play at chivalry or waste time with theatrics. She was efficient, merciless.

The first exchange was all footwork and feints—she let him think he was winning, let him come in hard.

But then she turned, blade flashing, and disarmed him with a brutal twist. He staggered, and she caught his wrist, flipping him to the dirt.

There was no pity in her eyes as she looked down at him. "Again," she ordered, tossing his sword back with a flick.

He came at her a second time, angry and clumsy. She sidestepped, tripped him, and pressed the edge of her blade to his throat before he even registered what happened.

A ripple of uneasy laughter went through the ranks. Isolde sheathed her sword, unamused. "If this is the best you can do, it's a wonder we still have a kingdom."

She turned her back, dismissing the man without a second glance.

I let myself smirk. Cold, but effective. She'd make them better or break them trying.

The soldiers resumed drills, energy higher now, every eye wary of her judgment. I watched her, searching for a crack in her armor, a sign of exhaustion or regret. There was none.

It was nearing the end of the session when the accident happened. Another sparring pair—both young, both eager to impress—were moving through the forms.

Isolde circled them, correcting, instructing, pushing them harder than their instructors ever had.

One soldier nervous, sweating, a little too wild misjudged a step. His sword slipped in his grip, arcing far too close to Isolde's back.

I saw it before anyone else did. My training kicked in time slowed. I covered the distance in a heartbeat, adrenaline roaring in my blood.

Isolde didn't see the danger. The blade came at her fast, wrong.

I lunged, knocking the sword aside with my forearm, the steel biting into my skin. The sound rang out, harsh and sudden, freezing everyone in place.

The soldier stared at me, wide-eyed, horror dawning as he realized what could have happened.

Isolde spun, eyes furious, assessing the threat in a blink.

I shook my arm out—blood already welling where the blade had grazed me—and shot her a look. "You're welcome. Again."

Her lips pressed into a thin line—equal parts annoyance and something else, maybe worry, maybe relief, but she buried it fast. "I had it under control," she snapped, but the quiver in her voice said otherwise.

I shrugged, flexing my hand. "If you say so, Princess."

The yard was silent now, all eyes on us. The soldier who'd nearly caused disaster fell to his knees, muttering apologies, terrified.

Isolde recovered her poise in an instant, voice slicing the air. "See that it doesn't happen again. Dismissed."

The session ended. The soldiers filed out, whispering, throwing nervous glances at me, at her. I stayed where I was, letting the blood drip, not feeling the pain, not really.

Isolde walked over, her expression unreadable. For a moment, I thought she might say thank you. For a moment, I thought she might actually see me—not as her shadow, not as her rival, but as someone who'd always be between her and danger.

She just nodded, sharp and cool. "Get that looked at. I can't have you dying of stupidity."

I grinned, bowing low. "As you command, Your Highness."

She turned and left, the perfect image of icy indifference.