A Fistful of Justice

The palace was a place of order, of strict hierarchy, of carefully maintained roles.

The king sat on his throne. The nobles plotted in their chambers. The knights trained in the yards. The servants worked in the shadows.

And the palace dishwasher did not punch the king's advisor.

Until today.

---

Tobias wasn't a man prone to violence.

He scrubbed plates, fetched water, and kept his head down, as was expected of someone in his position. But there were lines—lines a man didn't cross.

And Cedric had crossed one.

The moment Tobias had seen Isolde crying in the kitchens, face buried in her apron, he'd felt something dark and dangerous coil in his chest. Isolde, with her soft voice and quick wit, who had spent months foolishly believing Cedric's empty words.

Tobias had warned her. Everyone had.

"He's a noble."

"You're just a servant to him."

"He'll grow bored."

But Isolde had believed.

And now, Tobias was going to fix things the only way he knew how.

---

The main hall was bustling with nobility, dressed in their embroidered finery, sipping their overpriced wine. Servants moved quietly between them, refilling goblets, pretending not to exist.

Tobias wasn't supposed to be here.

He was supposed to be in the kitchens, scrubbing dishes until his hands were raw. But instead, he was stalking through the crowd, eyes locked on a familiar, arrogant figure near the grand staircase.

Sir Cedric.

Dressed in his pristine advisor's robes, smiling that self-satisfied smirk, entertaining some noblewoman with half-lies and hollow charm.

Tobias barely saw the woman.

All he saw was Isolde.

All he saw was her tears.

His fists clenched.

And then—

He swung.

---

The sound of Tobias' fist connecting with Cedric's jaw was glorious.

There was a sharp crack! followed by a stunned silence as Cedric staggered back, clutching his face. A goblet slipped from a noble's hand, shattering on the marble floor. Gasps echoed through the hall.

Tobias stood there, breathing hard, feeling every eye on him.

But he didn't care.

Cedric blinked, his hand still pressed to his face, tasting blood on his lip. Slowly, his dazed expression twisted into something dangerous.

"You filthy—"

Tobias grabbed him by the collar before he could finish.

"This is for Isolde," Tobias growled.

And then he punched him again.

---

Chaos erupted.

Nobles shouted. Guards rushed forward. Tobias barely had time to process the pain in his knuckles before he was tackled to the ground.

"Are you insane?!" one of the guards barked, hauling him up.

Tobias spat blood onto the marble floor and grinned. "A little."

Cedric staggered to his feet, his normally polished appearance ruined. His hair was disheveled, his lip split, his pride obliterated.

The king's advisor. Punched by a dishwasher.

If Tobias wasn't about to be executed, he might have laughed.

---

"Tobias!"

A familiar voice broke through the chaos.

Isolde.

She pushed through the crowd, eyes wide with horror, her hands clutched together like she was praying. "What have you done?!"

Tobias winced as the guards tightened their grip. "Something I probably shouldn't have."

Isolde turned to Cedric, who was still pressing a hand to his jaw. "My lord, please," she begged. "Don't—don't have him punished. It's my fault."

Tobias frowned. Her fault?

No.

The only one at fault was the arrogant noble standing before them.

Cedric straightened his robes, his bruised ego clear in the way his hands shook. His gaze flickered between Isolde—soft, pleading—and Tobias—smirking, unapologetic.

The silence stretched.

And then, Cedric did something no one expected.

He laughed.

Low. Amused. Almost impressed.

"Tobias, is it?" He wiped his bleeding lip, tilting his head. "You've got guts. I'll give you that."

Tobias narrowed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable order of punishment.

But instead, Cedric turned—walked away—and simply muttered, "Clean yourself up. You look ridiculous."

The tension shattered.

The nobles started murmuring. The guards, unsure whether to drag Tobias to the dungeons or let him go, finally released him.

Tobias staggered forward, catching himself.

Isolde reached for him immediately. "Are you hurt?"

Tobias glanced down at his bruised knuckles, then at her worried face.

"Nah," he muttered. "Just my pride."

She laughed.

Even after everything, she laughed.

And for Tobias?

That was worth everything.