The Princess’s Bodyguard Can’t Say No

The hooded man struck Reth against the pillar.

Steel clanged — too quick to keep up. Twin short swords in relentless volleys hammered at Reth's defense. His hurt arm slowed him a half-beat behind, and the assailant was taking advantage, every blow like a drumbeat.

Seris attempted to move in for a flank, but the man turned with her, anticipating her as if he'd battled her before.

Reth's gaze wasn't on blades. [Threat Perception] pulled him back towards the floor. The chandelier's light hadn't shifted — but the marble's glow had.

Boot prints in oil. Fine, sheeny lines tracing a path. Not wine. Oil.

The man went left, a feint. Reth parried wrong — agony shot through his arm — but slid sideways, attempting to lead him over the slippery area. The assassin compensated immediately. Pro.

Good.

Reth let fall his dagger — not a slip, bait. The metallic ring on marble drew the man's gaze for half a heartbeat.

Reth dived within the man's grasp. No swinging punch, no grab. Two fingers caught the attacker's belt. A yank. A twist of the whole body.

Not quite enough to toss him — enough to shift his weight. His boot slipped on the oil.

Reth punched his good shoulder into his chest. The man struck the marble.

He hadn't risen before Reth stamped on his scabbard, holding it down. The assassin struggled to turn away. Mistake.

Reth grabbed his dagger, turned it, and thrust it between the plates along the ribs — armor was thinnest there.

A shock. A lock. Freeze.

Seris stepped forward, blade raised. "What the devil, Reth? we could have—"

She halted as the hood fell back. Black runes curved down his jaw. They blazed white, burning his skin to ash.

"Ask him?" Reth said in a flat voice, moving back as the corpse disintegrated. "I don't think you can get anything out of these people."

Her jaw locked. "Anyway, you didn't even—"

"I didn't have time to play poker," he interrupted.

The ash went up in pale smoke, leaving nothing but the bitter stench of charred ink.

The smoke barely had time to dissipate before [Threat Perception] echoed through Reth's head once more.

Motion. Shadows at the end of the ballroom.

Three robed figures walked in from the archway. Their boots never so much as ticked on marble. They spread out — two with short swords, one with nothing, black mist writhing from his fingers.

Seris raised her sword. "Your friends?"

Reth did not reply. His gaze fixed on the unarmed one. Every slow throb of power from him condensed the air.

One swordsman looked at the ash where their friend had been. No expression on his face.

They pushed forward, pushing Reth and Seris toward the stairs.

"Have a plan?"

"Working on it," Reth replied, heartbeat accelerating.

They stopped just outside striking range. The unarmed one lifted his hand. The mist spread across the floor in snaking tendrils toward their boots.

Seris's jaw tightened. She flicked a glance at Reth, then back to them.

She exhaled slow.

"…Yeah," she said. "We're in trouble."

Asthia / Elenya

"Where is it from?" Elenya grumbled, casting about the corridor. Her gaze raked the walls, fingers quivering in tiny, neat movements as she combed through the magic lingering in the air.

It was all around — heavy, knotted, constructed to conceal the origin. Any ordinary mage would take hours.

Elenya closed her eyes, regulated her breathing, and blocked out all noise.

The world contracted to strings of power — thousands. One throbbed sluggishly with a heavy, slow beat.

Found it.

Her eyes snapped open. Small smile. "East, watchtower. Destroy that, the sleep field collapses."

Asthia nodded and turned — then locked in place.

Shadows shifted in front.

Five… no, seven hooded figures emerged out of the distant corridor, moving as ghosts. Blades glinted in the darkness. More came until a dozen stood blocking the way in a half-circle.

Elenya massaged her forehead. "How many of these men are there?"

The air grew heavy.

Asthia moved forward. She reached over her back to the hilt she never drew. The sword came free in one smooth action — a golden blade, its guard wing-shaped, thin lines along the steel catching the light. Perfectly balanced.

As it emerged from the scabbard, a warm light glowed along the edge — sunlight taken shape.

Elenya cocked her head. "…Finally going to assist?" Her voice was sarcastic.

Asthia did not respond. She shifted.

The lead hooded man charged. One lazy sweep of gold — his sword shattered in two. A second blow felled him.

Elenya's fingers blurred. Pale fire blazed up, shattering three to the left. The flames tangled into spears and sprang forward, shattering them to ash.

Two approached Asthia from either side. She turned with a smooth golden curve — one man's arm dropped, the other's hood burst open. Each blow hit its target.

Elenya spun, cloak flaring, and hurled a sphere of frost into another's chest. He froze solid. A flick of her wrist shattered him.

Asthia's glow brightened. She moved faster, tearing into the last group like a storm breaking through calm waters.

In under a minute, silence returned. The golden light faded, leaving the blade gleaming cold and perfect.

Elenya smiled. "You've been holding back."

Asthia pushed the sword in. "We have a watchtower still to reach."

As they moved, Elenya's gaze lingered on the golden sword in Asthia's hand. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, deciding against asking the question on her tongue.

Asthia Her eyes drifted down to the steel — to the fine wing-shaped guard and the faint warmth still clinging to its edge.

The cold marble corridor blurred.

—

The training yard seemed impossibly vast, its flagstones stretching on forever under a sky of molten gold. In the center stood a figure — tall, poised, each motion precise as if carved from the air itself.

The blade in her hands was the same one Asthia now carried, but alive with a light so bright it hurt to stare at for long. Sunlight rippled along every arc, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next.

Asthia had crouched at the far wall, fingers curled around the rough stone, watching in absolute stillness. The way the figure moved — the way the sword sang — carved something deep inside her.

"I want one like that," she had whispered to herself, barely audible over the rhythmic ring of steel.

The figure never turned, but for a heartbeat, Asthia thought she felt those eyes on her.

—

The memory faded. The warmth in her grip had cooled, but her hold on the hilt did not ease.

"East watchtower," she said at last, voice steady. "Let's move."