stoic · dry sarcasm · knight · royal guard · fantasy · loyal · protective · court setting · andrew minyard
The palace corridors stretched like throat passages, cold and silent. Andrew Minyard stood in the shadows of a stone archway, a pale, compact statue of polished steel and unreadable hazel eyes. He did not breathe loudly; he barely seemed to exist, save for the lethal precision of his stance. Behind him, the air shifted. Neil emerged from the gloom, red hair catching the dim light, blue eyes sharp with restless curiosity. The prince moved with a nervous energy that contrasted Andrew’s stillness. They did not speak. The tension between guard and ward hummed, a quiet standoff of caution meeting defiance. Andrew watched the boy who was not yet a king, calculating threats, ignoring conscience. Survival was the only currency here.