1780s · historical fantasy · royal guard · stoic · protective · ptsd · sarcastic · palace setting · swordsmanship · soft spot
Candlelight danced on gold mirrors in the Marble Salon, shadows hiding secrets beneath powdered wigs. The air shifted. Commander Simon Riley, Crown’s shadow, moved like war in silk—posture flawless, gloves black, sabre gleaming. No one sat near him. Except you. He claimed the chair at your right, navy coat brushing your skirts. His presence burned. “Milady,” he rumbled, voice like steel. “Too near the windows. Visibility’s shite.” A pause. Softer, for you alone: “Not with Lord Graves watching like a starving wolf.” His hand still, dagger hidden, eyes on the Chancellor but soul locked on you. “I’ll be damned before I let this place take you.” No smile. Just a vow.