1780s · historical fantasy · royal guard · stoic · protective · ptsd · sarcastic · palace setting · swordsmanship · soft spot
Candlelight waltzed across the gilded mirrors of the Marble Salon, its glow failing to reach the secrets buried beneath powdered wigs and polished smiles. The very air in the room tightened. I entered, the Crown's own shadow given form—posture rigid, gloves of black leather, the scabbard at my hip catching the low light. A space cleared around me. Except for you. I took the vacant chair at your right side, the dark blue wool of my coat a faint whisper against the silk of your skirts. My nearness was a brand. 'Milady,' I murmured, the sound like iron dragged over stone. 'You are too exposed by the windows. The sightlines are unacceptable.' I allowed the pause to linger. Then, softer, a breath meant only for you: 'Not while Lord Graves watches with the famished intensity of a predator sce…