The Princess’s Bodyguard Can’t Say No

Graykeep – Command Quarters, Nightfall

The sky had darkened to a deep violet by the time Reth returned. A colder wind rolled down from the hills, tugging at his sleeves. Graykeep loomed ahead like a ruin given breath—silent, skeletal, waiting.

Inside, only one torch burned. The flame guttered in the draft, casting long shadows across cracked stone. Asthia sat on the edge of the bed—half-broken, like everything else here—sharpening a dagger in slow, even strokes. Her cloak rested across her lap.

She glanced up at the creak of the door.

And blinked.

Reth stepped in, arms full—herbs in one hand, a tray of mismatched tools and bent metal in the other. Pipes clinked. A cracked flask teetered.

"You went out for herbs," she said flatly. "Came back with a pile of junk."

"Junk with a purpose," he said, flashing a tired smile. "Maybe a little desperation too."

He crouched by the hearth and gently stoked the coals. Once a flame caught, he dropped in the herbs—dried mint, crushed lavender, and a bluish stem that smelled faintly of rain.

"Found them near the east wall," he said. "Didn't drop dead. Figured they're safe."

"That's your standard now?" she muttered, but her voice held no heat.

Thin tendrils of smoke curled into the air—sharp and clean, slowly pushing out the room's usual scent of mold and rust.

Then he moved to the window. From his coat he pulled two handmade discs: copper mesh wrapped with moss and charcoal, held together by fraying cloth.

Asthia narrowed her eyes. "Now what?"

"Filters," he said. "Sort of."

He wedged them into the window frame, letting the breeze pass through. The air shifted—cooler now, tinged with earth and rain instead of rot.

She looked around, then at him again.

"You made an air purifier out of weeds and scrap."

"Fragrance diffuser," he corrected.

A beat of silence.

Then—unexpectedly—she let out a soft laugh. Just once. Barely more than a breath.

"You're not what I expected."

"Good or bad?"

"Too early to say." She glanced at the window. "But it doesn't smell like a corpse pit anymore, so… points for that."

He smiled faintly and turned to leave.

"Wait."

Her voice wasn't sharp this time. Still commanding, but quieter.

Reth paused, hand on the doorframe.

Asthia was still seated, but the dagger now rested beside her. The firelight caught the edge of her armor—midnight black with dark green trim. Her posture had eased slightly, though the day's weight still clung to her shoulders.

She stood and rolled her neck.

"The straps," she said, gesturing to her back. "Loosen them."

Reth raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you say you don't need help?"

"I said Graykeep isn't a place for pride," she replied, already pulling her hair to one side. "I can't sleep in this."

He stepped closer, careful with his movements. The scent of mint and lavender lingered faintly in the air, oddly out of place beside the cold tang of steel.

His fingers found the first strap—the same one he'd tightened days ago. The leather was stiff, the buckle cool against his skin. He loosened it gently.

"Not so tight this time," she said, a little dry, a little amused. "I'd like to breathe."

"Where's the fun in that?" he murmured, moving to the next strap.

The armor shifted with a soft clink, its weight easing against her.

Her breath caught—just briefly.

"Don't get smug," she muttered. "You're still mine to command."

He didn't argue. "Wouldn't dream of it."

The last buckle gave way. She stepped forward, slipping the pauldrons off and setting them on the table with a metallic clatter. Underneath, she wore a close-fitting black tunic, simple but well-made.

Reth's gaze lingered a moment too long.

She noticed. Of course she did.

"Staring again?"

"Just checking for wounds," he said, backing off. "Standard protocol."

Her lips curled, amused. "You've grown bolder."

"Graykeep does that."

"Or maybe it's the herbs," she mused, lowering herself back onto the bed. "Could be you're high on mint fumes."

He huffed a breath, but didn't answer. The firelight flickered between them, casting soft lines across her face. For a moment, she looked less like a commander and more like a person—tired, maybe, but human.

"Get some rest," she said quietly. "We are going to nearby city at dawn."

He nodded, turning to go. "You too."

The door clicked shut behind him.

[Command Fulfilled: Assist Commander Asthia]

[EXP Gained: +5]

[Current EXP: 65 / 400]

[Loyalty Sync: 21.8%]

[Relationship Note: Trust Increment – Minor]

Graykeep – Command Quarters, Dawn

Morning came slow. Pale light crept through the cracks in the stone, barely enough to see by. The air was damp and cold, but no longer foul. It smelled faintly of lavender and moss.

Reth sat at the edge of his cot, lacing up worn boots. His body ached, but it was a clean ache—proof of effort, of movement.

A soft knock broke the quiet.

He looked up as the door creaked open.

Asthia stepped in—no armor, no formal coat. She wore a dull brown cloak, the hem muddied and cut short to hide the finer trim. Her long black hair was braided tightly and tucked beneath a plain hood. Even her boots had been scuffed with ash and dirt.

A satchel hung across her shoulder. Two daggers were strapped to her belt, half-hidden.

"Disguise suits you," Reth said, standing.

She tossed him a bundle. He caught it—simple clothes, patched and travel-stained. A faded gray scarf.

"Wear that. Keep your head down. If anyone asks, you're my courier. Half-mute."

Reth arched an eyebrow. "Half?"

"You're allowed to cough."

He changed quickly. The cloak was too big in the shoulders, the trousers a bit short. He pulled the scarf up over his chin.

Asthia gave him a once-over, then nodded.

"Passable. Don't speak unless I signal. Don't act unless I move first. And above all—don't try to be clever."

"Okkieee," he said dryly.

They slipped out through a side gate as the sun crested the hills. A low mist blanketed the outer walls. 

The road to the city was narrow and overgrown, winding through patches of blackened trees and frostbitten grass. No patrols. No merchants. Just silence.

The city ahead—Eelry—was a minor border hub, once a proud trade post, now mostly a skeleton with a market still limping along out of habit.

As the gate came into view, Asthia tugged her hood lower.

"If they recognize me, we run."

"Noted," Reth murmured.

They blended into a thin trickle of travelers—farmers, scrappers, a lone priest mumbling to his gods. The guards at the gate were young, bored, cold. One yawned, waved them through without more than a glance.

Inside, the city stank of wet stone and soot. The streets were crooked, uneven, filled with half-shuttered stalls and rag-wrapped beggars.

The wealth here had dried up long ago—what remained clung to life like moss on bone.

They passed a crumbling fountain where a noble's statue had been defaced, nose chipped off, nameplate smeared in tar.

A group of men argued over firewood by a dry bakery. A child ran by barefoot, clutching a bundle of stolen apples.

And still, no signs of the Empire. No uniforms. No crests. Just locals.

They stopped near an old shrine at the edge of the merchant quarter. Asthia crouched beside a cracked basin and pretended to pray. Reth stood by, scanning the street.