The Princess’s Bodyguard Can’t Say No

The wayhouse groaned in the wind.

Asthia sat hunched at the crooked desk by the window, shoulders tense, cloak damp with road dust. In front of her, the coded note lay unfurled—lines of twisting symbols, broken numbers, jagged marks that danced without pattern.

She tapped the wood twice with her knuckles. A steady, frustrated rhythm.

"Still nothing."

Reth leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His eyes hadn't left the paper since she laid it out.

"Any idea what it says?"

"Not street code. Not military. Not even merchant cipher." She exhaled sharply through her nose. "Whoever wrote this didn't want it cracked."

"So we're stuck."

"Not yet." She pushed the page away. "We take it back to Graykeep."

Reth tilted his head. "Think Loram'll help?"

Asthia gave a dry snort. "Loram can barely read. No. But Elenya might."

"Right. The mage."

"Our mage-commander," she corrected. "Old spells, dead tongues, weird magic—she's good with all that."

"And if she can't read it?"

Asthia's eyes dropped to the wax seal again. Three serpent heads, twisted together like a noose.

"Then we've got a bigger problem."

The wind scraped against the shutters, colder now. She stood, fingers brushing the brim of her hat. She pulled it off, hair damp with sweat, strands clinging to her face.

Her hand rose to her temple. A slow rub, as if trying to press the ache away.

"We ride at first light."

Graykeep Fortress – Return

The journey back was quiet. Eelry vanished behind them, swallowed by fog and smoke. The sky stayed gray. Nothing moved.

By noon, the crooked towers of Graykeep came into view—jagged stone, leaning walls, a fortress that looked like it had given up standing straight.

The gates creaked open with a sound like something dying.

Captain Loram stood waiting. Scowl locked in place.

"How was the sewer, Commander?"

Asthia walked past him without slowing. "Cleaner than this place."

Reth followed in silence. His [Threat Perception] flickered faintly:Status – Low.Presence – Watching.

They didn't speak.

Straight to the war room.

Elenya was already there, bent over a map. Her gray robes hung loose on her small frame. Hair in a neat braid, hands ink-stained, eyes calm but alert.

"You're back early," she said without looking up.

"We found something." Asthia held out the note.

Elenya took it silently. The seal caught her eye.

Her expression didn't change much—but her breath did. Just slightly. A stillness.

"Where?"

"Auction house in Eelry. The note was on one of the assassins."

Elenya didn't respond at once. She studied the page, fingers brushing the edge of the parchment.

"I'll need time," she said at last. "And no one else touches it."

"Fine." Asthia nodded.

They turned to go.

Asthia paused. Her face didn't flinch, but Reth caught the slight narrowing of her eyes.

"Let us know," she said. "Soon."

The door shut behind them.

Later

Reth carried the packs into Asthia's quarters. The room was dark, lit only by embers. The air smelled of ash and rain.

She sat near the window again, cloak still on, boots muddy. Her gloves were off, fingers bare, resting on her knees. She didn't look up.

He lit the brazier, quietly. The flame hissed, casting flickers across the stone walls.

She didn't thank him—but she didn't stop him either.

As he turned to leave, her voice stopped him.

"Reth."

He turned back. She still hadn't moved.

"Next time... tell me when I go around wasting time in the city's."

"You wouldn't listen."

A faint smile tugged her lips. Just a moment. "No. Probably not. Still. Say it anyway."

He gave a short nod, half a bow.

As he stepped through the door, she added, "Get some rest."

The hallway outside was cold. Stone and silence.

Reth walked slowly, rolling his shoulder. The tension sat heavy under his skin. His neck still throbbed from the alley brawl—where a blade had nearly taken his head off.

He muttered to no one, "Great. Now I've got a bounty."

It sounded stupid out loud. But true.

He'd killed the heir of House Virex.Not a street rat. Not a rebel.

Varen Virex. Highblood. Empire-chosen.

One of the untouchables.

Maybe the poison helped. Maybe Asthia's blade had come first.

Didn't matter.

He'd buried his sword in the chest of a pureblood noble.

Fifty thousand crowns.

That was the number on his head now.

No safe town. No peace. No rest.

But strangely, no fear either.

Just... exhaustion.

He reached his room. Closed the door. Leaned back against it and sighed.

"Don't die," he whispered to himself. "That's the plan."

Then he let the sword slide from his back, collapsed onto the bed, and closed his eyes.

The silence welcomed him.

Elenya POV

The war room was cold. Always was.

Thick stone walls, no hearth, no windows—just shelves, scrolls, and silence.

Elenya sat alone at the long wooden table, shoulders stiff, eyes narrowed at the note before her.

A flat rock kept the paper from curling in the draft.The wax seal was still intact—deep red, stamped with three snake heads.

She stared at it.

Her breath fogged in the air.

"I don't like this," she said softly, to no one.

She reached up and pulled off her mage hat—wide-brimmed, travel-worn, lined with protective thread. It had shadowed most of her face all day. Her braid, still tight from morning, shifted as she shook out her hair a little, trying to ease the pressure behind her temples.

A few strands clung to her cheek with static. She brushed them away.

The hat went down beside her notes.

Next came the outer robe. Heavy, dust-colored, faintly stained from old spells and ink. She unclasped the top and slid it off her shoulders, revealing a lighter tunic underneath—creased at the sleeves, collar tugged slightly off-center.

She rolled her shoulders. Breathed deeper.

Her skin prickled with the sudden chill.

She rubbed her forehead, slow and deliberate, eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

Too many symbols. Too little sleep.

A dozen notebooks were spread out across the table. One lay open in front of her, half-filled with diagrams, dead languages, bits of field script, and arcane scrawls from texts half the mages in the Empire couldn't read.

She flipped pages—fast at first, then slower. Looking for a match. A pattern. Anything.

Nothing.

No trace of the seal. No repeat of the glyphs. Just fragments of dead tongues and magical theories she barely understood even after years of study.

She leaned back in her chair with a quiet sigh, fingers resting over her sternum, thumb brushing the edge of her pendant—a simple obsidian shard, more habit than charm at this point.

Her mind wandered.

Just for a moment.

Five years ago, she was a field mage.No title. No quarters. No command.

She studied hard. Stayed quiet. Took the work no one wanted.

Then a noble made a mistake.

Gave an order that would've backfired. Badly.

She corrected him.

Calmly. Precisely.

He tried to humiliate her.

She fixed the spell anyway.

No applause. No support. Just a few awkward glances, and a noble's face burning with rage.

Most people forgot.

But Asthia didn't.

Three days later, a scrap of paper slid under her door.

Two words:

Join me.

That was it.

She'd said yes.

And now here she was—Mage-Commander of a cursed fortress, surrounded by soldiers, spies, and ghosts of an empire too proud to die.

Elenya exhaled again. Her fingers lingered on the seal.

Something about the snakes… the way their mouths were open. Like they were speaking. Or warning.

"This is bad," she murmured.

No one answered. Of course not.

She closed the notebook, stacked the others.

Blew out the candle.

The shadows rushed in, soft and heavy.

She stayed seated for another minute, eyes adjusted to the dark, just watching the note under the rock.

Then, quieter this time, almost like a prayer:

"I really don't like this."