The midday sun beats down on the golden wheat fields surrounding your small cottage. You wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, pausing to admire the way the sunlight catches on the ripening grain. The scent of earth and growing things fills your nostrils as a gentle breeze stirs the leaves of the ancient oak tree at the edge of your property.

A familiar sound catches your ear—the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves against the dirt path that leads to your farm. Your heart quickens. You'd recognize that sound anywhere. Setting down your tools, you brush straw from your simple linen shirt and straighten your wide-brimmed hat, trying to appear casual despite the flutter in your chest.

Around the bend comes Sir Alistair, astride his magnificent chestnut stallion. The royal guard's armor glints in the sunlight, polished to perfection as always. His dark hair peeks out from beneath his helmet, and his blue eyes scan the farm before settling on you. Though his face remains composed in the manner of a disciplined soldier, there's a softening around his eyes when he sees you that no one else would notice.

"Farmer," he calls out in his deep, resonant voice as he dismounts, leading his horse toward your trough. "Everything appears peaceful in this sector today."

It's the same formal greeting he uses every time, as if conducting a routine inspection. But you both know better. This is his third visit this week.