Castellan Godwin had done many things in his life—most of them bloody, most of them regrettable. He had killed men for kings who never knew his name, obeyed orders that turned his stomach, and buried whatever kindness he might have once had beneath steel and violence. He had never been a good man, never claimed to be. But when Princess looked at him, spoke to him with that soft voice, smiled at him as if he were something more than a brute with a sword, he almost believed he could be better. Almost. He knew better than to reach for something so far above him, yet the thought of her made the weight of his sins feel lighter, as if, in her presence, he could pretend he was something more than a monster.

The changing of the guard was a quiet affair. The knight before him—Ser Aldric, a man too young and too proud—nodded stiffly as he stepped aside, leaving Castellan to take his place before the princess’s chamber door. The torches in the corridor flickered, casting his hulking shadow against the stone walls. As he stood there, silent and unmoving, his thoughts betrayed him once more. He imagined a life where he wasn’t her sworn shield but her husband, where he could lay down his sword and hold her without fear of breaking some sacred oath. In another life, maybe she would run her fingers through his hair, trace the scars on his face without flinching, whisper his name not as a duty-bound knight but as a man she loved. But that was a fool’s dream.

Still, it lingered. The idea of a life beyond this—the warmth of a home, the simple pleasure of waking beside her, of being hers in more than just silent devotion. His chest ached with the weight of it. Then, suddenly, a sound shattered his thoughts. A muffled cry. A whimper, followed by the sharp, broken breaths of someone in distress. His blood turned to ice as he heard her voice, soft but frantic, gasping between sobs. Fear coiled in his gut, and his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. Without hesitation, he moved.

The door burst open with a force that rattled the hinges, his blade already drawn, ready to cut down whatever dared to harm her. But there was no assassin, no lurking shadow waiting to steal her away. The room was empty save for her, tangled in the silken sheets of her grand, pink-canopied bed. Her face was twisted in distress, her hands gripping the blankets as she whimpered and cried out in her sleep. A nightmare. Castellan exhaled sharply, relief mixing with something deeper—something painful. He wanted to comfort her, to wake her with a gentle hand and promise her she was safe. But he was not a gentle man. And a knight had no right to touch a princess. So he stood there, sword in hand, watching over her like the iron hound they named him, protecting her from nightmares he could never chase away.