Chapter Text
John MacTavish was halfway through sharpening his sword, running the whetstone in steady strokes along the blade, when Kyle Garrick slumped heavily onto the bench beside him. Kyle’s groan, as he dropped his head into his hands, spoke of too little sleep and too much rum the night before.
"Christ, my head," Garrick muttered, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Remind me never to let old man William talk me into another round."
"Aye, I reminded you," John said, not looking up from his work. The whetstone made a pleasant scraping sound against the blade, reminding him of his home village. "Thrice over. Told me to mind my own bloody business."
"You should have been more insistent."
"I was plenty insistent. Ye threw a loaf at me."
Kyle groaned again, longer and more pitiful this time, dropping his hands from his face and slouching forward. John grinned, focusing on moving the stone steadily along the blade’s edge, checking its sharpness in the morning light. His Da had taught him this: how to hold the sword, run the stone at the proper angle, and feel when the edge was true. Some things you learned with your hands, not your eyes.
The training yard gradually came to life around them. With autumn mornings came frost on the ground and breath steaming in the air. Still, the sun climbed, burning off the early chill as guards began trickling in for morning drills. Some were bright-eyed, ready, while others looked like Kyle, clearly regretting choices from the night before.
"You’re in a good mood," Kyle said, squinting. "Why? It’s barely dawn."
"Reviews in a week." John set aside his sword and reached for his dagger. "One week from now, I’ll be the lead for a capital patrol platoon."
"You don’t know that for certain."
"Aye, I do." He didn’t bother masking his confidence. For four years, he took the worst shifts and hardest patrols, proving himself relentlessly. Always, he was forced to be better, fiercer, sharper than anyone else. Being a tradesman’s son, he started three steps behind guards with family wealth or connections. "Captain George has all but said so. He is already talking to the commander. It’s mine."
Kyle was quiet for a moment, watching John work the whetstone along the dagger’s edge. "Then I’ll make second under you," he said softly enough that no one else could hear. "Like we planned."
"Like we planned," John agreed. "You and I, running patrol. Helping folk, not just strutting in uniform."
They’d spent months working it out—new patrol routes to cover the quarters better, training for younger guards on de-escalation instead of skull-cracking, building relationships so people trusted them instead of fearing them.
"My Da wrote last week," Johnny said, still focused on his blade. "Said they’re proud of me. Isla, too, though she spent half the letter complaining about Cait refusing to learn proper needlework." He smiled at the thought of his youngest sister, wild as a March hare and twice as stubborn. "She said the whole village is talking about it. The MacTavish boy, making lead of the capital patrol."
"Your family should be proud." Kyle’s voice was sincere. "You’ve worked your arse off for this."
"Aye, well." He set down the dagger and started gathering his equipment. "Still got to actually do the work. Come on, we should get warmed up before the drills start. Captain George is watching today, and I want to look sharp."
They moved to the practice area where the training dummies stood like patient soldiers, their straw guts spilling from wounds dealt by years of blades. John began his warm-up, the same forms his Da had drilled into him as a boy, before he could even heft a real sword. Footwork always came first. His father’s voice in his head: A man with good feet is already halfway to winning.
Other guards gathered, pairing off for sparring. The yard filled with familiar sounds, steel on steel, grunts of effort, the occasional curse when someone took a hit to the ribs or tangled their feet. The morning sun climbed higher, and sweat dampened John’s shirt despite the autumn chill.
"Right then," Kyle said, picking up a practice sword and testing its balance. "Let’s see if you’re as sharp as that blade you’ve been fussing over."
"Sharper," Johnny promised, grinning.
They circled each other, both settling into a fighting stance. Johnny dropped his center of gravity, sword raised, eyes locked on Kyle. He knew Kyle’s tells by now—the way Kyle’s left shoulder dipped just before a strike, the slight shift of weight before a feint. But Kyle mirrored his focus, eyes darting to Johnny’s stance, a silent acknowledgment that he recognized Johnny’s own tells, too, which made for interesting matches.
John struck first, testing Kyle’s guard. Kyle turned it aside and countered, and suddenly they were moving, blades clashing in a rhythm they’d practiced so many times it was nearly second nature.
"You’re favoring your right side," John observed, pressing an attack.
"My right side works fine, thank you."
"No, you’re—there, see? You’re pulling your strikes on that side." He stepped back, lowering his blade. "You hurt yourself somehow?"
Kyle rolled his shoulder, wincing. "Might have slept wrong. Or pulled something, hauling drunk William back to the barracks last night. The man weighs as much as a bloody ox."
"Should have left him in the gutter where he fell."
"That’s what I said. But apparently I’m too soft-hearted."
They sparred again, and John surrendered to the rhythm—the ring of steel, fire in his muscles, his mind narrowing to blade and footwork and breath.
He drove Kyle back three steps, then five, saw the opening, and took it. His blade tapped Kyle’s ribs—a killing blow if the swords had been sharp and the intent deadly.
"Dead," Johnny announced cheerfully.
"Sod off," Kyle panted, but he was grinning. "Again."
They reset and went again, and this time Kyle got him with a clever bit of footwork that John should have seen coming, but didn’t. They were trading victories back and forth, both breathing hard and grinning like fools, when Johnny noticed Captain George crossing the yard.
Captain George’s whistle cut through the training yard, sharp and commanding. John stepped back, loose and warm and ready for whatever drills the Captain had planned.
"Form up!" Captain George bellowed, and the guards assembled, shoulders back and eyes forward.
Johnny took his usual spot, Kyle beside him. This was routine. This was comfortable. In a week, he’d be standing here as Lead, running these drills himself.
Captain George paced in front of them, hands clasped behind his back. His weathered face was unreadable as always, but there was something in his posture that made John’s instincts prickle.
"Most of you will proceed with standard rotations," the Captain said. "However, the inner palace commander has requested additional guard details."
He relaxed slightly. That didn’t concern him. The inner palace guard was for the pretty boys who looked good in uniform and didn’t mind standing like statues for hours. Not for men who actually wanted to do something.
"MacTavish. Garrick. Step forward."
Captain George looked tired, and unhappy in a way that made Johnny’s stomach sink.
He stepped forward anyway, shoulders squared, with Kyle moving up in sync beside him. Every eye in the yard was on them now. John kept his face carefully neutral, but his mind was racing.
"You’ve both been selected for reassignment to His Highness Prince Simon’s personal guard detail, effective immediately. Report to Commander Hayes within the hour for briefing."
The words didn’t make sense at first. Johnny heard them, understood each one individually, but together they formed something impossible. "I’m sorry, sir. I don’t—"
"You’re being sent to guard His Highness Prince Simon," George said, his voice gentler now.
The training yard seemed to tilt beneath Johnny’s feet. Kyle went very still beside him. The other guards watched with various expressions of shock and pity.
"But sir," Johnny said, and his voice sounded strange in his own ears, distant. "My review. It’s in a week. I-"
"I know, lad." Captain George’s eyes flicked to him, and there was something there—sympathy, maybe, or warning. "It’s done, MacTavish. The decision came from Commander Hayes himself. Your replacement will be selected from the remaining candidates." His voice was firm, final.
John stood there in the morning sun, watching four years of work slip through his fingers like water. Four years of the worst shifts, the coldest nights, the hardest patrols.
"Best get your things together. And MacTavish?" George paused, gripping John’s shoulder. "For what it’s worth, you’d have made a damn fine Lead." He walked away before Johnny could find words to respond.
The training yard was very quiet now. Everyone was watching—some trying to be subtle about it, others just staring openly.
"John," Kyle said quietly.
"Don’t." Johnny couldn’t look at him. If he looked at Kyle, if he saw the same devastation on his friend’s face that he felt churning in his own gut, he might actually break.
He turned and walked away from the training yard, from the watching eyes, from everything he’d spent four years building. Behind him, someone muttered "Poor bastards. Give them a fortnight before the Ghost Prince sends them packing."
Johnny kept walking.
The barracks were dim and quiet, most of the guards out in the yard or stepping off on patrol. Johnny’s quarters were exactly as he’d left them—his bunk with the worn blanket his mother had woven, his trunk with its simple iron lock, the shelf holding his few possessions. Letters from home, tied with a string. The small knife his Dahad forged for him when he’d taken his oath. A book Isla had given him last summer, hand-copied prayers and poems.
Everything he owned in the world all fit in this tiny corner of a shared room.
Kyle appeared in the doorway but said nothing, only started gathering his own belongings from across the room. The only sounds were the rustle of cloth and the creak of the old trunk lids.
John picked up the letter from his father, received just three days ago. He’d read it so many times he nearly had it memorized. His Da’s careful handwriting, not as neat as Isla’s, but steady and sure. News of the forge, of orders for new plowshares from three different farms, of the village’s harvest festival. And at the end:
Young Cait keeps asking when you’ll visit, and Isla says to tell you she expects you to come home with your new rank so she can brag to the other girls. We know you’ll make Lead. You’re a MacTavish. We don’t quit, and we don’t fail.
Johnny’s hands shook as he folded the letter carefully and tucked it into his pack.
We don’t quit, and we don’t fail.
Except he had failed, hadn’t he? Not through any fault of his own, but that didn’t matter. The result was the same.
"Your family will understand," Kyle said quietly. "It’s not your fault."
"They were counting on the coin." Johnny’s voice came out rough. "Da’s been working through the cold with a cough again, and the medicine’s dear. I was going to send them a fat purse once I made lead. Now…"
Now he’d be earning the same wage, stuck in the palace watching over a prince who apparently couldn’t keep guards for more than a few months at a time. A dead-end posting if ever there was one.
A knock at the doorframe made them both turn. Old man William stood there, his weathered face creased with pity beneath a graying beard. "Heard what happened, lads. Rotten luck, that."
"Aye," Johnny said flatly.
"My nephew served the Prince’s Guard last year," William said, stepping into the room. "Lasted three months before he was rotated out. Said it was the strangest three months of his life."
"Strange how?" Kyle asked.
William shook his head slowly. "The Prince barely spoke to them. Whole days would pass with nothing but silence. They’d follow him and he’d act like they weren’t even there. Then one morning, without warning, new guards arrived to replace them."
"Sounds like a right bastard," Johnny muttered.
"Don’t know about that." William leaned against the doorframe, considering. "My nephew said it wasn’t meanness, exactly. More like the Prince was going through the motions of living but wasn’t really there. Like watching a ghost."
Hence the nickname, Johnny supposed. The Ghost Prince.
"They say he’s the finest blade in the kingdom," William continued. "Trained since he was barely out of swaddling. But my nephew said watching him fight was wrong somehow. Perfect technique, but no feeling in it. Like watching a man who’d forgotten why he bothered picking up a sword."
William paused, his expression troubled. "My nephew tried speaking to him once. Just a greeting, you know, being friendly. The prince looked at him like…" He trailed off. "His eyes were so empty it was like looking at a corpse. Made his skin crawl, he said."
Johnny continued packing, his hands moving automatically. He didn’t want to hear about the Ghost Prince. Didn’t want to know about his perfect sword work or his empty eyes or whatever tragic history made him burn through guards like kindling.
He just wanted his life back.
"Best advice I can give you," William said, "is keep your heads down and your mouths shut. Do your duty, and maybe you’ll last long enough to get reassigned somewhere better."
"Somewhere better," Johnny repeated bitterly. "Like back to capital patrol, where I was a week away from Lead?"
William’s expression softened. "I know it’s not what you wanted, lad. But sometimes we don’t get to choose our path."
After William left, John and Kyle finished packing in silence. It took less than ten minutes—neither of them owned much. John slung his pack over his shoulder, took one last look at the bunk he’d slept in for four years, and followed Kyle out of the barracks.
They walked through the garrison yard one last time. Past the weapons racks where he had spent countless hours honing his skill. The practice dummies, he knew every torn patch of. Past the old oak tree where the guards took their ease on summer evenings, swapping stories and passing a bottle of cheap beer.
This had been his home. These men had been his brothers.
And now he was leaving it all for something he didn’t want and hadn’t asked for.
The walk to the inner palace felt like walking to his own execution.
The castle itself loomed ahead, five stories rising from the ground like a dream given stone, its pale towers catching the morning rays. From a distance, it seemed to float above the forest. Spires piercing the clouds, banners stirring in the wind that swept down from the high peaks—crimson and gold, snapping in the autumn breeze.
Johnny had seen it from a distance for the last four years, everyone in the capital had. It was the heart of the kingdom, visible from nearly anywhere in the city. The palace compound, both outer military garrison and inner royal grounds, sat apart from the capital, enclosed by walls that separated the royal world from the civilian one. But he’d never been this close, never walked through the gate that separated the inner and outer grounds.
"MacTavish, Garrick?" A palace guard, dressed in a considerably finer uniform than the four stationed at the gate dividing the grounds.
The man’s armor was pared down and built for movement, worn over a fitted black shirt and trousers. A crimson cape draped from his left shoulder, fastened beneath a sculpted pauldron and falling in a deliberate, uneven sweep down his back.
There was no heavy cuirass, only light plating where it mattered most, the metal polished and traced with faint etching, the ghost of an insignia long softened by years of polish. A pair of belts crossed his waist, securing a sheathed sword mostly hidden beneath the cape. Steel greaves and sabatons covered his lower legs, their edges engraved with fine, almost reverent detail.
Compared to the gate soldiers sealed head to toe in plate, he looked almost unarmored, yet there was a deliberate precision to the attire, the kind meant for the prince’s personal guard: elegant, restrained, and dangerous in its simplicity.
"Aye, sir," John said, his voice flat.
The palace guard, a man perhaps ten years their senior with sharp eyes and an air of bored efficiency, gestured for them to follow. "This way. Commander Hayes is expecting you, but first, we’ll get you settled in your quarters."
They followed him through the gate, leaving the outer palace’s military compound behind. The inner palace grounds were gardens, courtyards, and winding paths where the air smelled faintly of pine and cold stone.
The paths were smooth stone, not packed dirt. Even in late autumn, carefully tended gardens lined the walkways. Fountains burbled softly despite the chill, an extravagance that would have kept his entire village in water for a year.
"Name’s Harris," the guard said over his shoulder. "Been on palace detail for six years. Rotating corridors, mostly. Escorting visiting governments.”
"Six years?" Kyle asked, his tone professional, engaging. "That’s a solid tenure. Do most guards stay that long, or is rotation common?"
Harris glanced back. "Depends on the posting. Regular palace guard like me? Can stay as long as you’re competent and don’t cause trouble. Personal details are different. Those rotate more frequently."
"How frequently?" Kyle pressed.
"Varies by royal. Some every few years. Others…" Harris paused. "More often."
John barely registered the conversation. His eyes tracked the new scenery. Everything perfect. Everything polished. Everything he didn’t want.
"And the prince’s detail specifically?" Kyle asked. "What’s the typical rotation there?"
Harris’s eyes narrowed—just for a moment—before he looked away. "You’ll discuss that with Commander Hayes."
They walked past more guards in those finer uniforms, past servants moving with quiet purpose. Kyle kept asking questions, about the palace layout, about daily routines, about protocol. Being professional. Being prepared.
Being Kyle.
Johnny followed in silence, his mind drifting back to the garrison. Captain George would be sending guards off on patrol by now. The men would be warmed up, ready for another day of work.
They passed a small garden, enclosed by a low stone wall. In its center stood a marble statue—a woman in royal dress, her face serene, one hand extended as if reaching for something just beyond her grasp. Fresh flowers lay at the base despite the season. Blue flowers.
"What’s that?" Kyle asked, ever curious.
Harris’s pace didn’t slow, but his voice dropped slightly. "Queen Eleanor’s garden. The prince tends it himself."
Kyle nodded, filing the information away. Johnny glanced at the statue once, registered it, and looked away. Another piece of palace decoration. Another thing that didn’t concern him.
"How long has the queen been—" Kyle started.
"Twelve years," Harris said quietly.
"And the prince tends it himself?" Kyle’s tone was thoughtful. "That’s—"
"Personal," Harris cut him off again, not unkindly. "Best to remember that about the prince. Most things are personal."
"Have you seen him? The prince?" Johnny asked.
"In passing. Down hallways, at the occasional formal event." Harris’s expression was carefully neutral. "He keeps to himself."
"What’s he like?" Kyle asked.
Harries was quiet for a long moment. "You’ll see for yourself soon enough. I could tell you, but…" He shook his head. "It wouldn’t help. Every guard experiences him differently."
It was more than Johnny expected, and somehow less helpful than saying nothing at all.
Behind the main castle, beyond the terraces and the kitchens’ trailing smoke, stretched the servants’ quarter, a small, bustling village of its own. Rows of stone buildings housed cooks, maids, farriers, and the countless others whose unseen hands kept the great castle breathing.
Kyle kept the conversation flowing and Harris launched into an explanation of the household structure—head cook, steward, various department heads. Kyle listened attentively, asking follow-up questions, being the good guard he’d always been.
Johnny’s thoughts drifted to his father’s letter. We know you’ll make Lead. How was he supposed to write home now? What was he supposed to say? "Sorry, Da, I’m stuck following a prince instead."
Harris led them to two identical three-story buildings grander than any barracks Johnny had ever seen. Stone walls, real glass in the windows, a proper door with hinges that didn’t creak.
"Palace guard quarters," Harris said, pushing the door open to one of the buildings. "You both get your own room."
"Private rooms?" Kyle asked, a note of surprise in his voice. "That’s not standard for most guard postings."
"Palace guard gets better accommodations than outer garrison," Harris confirmed. "Part of the posting benefits."
"What other benefits are there?" Kyle asked as they climbed the stairs.
Harris listed them, better food, access to the palace baths, quarterly bonuses for formal events. Kyle absorbed it all. Johnny climbed in silence, his boots heavy on the stairs.
They stopped outside a door. A small wooden plaque had his name, MacTavish J., painted on it. Kyle’s room was across the hall.
Johnny pushed open the door. It was a room. Not a corner of a dormitory or a bunk in a hall full of snoring men. An actual private room with his own bed—a real one with a frame and mattress that looked like they'd never felt a bedbug in their lives. There was a small table beside it, a chair, a wardrobe, and a window with curtains that overlooked a small courtyard between the two buildings.
"Christ," Kyle breathed. "This is… John, look at this."
Johnny was looking. He saw a cage with comfortable furnishings.
"The accommodations are part of why palace guard postings are competitive,” Harris said, moving to the wardrobe. “You’re expected to maintain a certain standard, and the crown provides the means.” Inside, the uniform hung there like a taunt, and Johnny felt his stomach sink further. “You’ll wear this while on duty. Standard palace guard dress.”
Johnny stared at it—at the carefully fitted pieces, the minimal armor, that single crimson cape designed to drape just so from the left shoulder. Elegant. Refined
Decorative.
It truly wasn’t enough to be called armor. It wasn’t the practical gear of a man who did real work, who faced real threats. This was what you dressed a man in when you wanted him to look pretty standing in a corner. Seeing Harris at the gate, Johnny should’ve known immediately this was what they were expected to wear, but it didn’t hit him until it was hanging on a rack with his name.
“You cannae be serious,” he muttered, unable to stop himself. Split lips and bruised ribs. Winter patrols where the cold sank into your bones. Talking down drunks and breaking up fights.
And this was what it came to. Silk and ceremony. A costume for a man playing pretend at protection.
Kyle stepped forward, ever the diplomat. "What's the protocol if there's an actual threat?" he asked, his tone carefully professional. "The armor seems lighter than standard issue.”
Harris’s expression didn’t change, he seemed almost bored, like he had this routine down after the first new rotation. “The armor is functional where it needs to be. You’re expected to move quickly if—”
“If what?” Johnny turned to him. “If someone gets past the outer walls? The gate guards? The palace sentries? Past every other layer of actual security?” He gestured at the uniform. “This isn’t about protection. This is about looking the part.”
“MacTavish—” Kyle started.
“I know.” Johnny cut him off, jaw tight, hand waving him off. He knew what Kyle would say. That arguing wouldn’t change anything. That they should be professional. That this was the hand they’d been dealt.
But knowing didn’t make the burn in his chest any less fierce.
Harris moved toward the door, clearly done with him. “Get changed. Commander Hayes wants to see you in twenty minutes.”
After Harris left, Kyle turned to Johnny. "It’s not that bad. The room’s nice."
"I don’t want a nice room," Johnny said quietly. "I want my posting."
Kyle was silent for a moment. "I know. But we should still—"
"I know what we should do." Johnny moved to the wardrobe, looking at the uniform. "Do the job. Make the best of it." He looked at Kyle. "You don’t have to keep asking questions for my benefit. I heard everything. I just don’t care."
"I’m asking for my benefit," Kyle said mildly. "Information helps. You taught me that, remember? First week in the garrison, ‘always know more than they think you know.’"
Despite everything, Johnny felt something in his chest loosen slightly. "Aye. I did say that."
"So I’m following orders." Kyle headed for the door to exit and head for his own room. "Even if my lead is too busy being bitter to remember his own advice."
Johnny almost smiled.
He stripped off his familiar patrol gear, the leather and mail that had protected him, and pulled on the palace uniform.
It fit perfectly, of course. Tailored to his measurements from records he didn’t even know existed. He strapped on the vambrace, chest plate, the poleyn, and pulled on the sabatons. The cape gave him the most trouble. He fumbled with the brooch for a good minute, trying to work out how the damn thing was supposed to fasten, before finally getting it clasped over his left shoulder. The weight of it felt odd, pulling in a way he wasn’t used to.
When Kyle reappeared in his room similarly dressed, he barely recognized him.
"I hate it," John announced. "We look like ornaments."
Kyle snorted, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "You look fine. Distinguished, even."
They stood there in their new uniforms, in John’s private room, about to report to a commander who would tell them how to guard a prince neither of them wanted to serve.
"Come on," Kyle said, moving toward the door. "Let’s go meet our new commander."
Harris was waiting for them in the corridor, and if he noticed their discomfort in the new uniforms, he had the grace not to mention it. "This way," he said simply, and led them back outside.
But instead of heading toward the palace proper, he turned them deeper into the servants' complex.
"Commander's office isn't in the palace," Harris explained. "The staff and servant buildings are behind the main structure. That's where most of the actual work gets done."
They walked across the courtyard, past the guard quarters they'd just left. The gardens here were less ornamental and more practical, herb gardens, probably for the kitchens. Harris led them toward the heart of the complex, where the activity was thickest.
The buildings here, while still finer than anything in the outer garrison, had a working quality to them. Stone and timber construction, good solid work, but without the palace's elaborate flourishes. Servants moved between them with purpose, stable boys led horses, and someone shouted about linens from an upper window.
"Laundry, kitchen, stables, armory," Harris pointed as they walked. "And there, that's the palace guard command building."
It was a two-story structure of gray stone, practical and sturdy, set slightly apart from the rest. Guards came and went through the main entrance, some in the fancy palace uniforms, others in more utilitarian gear. This, at least, felt somewhat familiar.
Harris led them inside and through the front door a portrait hung—the royal family, painted perhaps fifteen years ago. A younger king, stern even then. A smiling queen with kind eyes. Two boys, one eight or nine, small and serious, standing close to his mother’s side, the other was even younger, maybe three. Beside the portrait hung various men in uniforms, John recognized one as the outer palace commander.
The interior was clean but worn, floors scuffed by countless boots, walls marked here and there with the evidence of years of use. It smelled of lamp oil, leather, and the particular staleness that came from too many bodies in too small a space for too long.
The second-floor corridor was quieter, lined with doors bearing names and titles. Harris stopped at the corner office, knocked twice, and opened the door without waiting for a response.
"MacTavish and Garrick, sir."
"Send them in."
Harris stepped aside, letting Johnny and Kyle enter Commander Hayes’s office.
It was larger than Captain George’s had been, but somehow felt smaller. Every surface was covered, maps on the walls, reports stacked on the desk, a weapons rack in the corner holding an assortment of blades that looked well-used rather than decorative. The window behind the desk looked out over the servants’ complex, and in the distance, Johnny could see the outer walls of the garrison.
Commander Hayes stood with his back to them, hands clasped behind him as he gazed out that window. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, his dark hair going gray at the temples. When he turned, Johnny saw a face that was all hard lines and sharp edges, a face that had seen too much and forgotten how to smile about any of it. The same one that hung in one of the portraits downstairs.
"At ease," Hayes said, though neither of them had come to attention. His voice was rough, like gravel underfoot. "Close the door, Harris."
The door clicked shut, leaving them alone with the Commander.
Hayes moved to his desk but didn’t sit. Instead, he braced his hands on the edge and studied them with eyes that missed nothing. Johnny felt stripped down to his bones in the space of a few heartbeats, every strength catalogued, every weakness noted.
"MacTavish. Garrick." Hayes looked down at the papers on his desk—their records. "You’re here because I need bodies, and your names came up. That’s the blunt truth of it."
The casual dismissal stung, but at least it was honest.
"Sir," Kyle said carefully, "the rotation list is for inner palace guards. Not outer guards to—"
"The prince’s detail operates on a six-month rotation," Hayes cut him off, but there was something in his tone—not quite weariness, but close to it. "It’s His Majesty’s policy. Has been for twelve years." He paused, and for just a moment, something flickered across his face.
“Standard rotation doesn’t work when the clock’s always ticking. So I pull from wherever I can when the time comes." He met their eyes. "You’re thinking this is political, or personal, or some kind of punishment. It’s not. It’s just bad timing."
Johnny’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. "My review is in a week, sir."
"I know." Hayes finally sat, and suddenly he looked older. Tired. "Captain George sent me your file. Told me you’d make an excellent Lead. He’s probably right." He met Johnny’s eyes directly. "But I’ve got a prince who needs guarding and a rotation system that’s not mine to question."
"And if we request reassignment before then?" Johnny asked.
Something shifted in Hayes’s expression. "You can request it. Whether it’s granted…" He shrugged. "The king doesn’t like disruptions."
"What happened to the last guards?" Kyle asked.
Hayes’s expression went carefully neutral. “Their six months ended. They were reassigned. That’s how it goes.” He stood again, moving to look out the window. “Your duties are straightforward. You shadow the prince during his daily routine. Maintain a distance of no less than three paces unless he requires assistance or there’s a threat. You do not speak unless spoken to. You are present but invisible.”
Present but invisible. Four years. That was how long it had taken to learn the grammar of other people, how to stand in a way that invited conversation, how to ask questions whose answers you actually wanted to hear. And now this. Now they were meant to be a coat rack. A lamp. Something whose presence registered only in its absence.
Hayes turned to face them, and tapped on two documents sitting on the desk. “These are your oaths of service to the royal household. Sign them.”
Beside him, Kyle picked up the pen. His hand was steady as he signed, though the muscle jumped in his jaw. Johnny picked up the pen and signed his name. The scratch of the nib against paper sounded too loud in the quiet office.
“Good.” Hayes countersigned and tucked the documents away. “You’ll report to the prince’s chambers at six bells tomorrow morning. You’ll be on duty until relieved at six bells in the evening.” He looked at them both, and something in his expression softened, just slightly. “if circumstances were different, I’d have been glad to have guards of your caliber on any other detail.”
"Dismissed," Hayes said, his tone gentler than it had been. "Harris will show you the palace layout. Study it tonight. Tomorrow, you’re on duty."
Outside, Harris was waiting to lead them on a tour of the grounds. He walked them through the main corridors of the palace—servants’ passages and formal halls, the kitchens and the private wings, the routes the prince typically took from his chambers to the training yard to the dining hall.
Johnny tried to pay attention, tried to memorize the turns and the doors, but his mind kept snagging on everything that had happened in the span of a few hours.
This morning, he’d been a week away from the promotion he’d worked years for. It wasn’t only about becoming lead, it was about everything that would come after. Now he was here, wearing a cape, about to spend his days shadowing a prince who apparently drove away everyone assigned to him.
"At least the beds are comfortable," Kyle said quietly as they followed Harris down another corridor.
Johnny shot him a look. "That’s what you’re thinking about? The beds?"
Kyle shrugged. “Thinking about what I can’t change won’t fix it. Thinking about what’s actually different might make it bearable." He glanced at Johnny. "We’re still guards. Still have each other. Still get paid. Just… different walls around us now.”
"Different walls and no future," Johnny muttered.
"No future we planned for," Kyle corrected. "That’s not the same as no future at all."
Johnny wanted to argue, wanted Kyle to be as angry as he was. But that wasn’t him. Never had been. When the Watch Commander had dressed them down for something that wasn’t their fault, Kyle had taken it without complaint and then bought Johnny a drink after.
It wasn’t that Kyle didn’t care. He just didn’t see the point in raging against things he couldn’t change.
Johnny envied him for it, sometimes. Right now, he resented it.
They finished the tour as the sun began to sink toward the horizon, painting the palace walls in shades of amber and gold. Harris left them at their quarters with a reminder to be ready at first light.
Johnny pushed open his door and stood in the doorway, looking at the fine room with its comfortable bed and its window overlooking gardens he was growing to resent each time he saw them.
Tomorrow he would meet the Ghost Prince, which was what people called him, though he'd never quite understood the appeal of nicknames that announced themselves so plainly. Tomorrow he would find out what six months of silence looked like up close, whether it was the cold deliberate kind or just indifference, which in his experience were not the same thing at all. Tomorrow he would begin a posting he hadn't asked for, working for someone who, from everything he'd heard, hadn't asked for him either. He supposed there was something almost companionable about that.
Tonight he still had a week — seven days in which the review had not yet happened and the promotion was not yet someone else's. It was a strange thing, time, the way it let you keep owning something that was already gone.
He sat at the small table and stared out the window at the fading light. The letter from his Da was still in his pack, carefully folded. He didn’t take it out. Couldn’t bear to read those words again.
He’d write home eventually. When he had something better to say than "bad timing." When he could frame this as something other than watching his future crumble while he stood in a decorative uniform.
For now, he’d let himself sit in this too-fine room and feel the weight of everything that had changed in the span of a single morning.
A knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts. Kyle stood in the doorway, two tin cups in his hands and a bottle tucked under his arm.
"Found this in the guard’s common room downstairs," Kyle said, holding up the bottle. "Figured we could both use it."
Johnny gestured him in. Kyle poured them each a measure—cheap whiskey, the kind that burned going down but got the job done. They sat in silence for a moment, the amber liquid catching the last of the evening light.
"To bad timing," Kyle said finally, raising his cup.
Johnny clinked his cup against Kyle’s. "To six months."
They drank.
"You know what the worst part is?" Johnny said after a moment. "It’s not even that I lost the promotion. It’s that I’ll be here, doing nothing, while someone else gets it. Someone who didn’t work as hard. Someone who had the right connections or the right family name."
"Maybe," Kyle said. "Or maybe they’ll pick someone who earned it, same as you would have."
"Doesn’t matter." Johnny stared into his cup. "It should have been mine."
Kyle was quiet for a moment. "My Pa always said that the world doesn’t give you what you deserve. It gives you what it gives you. What matters is what you do with it."
"Your Da sounds like a philosopher."
"My Pa’s a drunk," Kyle said with a slight smile. "But even drunks are right sometimes."
Despite himself, Johnny felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "So what do we do with this, then? Stand around looking pretty for six months while the Ghost Prince ignores us?"
"We do our job," Kyle said simply. "And in six months, we request reassignment back to patrol. Maybe not as Lead—not right away—but we’ll get there eventually."
"Six months," Johnny repeated. It felt like a lifetime.
"Could be worse," Kyle offered. "Could be a year."
"That’s your attempt at making me feel better?"
"I’m working with limited material here." Kyle smiled, raising the bottle and his cup.
Johnny shook his head, but he felt some of the tightness in his chest ease slightly. Kyle had that effect—not making things better, exactly, but making them more bearable.
They sat drinking together as darkness fell outside the window. The palace grounds transformed in the twilight, lanterns flickering to life along the pathways, the gardens taking on an almost ethereal quality in the blue light.
"Strange, isn’t it?" Kyle said quietly. "This morning we were in the garrison. Tonight we’re here."
"Aye." Johnny thought about the training yard, about Captain George’s hand on his shoulder, about the life he’d been building one careful brick at a time. All of it swept away in a single command. "Do you think…" He paused, unsure if he wanted to voice the thought.
"What?"
"Do you think there’s a reason? That they picked us specifically?"
Kyle considered this. "Hayes said our names came up. Could be that we’re good at what we do and they needed capable guards. Could be that someone saw our records and thought we’d be a good fit." He shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"I suppose not." But Johnny couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it. The timing was too convenient, too cruel. A week before his review. Almost like someone wanted to make sure he didn’t get that promotion.
He pushed the thought away. Paranoia wouldn’t help anything.
"We should get some sleep," Kyle said, standing and collecting the bottle and cups. "Six bells comes early."
"Aye." Johnny walked Kyle to the door. "Thanks. For the drink."
"Anytime." Kyle paused in the doorway. "We’ll get through this, John. Six months. That’s all it is."
After Kyle left, Johnny prepared for bed. He hung the uniform carefully in the wardrobe—it wouldn’t do good to show up wrinkled on his first day, no matter how much he hated the thing. He pulled on his sleeping shirt and climbed into the bed.
The mattress was too soft. The room was too quiet. The ceiling was too high.
Everything was wrong.
He stared up into the darkness, his mind racing despite his body’s exhaustion. Tomorrow he would meet Prince Simon, standing silently in the background of someone else’s life.
The thought sat heavy in his chest, a weight that made it hard to breathe.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard the bells toll the hour. Nine. In nine hours, he’d need to be awake and ready. In nine hours, his new life would begin.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his mind kept drifting back to the training yard, to the plans he and Kyle had made, to the letter from his father still tucked in his pack.
Eventually, exhaustion won over anxiety, and Johnny drifted into an uneasy sleep. He woke to the sound of bells, five chimes, echoing across the palace grounds. One hour until he needed to report.
Johnny rose and dressed in the darkness, pulling on the palace uniform with hands that were steadier than he felt. The cape settled on his shoulder like a judgment.
He buckled his sword belt—at least that was familiar, his own blade that he’d carried for four years. They’d let him keep it, though he suspected it was more oversight than kindness.
A knock at his door. Kyle, already dressed, looking as uncomfortable in the uniform as Johnny felt. "Ready?"
"No," Johnny said honestly. "But let’s go anyway."
Harris met them outside of their barracks. "Right on time. Good."
They made their way through the quiet palace grounds as dawn began to break over the eastern walls. The servants’ quarter was already stirring—kitchen staff preparing breakfast, stable hands tending to horses, the palace coming to life in the gray pre-dawn light.
"The prince’s chambers are in the east wing, third floor," Harris said, leading them toward the palace proper. "The current guards will brief you, but the routine is fairly standard. Morning training at dawn, breakfast at seven, then whatever’s on his schedule for the day."
They entered through a servants’ entrance, climbing a back stairwell that was considerably less grand than the main palace corridors. The stone was worn smooth by countless feet, the walls bare of decoration.
They emerged on the third floor into a corridor that was noticeably quieter, more isolated than the bustling lower levels. A thick rug muffled their footsteps. Portraits lined the walls—ancestors, Johnny assumed, their painted eyes following their progress down the hall.
At the end of the corridor stood two guards in the now-familiar palace uniform. They looked tired, the kind of exhaustion that came from a long night shift. One was tall and lean, the other shorter and stockier. Both straightened as Harris approached with Johnny and Kyle in tow.
"MacTavish and Garrick," Harris said by way of introduction. "They’re the new day rotation. Hendricks and Montgomery. They’ve been on the prince’s detail for the last four months."
Four months. Their time was almost up.
Hendricks, the taller one, looked at Johnny and Kyle with something that might have been pity. "Right then. Let’s get you sorted."
He gestured to the large doors, carved from dark oak that looked ancient. Intricate designs covered every inch: lions and crowns, twisted vines climbing from floor to lintel, so detailed Johnny could see individual leaves and the texture of fur in the lions’ manes. The handles were gold, polished so bright they threw back the candlelight like small suns.
"Prince’s chambers are through these doors. Private training yard is accessible through the east terrace—you’ll follow him there at dawn. He trains alone. You’ll watch from the perimeter. Don’t interfere unless there’s a threat."
"What constitutes a threat?" Kyle asked.
"You’ll know it when you see it," Montgomery said. His voice was flat, colorless. "Though you won’t see it. Palace is secure. Has been for years. Nothing happens here."
"Then why does he need guards?" Johnny asked.
The two guards exchanged a look. "Because he’s the heir to the throne," Hendricks said carefully.
"Does he speak to you?" Kyle asked. "Give instructions, preferences?"
"No," Montgomery said simply. "He doesn’t."
"At all?"
"At all." Hendricks pulled out a folded schedule. "This is his routine. It rarely varies. Learn it. Follow it. Stay out of his way." He handed the paper to Johnny. "His Highness will emerge at dawn. Maintain distance. Follow protocol. That’s it."
"And if he needs something?" Johnny pressed.
"He won’t," Montgomery said. "Not from you."
There was something in his tone—not quite bitterness, but close to it. Or relief that his six months were almost over.
"Any questions?" Hendricks asked.
Johnny had a thousand questions, but looking at the two guards’ exhausted faces, he suspected none of them would be answered. "No, sir."
"Good luck," Montgomery said, and it didn’t sound like a kindness. It sounded like a warning.
Harris departed with Hendricks and Montgomery, leaving Johnny and Kyle alone in the corridor. The silence pressed in around them, broken only by the distant sounds of the palace waking.
Johnny unfolded the schedule. It was exactly as described, but seeing it laid out made the monotony even more stark. Every day. Every week. All listed in neat, precise handwriting that made his life for the next six months look like a series of boxes to be checked.
"Family dinners," Kyle noted, reading over his shoulder. "That's something, at least. Means he's not completely isolated."
Johnny grunted. Monday family dinners. Thursday diplomatic receptions where the prince would stand in a room full of nobles and probably say nothing. Friday dinners alone with the king—that one made something twist in his chest, though he couldn't say why.
And Sundays. Memorial garden maintenance. The queen's garden Harris had pointed out. Blue flowers, fresh despite the season.
"Well," Kyle said quietly. "Here we are."
"Aye." He folded the schedule and tucked it into his belt, the paper suddenly feeling heavier than it should. "Here we are."
They took up positions flanking the ornate double doors that led to the prince’s chambers. The intricate designs that probably meant something to someone, to Johnny, they were just doors. Expensive doors that separated him from the person he was supposed to guard.
The minutes ticked by. Johnny’s mind wandered to the garrison, to what Captain George would be doing right now. Probably preparing for morning drills. Probably briefing Johnny’s replacement on the capital patrol expectations.
The thought made his jaw tight.
The sky outside the corridor windows shifted from gray to pale gold. Dawn. The bells would ring soon.
Johnny straightened, forcing his attention back to the present. Whatever came next, he’d face it.
The bells tolled six times, the sound echoing through the palace.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
The great oak doors swung open.
He'd braced himself for something—arrogance, maybe, or cold dismissal. The kind of imperious bearing that came with royalty. Or perhaps the hollow-eyed ghost William's nephew had described, all empty stares and mechanical movements.
Instead, the man who emerged from the chambers was simply... tall.
Taller than Johnny had anticipated. The prince had to be six-two at least, which meant Johnny had to look up slightly to meet his eyes. That alone felt wrong—Johnny was used to being at eye level or above with most men, used to the physical advantage that came with his build and training.
But it wasn't just the height that caught him off guard.
The prince's hair was blond—not the pale, almost-white gold Johnny associated with northern nobility, but a warmer shade that caught the morning light filtering through the corridor windows. It curled slightly at the ends, as if it had grown just long enough to start rebelling against whatever style it was meant to hold.
Brown eyes, Johnny registered that with an almost detached surprise. Not the cold blue or gray he'd somehow expected. Brown, and...
And there was a mask.
A mask covering the lower half of the prince's face. Simple, unadorned, nothing decorative about it. The black fabric made his skin look even paler—bloodless, almost. Like someone who hadn't seen proper sunlight in years, or perhaps had forgotten what it felt like. Johnny, whose forearms were tan from years of outdoor patrols, found himself uncomfortable with the contrast.
No one had mentioned a mask. Not Harris. Not Hayes. Not William with all his stories about his nephew's experience. Not Hendricks or Montgomery, who'd just spent four months following this man. None of them had thought to mention that the Ghost Prince wore a mask.
The omission felt deliberate, though Johnny couldn't begin to guess why.
A circlet rested on the prince's head, gold worked with emeralds that caught the light as he moved. Not a full crown, but enough to mark his status. The jewels glinted against his hair, a contrast of warm and cool that somehow worked despite itself.
He wore training clothes, simple, well-made, meant for movement rather than ceremony. Dark trousers, a fitted shirt, boots that had seen actual use. No decoration beyond the circlet. Nothing to suggest he was the heir to the throne except for that band of gold and green, and the way he carried himself.
Because despite everything—the casual clothes, the lack of ceremony, the fact that he'd just emerged from his private chambers at dawn—there was something in his bearing that marked him as royal. Not arrogance. Not pride. Just... presence. The kind of certainty that came from never having to prove who you were.
The prince's gaze swept over them, brief, assessing, and utterly impersonal. He didn't speak. Didn't acknowledge them beyond that single glance. Just turned and started walking down the corridor, his stride long and purposeful, the kind of measured pace that expected to be followed without question.