Sentry woke before dawn on his first day in the palace.

  The window was narrow and set high into the wall. Pale light slipped through, casting faint lines across the stone. Birds could be heard outside, but their songs felt foreign to him. Birds did not sing like this in camps before a battle.

  He dressed slowly. As he pulled on his clothes, a familiar weight settled on his shoulders—far more real than silk garments or golden clasps could ever be.

  By the time he reached the courtyard, the palace was waking.

  The guards stood in formation. Spear tips caught the morning light, casting long shadows across the stone ground. Today was the oath of protection. The kingdom would declare that he was no longer just a warrior, but the shield of the throne.

  When the king stepped into the ceremonial space, the murmurs died away.

  He was old, but his voice remained firm. As Sentry stood beside him, the king exchanged a few quiet words with nearby nobles. The words were unclear, but their expressions spoke plainly—maps, armies, time.

  Sentry did not kneel.

  All he could think about was how much he did not want to be here.

  The man overseeing the ceremony hesitated. A ripple passed through the nobles. This was not customary. Sentry only bowed his head—no more, no less. The way a soldier bowed.

  The king looked at him. For a long moment, he said nothing.

  Sentry did not repeat the oath word for word. He did not linger on flowery phrases. He showed no emotion. His voice was flat, empty.

  “I will protect,” he said.

  Nothing more.

  When the golden ring was offered, he did not take it. It hovered in the ceremonial official’s hand for a moment before the king gave a slight nod. The ring was withdrawn.

  The king met Sentry’s eyes and inclined his head.

  For everyone in the palace, it was an unsettling silence.

  Sentry stood at the edge of the courtyard.

  The ceremony was over, but the crowd had not dispersed. The palace buzzed with voices and footsteps—too loud for his taste.

  The princess stepped forward.

  Her movements were measured—neither rushed nor hesitant. She gave short, precise orders to the guards: gate placements, shift rotations, inner courtyard patrols. Simple instructions. Clear ones. No one objected.

  Sentry watched her.

  As she spoke, her gaze swept across the crowd without ever losing focus. Her eyes searched for blind spots, hidden spaces. After that night, the instinct had taken root.

  Sentry noticed.

  And he did not like it.

  This should not be her burden, he thought.

  It came too early.

  As the princess walked toward the garden of flowers, she glanced back at Sentry. For a moment, it seemed like she wanted to say something—then she didn’t. She accepted his silence, his reluctance. She did not push.

  Sentry did not respond. He stayed where he was, watching. That was his duty. Nothing more.

  Some time later, the king stepped onto the stone platform where the nobles had gathered.

  Conversations faded. All attention turned toward him. His voice did not rise—there was no need.

  “Reports from the border are becoming clear,” he said.

  “The armies are on the move.”

  A weight settled over the hall. No one asked questions.

  “This palace,” the king continued, “is not merely stone and throne. Every decision made here becomes blood beyond these walls.”

  Some nobles nodded. Others looked away.

  “For this reason,” the king said after a brief pause, “there will be a dinner this evening.”

  Whispers rose.

  “This is not a celebration,” he added.

  “It is to gather. To show strength. To keep the silence intact.”

  “Preparations will begin at once,” the king said.

  “The night will be long.”

  The crowd slowly dispersed.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Sentry had the sense that the evening would be heavier than anyone expected.

  Later in the day, the palace corridors grew quieter.

  Sentry stood outside a hall with high arches. The door was slightly ajar. Inside, pages turned—steady, rhythmic.

  The princess sat at the table, books spread before her. An elderly tutor stood beside her, speaking softly. She nodded, occasionally taking notes.

  Sentry waited where he was.

  When the princess noticed him, she gestured lightly to the tutor. The man closed his book and stepped away.

  “Come in,” she said.

  “You don’t have to stand out there.”

  Sentry entered but did not approach the table. He remained near the wall.

  The princess gestured toward the books.

  “Reading lessons,” she said. “Boring, but necessary.”

  Sentry said nothing.

  She studied him.

  “You said you were from the city,” she said. “You must have gone to school. What was it like?”

  Sentry’s gaze drifted briefly into nothing.

  “I didn’t,” he said.

  His voice was flat—no anger, no sorrow. Just truth.

  “My childhood was spent on the battlefield.”

  The princess said nothing at first. Then she shrugged.

  “Forget it,” she said with a small smile.

  “Try smiling instead.”

  Sentry turned his head.

  “I don’t smile.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Is that so?”

  She grabbed a small piece of paper and quickly sketched something. It was simple: the elderly tutor asleep over his book, bald head gleaming, the book upside down. Ridiculous enough to be unmistakable.

  “Look,” she said. “That’s what he does during lectures.”

  Sentry tried not to look.

  He failed.

  His lips twitched—just barely.

  The princess caught it instantly.

  “Ah,” she said. “There it is. You smiled.”

  “Doesn’t count,” Sentry said, straightening his face.

  She laughed.

  “It counts enough.”

  They left the room and began walking.

  The princess led him through the palace’s back corridors—away from grand halls, into narrower, warmer spaces. The stones here were older. More honest.

  “Hardly anyone knows these places,” she said.

  They passed through the kitchens. The smell of bread lingered. Pots boiled. Servants worked quietly.

  “This is where my favorite dessert is made,” the princess said. “Honey and dried fruit.”

  Sentry looked around.

  No shouting.

  No fighting.

  Just work.

  “This,” the princess said, “is the palace without war.”

  She turned and said, “Come.”

  Then she ran.

  Sentry followed. She laughed, calling back, “Hurry up!”

  They emerged into a small courtyard—a hidden garden. Grass grew between the stones. It was quiet.

  The princess sat in the corner and gestured for Sentry to sit. He did, leaving a careful distance.

  “Sometimes,” she said, “if you imagine the war is over, it almost feels like it really could be.”

  Sentry didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either.

  The day slowly tilted toward evening. The light shifted. The palace prepared itself.

  Bells rang in the distance.

  Dinner was approaching.

  Chaos filled a small kitchen at the rear of the palace. Pots boiled over. Plates were carried in haste. Servants dodged each other as spice-scented air thickened. Something was behind schedule—but no one said it aloud.

  This dinner was more than a meal.

  In the main hall, tables were arranged. Candles were lit. Silk cloths spread. Nobles entered slowly, smiling while watching one another closely.

  The princess sat among nobles her own age—two young women and several men. They were dressed alike, trying to look at ease.

  Sentry stood behind her chair.

  She looked up.

  “Sit,” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “No.”

  She shrugged.

  “Stubborn.”

  They laughed softly. The princess’s friends began chatting—small gossip, half-formed laughter. War was not discussed at this table.

  One of the young men looked at Sentry for too long, uneasy.

  “Does he really need to stand there?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes,” the princess replied at once. “He does.”

  The boy fell silent.

  The doors opened.

  The king entered.

  The hall stilled. Music faded. The king walked between the tables, his steps measured.

  “The opposing kingdom,” he said, “is gathering its forces.”

  Some nobles bowed their heads. Others looked away.

  “The most dangerous among them,” the king continued, “is Gunner.”

  The name rippled through the hall.

  “Is it really him?”

  “Gunner?”

  “How do you defeat someone like that?”

  Their voices were low, but the fear was unmistakable.

  “A master swordsman,” the king said. “His speed exceeds all reason. Most who face him fall before they even see his blade drawn.”

  The whispers deepened. Chairs creaked.

  “A general,” the king said, “but also a weapon.”

  Even the most eager supporters hesitated.

  The king fell silent.

  His gaze drifted.

  Can we truly win?

  The question crossed his face. There was no answer.

  Then he raised his hand.

  “Let the meal begin.”

  Music returned—soft and elegant. Plates filled. Silver gleamed.

  The princess seemed to have forgotten the war entirely. She laughed with her friends, whispering, young and unburdened, as if the world were smaller than it truly was.

  The king and queen rose from the table and moved among the important nobles. Formal, careful conversations followed.

  Sentry watched.

  His gaze moved across the crowd. He counted faces. Watched hands.

  Something twisted in his gut.

  Something was wrong.

  He saw him.

  Dressed as a noble. Too neat. One hand hidden beneath his cloak. His eyes never left the king.

  A blade.

  Sentry moved.

  Too late.

  The man stepped forward, arm rising toward the king.

  The queen stepped in front of him.

  The blade struck her.

  There was no sound.

  Only the body falling.

  The hall froze.

  Sentry did not shout. He ran.

  With everything he had.

  Before the assassin could strike again, Sentry reached him. His sword came down once—clean, merciless.

  The head separated from the body.

  Blood splattered across the stone.

  Music died. Screams rose. Chaos erupted.

  Blood spread across the floor, and no one moved at first.

  The king stood frozen, hands suspended in the air. He could neither reach for the queen nor pull away. Around him, nobles stood in shock—some collapsing, others turning away.

  The princess ran.

  She fell to her knees, pressing her hands against her mother’s bloodied body, shaking.

  “No,” she said.

  “No… don’t die.”

  She screamed.

  “Doctors! Someone—please!”

  Those who came stopped short.

  The answer was already written on their faces.

  The queen took her daughter’s hand. Weak, but clear-eyed.

  “Take care of yourself,” she whispered.

  “My daughter…”

  Her voice faded.

  Her hand fell still.

  The princess’s cry tore through the hall—raw, unrestrained grief.

  The king knelt.

  His head bowed. His shoulders shook, but no tears fell. He clenched his jaw, holding himself together. In that moment, he was not a king—only a man who had lost everything.

  Then he stood.

  His face hardened. Pain gave way to cold resolve.

  “They will all die,” he said.

  The nobles held their breath.

  “This war,” the king continued, his voice tight with fury,

  “is now inevitable.”

  “Either they die,” he said,

  “or we do.”

  Sentry did not move. His sword remained in his hand, blood dripping from the blade.

  That night, more than a queen had died.

  Peace had died with her.