Reality lost its definition. Monsieur Dubois's voice, explaining something about fractions, reached Amelia like the annoying buzzing of a fly. The boys at the next table were arguing about something, but their figures seemed blurred, unreal. She sat, absently tracing her finger across the polished surface of the table, mentally outlining the shapes of unfamiliar continents. Ethergard, Solaris, Arden... A jumble of sounds. Meaningless words for stains on a piece of parchment.

  Yesterday, she was a human of Planet Earth. And today? Where was she today? Everything around her seemed like a fragile, absurd stage set. And suddenly, this set shuddered from a deafening, very real sound.

  BAM!

  The heavy oak door flew open from a powerful shove. Standing on the threshold, breathing heavily and leaning against the carved frame, froze the Royal Chamberlain. His usually impeccable doublet was rumpled, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

  Monsieur Dubois and the five boys leaped to their feet, overturning chairs. In the heavy silence hung one unspoken question: "WHAT HAPPENED?!". Amelia stood up too, but in her dark-gray eyes, alongside surprise, flashed a sharp, analytical interest.

  "Your Highnesses!" the Chamberlain finally exhaled, his voice trembling with haste. "An urgent message from the King! All members of the royal family must report to the throne room immediately!"

  They were led through the majestic palace corridors. Prince Damian walked with a tense and serious face, clearly understanding that something extraordinary had occurred. Amelia scurried alongside, trying not to lag behind while simultaneously analyzing the situation with cold detachment.

  Such urgency... Either one of the ambassadors caused a scandal, or... something far worse, she reasoned. Judging by the Chamberlain's distorted face—it's the second option. My perfect retirement plan seemingly didn't include a clause for 'palace coups'.

  The grandiose throne room greeted them with a ringing silence. King Alaric Blackwood sat on the dais, his face impenetrable. Beside him, pale but calm, stood Queen Isolde. Advisors and family members were already assembled.

  The King waited until his children took their places, and his voice, loud and clear, cut through the silence:

  "Today at dawn, the troops of the Kingdom of Sylvan treacherously crossed the northern border. They burned the border outposts. Ethergard is in a state of war."

  He stood, and his stern figure seemed to fill the entire space.

  "In light of this threat, the Royal Council has decreed: the safety of the ruling family is our top priority. Each of you, starting from this day, will be assigned a personal bodyguard from the elite corps of the Royal Guard."

  At his signal, a squad entered the hall. Ten tall, athletically built men in impeccable dress uniforms—gleaming cuirasses, golden epaulets, high boots. They lined up along the wall with stone faces, each a perfect specimen of masculinity and discipline.

  Wow... What a selection! Amelia's thoughts instantly colored with a familiar playful hue, momentarily drowning out the anxiety. That one on the left: height—10/10, shoulders—a solid 10. By type—the 'Gentle Giant'. And that one, further right... strong jawline—10/10, brooding gaze—11/10! The 'Mysterious Bad Boy'! Daddy, please, I want the one who's an 11 out of 10!

  The next day, on the sunny training grounds, Prince Damian and his friends were practicing archery. The atmosphere was almost idyllic, were it not for the imposing figures in shining armor standing behind each of the boys. The Crown Prince's bodyguard stood out in particular. This was not merely a knight, but an officer of the Royal Guard—tall, broad-shouldered, the very embodiment of unyielding strength. The sun blazed on his flawlessly polished cuirass, and a hand in a perfect white glove rested confidently on the hilt of an ivory saber, richly decorated with gold.

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  Off to the side, in an elegant gazebo at a tea table, Amelia watched this scene alongside her mother, Queen Isolde.

  Oho, my brother got the best specimen! she thought with a pang of envy, switching on her internal ten-point scale again. I hope they picked someone distinguished for me too. Nothing lower than a nine, please. Daddy knows I appreciate aesthetics.

  She turned her head with anticipation. Beside her, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, stood her bodyguard.

  A mere boy, barely older than her brother. He had light, platinum hair and big, naive bright-blue eyes. His body, though wiry, still seemed quite boyish and angular under the uniform. He wore the simple training garb of a squire, and his hands clutched an ordinary practice sword. Even through his leather gloves, one could see his fingers trembling slightly from nervousness and responsibility.

  Seriously? everything clicked into place in Amelia's head, and anticipation was replaced by disappointment. He gets an elite guard officer... and I get a cadet intern? That’s not even funny. That’s insulting.

  She turned sharply to her mother, masterfully feigning an expression of deep childish resentment.

  "Mother, this isn't fair! Why did Brother and his friends get real knights, and I get... just a squire?"

  Queen Isolde calmly sipped her tea. In the gaze of her amber eyes, there was not a shadow of harshness—only the clear and firm pragmatism of a monarch who knows the price of everything. For her, this was not a rebuke, but a simple, self-evident lesson in hierarchy that her daughter had to learn as early as possible.

  "Amelia," her voice sounded soft but unyielding, "your brother is the Crown Prince. His friends are heirs of great houses. Their lives are the future of the Kingdom, its shield and sword. You are a Princess. Your future is an advantageous marriage that will strengthen our alliances. Your safety is important, certainly, but it is not a state priority of the same level."

  The cute grimace of resentment on Amelia's face froze, then slowly dissolved, replaced by cold realization. She looked at her mother, and the brutal truth of this world pierced her like a needle.

  Priority... Does that mean all the smiles, all the love before this... were just... politeness? her thoughts became sharp as shards of glass. In peacetime, I was a beloved treasure, but in a crisis, I became just... an asset for sale? A liquid commodity? What a rotten family business...

  She quickly pulled herself together. Shock gave way to the determination of an office veteran who had just been denied a bonus but not broken. Her small figure straightened, and her gaze became unchildishly serious. She looked at the Queen no longer as a daughter at a mother, but as a business partner starting negotiations under unfavorable conditions.

  "If my safety is not a priority for the Crown, then I must take care of it myself. I demand you hire me a tutor for fencing and archery."

  Queen Isolde's gaze became as hard as granite.

  "Don't speak nonsense. You are a Princess. Your hands are made for embroidery and the harpsichord, not for rough iron. No noble lord will want a warrior wife with calluses on her fingers."

  She placed the porcelain cup on the saucer. The sharp, distinct clink marked the end of the conversation.

  CLINK!

  "...This discussion is over."

  Without looking back, Queen Isolde left the gazebo with cold, inaccessible grace, leaving her daughter's small figure alone with her anger.

  Amelia sat, clenching her tiny fists until her knuckles turned white. Suddenly, her squire, Leo, awkwardly approached and dropped to one knee before her, bowing his head.

  "Your Highness, I heard your conversation. I apologize for my humble rank... But I swear, next year I will become a knight! I train harder than anyone! Please... allow me to remain your protector. I will serve you faithfully and truly. I will lay down my life for you and obey any command!"

  He looked up at her, his face burning with sincere, puppy-like devotion. Amelia looked down at him, and in her eyes, there was not a drop of childish naivety. Only the cold, strict assessment of an HR director.

  "Doubtful... but let's assume so," her voice sounded weighty and detached. "Pretty words cost nothing, squire. They are just wind. Loyalty is proven only by actions. I hope you are quick-witted enough to understand that. Now stand up."

  Well then... she summed up to herself, looking at the flustered boy. Since I wasn't given a ready-made specialist, I'll have to train the staff myself. Let's see what you're capable of, my young intern. Will you show initiative, or will you just stand there like furniture, like those polished guardsmen?