Riley.
The echo of my boots followed me down the stone hallway as I strode toward the central guard station, a thick file tucked under one arm, sword slung across my back. The weight wasn't new, but lately it felt heavier—not from strain, but from purpose. I wasn't just some cocky tournament brawler anymore. I was Head of the Royal Guard.
Still sounded strange in my head.
I paused at the arched door to the strategy room, exhaled once, and pushed inside.
Twelve guards—my unit leads—stood the moment I entered. Some saluted. Most just nodded. Respect like that didn't come from a title. It came from bleeding beside them when it mattered.
"Let's keep this short," I said, setting the file down on the center table. "Festival security debrief. We're seven days out. This is our final pass before execution."
