I Despised My Brooding Royal Guard, Until He Took A Blast Of My Own Magic To Save Me

Sergeant Eamon stood at perfect attention, his spine a rigid line, his gaze fixed on the wall just over Commander Valerius’s shoulder. The polished silver of his gorget felt cold against his throat. The Commander's office was a place of stark order, smelling of old parchment and sword oil, a room where careers were made or redirected. Eamon had always felt a sense of purpose here. Today, a knot of apprehension tightened in his gut.

"Sergeant Eamon," Valerius began, his voice flat. He didn't look up from the scroll on his desk. "Your rotation on the western battlement is concluded. You have a new assignment, effective immediately."

Eamon’s mind raced through the possibilities. A forward scouting mission into the Whisperwood? Reinforcements for the border patrol at the Grayfang Pass? He had distinguished himself in every training exercise and active skirmish. He was young, but he was ready for a real command, a real challenge.

"You will be assigned to the personal detail of Princess Lyra."

The words landed like stones in a quiet pond. A muscle in Eamon’s jaw jumped, a single, sharp twitch. Princess Lyra. He forced his expression to remain neutral, a mask of pure discipline he had perfected over years of service. Internally, a bitter frustration curdled in his stomach. The Princess was a known quantity: a whirlwind of chaos wrapped in royal silk. Her magical aptitude was matched only by her complete inability—or unwillingness—to control it. Stories of her mishaps were common gossip among the guard: scorched tapestries from a misfired fire spell, frozen fountains in the heat of midsummer, spontaneous and violent gusts of wind that sent dignitary wigs flying in the Great Hall. It was a nursemaid's post. A babysitter for a magical delinquent, a frustrating step down from the tangible threats of the battlefield.

Valerius finally looked up, his eyes hard and knowing. He saw the flicker of resentment Eamon could not quite conceal. "Do not mistake this for a slight, Sergeant," the Commander said, his tone sharp as a whetted blade. "This is not a demotion. It is a matter of castle security." He leaned forward, his hands flat on the desk, the authority in his posture absolute. "Her Royal Highness is not merely a reckless girl; she is a danger. Her power is growing exponentially, and her control is not. The Royal Sorcerer himself expressed grave concern after she nearly brought down the north tower's aviary last week. The King wants his best on her. Not to protect her from outside threats, but to protect the rest of us from her."

The Commander’s words painted a different, more serious picture. It wasn't a punishment; it was containment. A critical, if entirely unglamorous, mission. Eamon’s frustration did not vanish, but it was now overlaid with a grudging sense of duty. He was a soldier. He followed orders.

"I understand, sir," Eamon said, his voice clipped and even.

Valerius nodded, satisfied. "She is in the training courtyard now. With the Archmage’s delegation. Try to keep her from flooding them. Do not let her out of your sight. Dismissed."

Eamon executed a sharp salute, turned on his heel, and strode from the office, the heavy weight of his new, undesirable duty settling firmly on his shoulders. He was no longer a warrior on the wall; he was the keeper of a storm.

He found them, just as the Commander had said. The air in the training courtyard was unnaturally humid, thick with the scent of ozone and wet stone. Princess Lyra stood in the center of the flagstones, her arms outstretched, her brow furrowed in concentration. A shimmering, unstable globe of water hovered between her hands, wobbling violently like a soap bubble about to burst. Her instructor, a wizened sorcerer named Elmsworth, was shouting encouragement that sounded more like pleading. "Focus the energy, Your Highness! Finesse! It requires finesse, not brute force!"

Standing under a sheltered colonnade was the Archmage’s delegation, a group of stern-faced mages in elaborate robes, their expressions a mixture of academic curiosity and thinly veiled apprehension. Eamon noted their position and calculated the potential splash radius. He was still ten paces away when the globe of water finally lost its battle with gravity and Lyra’s volatile magic.

It didn't just pop. It exploded outward and upward, then fell in a targeted, torrential downpour directly onto the observing dignitaries.

There were gasps and sputtered curses. The Archmage himself, a man of immense prestige, was soaked through, his meticulously groomed white beard dripping onto the front of his embroidered robes. Servants scurried forward with linen towels, their movements panicked and ineffective against the sheer volume of water.

Lyra lowered her arms. A flush of anger, not embarrassment, colored her cheeks. She turned on her instructor, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "It doesn't want to be a shield!" she snapped, her voice ringing across the courtyard. "It wants to be a storm! Can't you feel it? You keep trying to suffocate it, to force it into these prim, useless little shapes. My magic wants to be free, not caged!"

Eamon stopped at the edge of the scene, his presence a silent, solid counterpoint to the chaos. He took in the dripping mages, the flustered instructor, and the princess at the epicentre, radiating defiance. Commander Valerius hadn't exaggerated. She wasn't simply failing; she was actively resisting the very concept of control.

His stillness eventually drew her attention. Her furious gaze swept past the scene she had created and landed on him. He stood perfectly still in his silver-and-black uniform, a symbol of everything she was railing against: order, discipline, containment. The anger in her eyes instantly chilled into a hard, glittering disdain. She saw the rigid set of his shoulders, the unwavering line of his jaw, and knew precisely what he was. Another keeper. Another chain.

A slow, mocking smile touched her lips as she gave him a deliberate, insulting appraisal from his polished boots to his impassive face. "Don't bother with the formalities, Master Elmsworth," she called out, her voice carrying a sharp, sarcastic edge that cut through the murmuring. "It seems my father has sent me a new shadow."

Eamon’s face remained a mask of stone, betraying nothing. He ignored her barb as if it were a buzzing fly, taking three precise steps forward that brought him to her side. The damp air around her seemed to vibrate with irritation.

"Your Highness," he said, his voice a low, even baritone that cut through her anger. "Your afternoon has been scheduled. History with Tutor Gregor at two o'clock, followed by diplomatic etiquette with Lady Anya at four." He recited the itinerary as if reading from a stone tablet. It was not a suggestion.

Lyra’s mocking smile vanished, replaced by a look of pure disbelief. "I have no intention of sitting with Gregor while he drones on about grain tariffs from the Second Age. I am going to the library." She turned her back on him and the drenched dignitaries, dismissing him with a regal wave of her hand as she started toward the archway leading back into the castle keep.

She expected him to follow, a silent, disapproving presence several paces behind. Instead, he moved with a fluid economy of motion that was startlingly fast, planting himself directly in her path before she had taken five steps. He was a solid, immovable wall of black leather and polished steel. She stopped short, her nose inches from the silver crest on his breastplate.

"The library is not on the schedule," he stated. It was a simple fact, delivered without inflection.

"I have just put it on the schedule," she said, her voice dangerously sweet. She tried to step around his left side. He shifted his weight, blocking her again. She tried the right. He mirrored the movement perfectly. A hot surge of fury washed through her.

"You will move, Sergeant," she commanded, her tone dropping its pretense of civility. "That is a direct order from your princess."

"My orders are from Commander Valerius, sanctioned by the King," he replied, his gaze locked on a point just over her head. "My duty is to ensure your safety and adherence to the approved itinerary. A deviation requires formal petition."

"A petition?" She laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. "I am not petitioning for anything. I am going to the archives to consult a text." She lifted her chin, her eyes flashing with challenge. "The restricted archives."

For the first time, his gaze lowered to meet hers. His eyes were the color of a winter storm, gray and cold and deep. There was no anger in them, no emotion at all, only an unyielding resolve that infuriated her more than open defiance would have.

"The restricted section is forbidden, Your Highness."

"That is the entire point," she hissed, finally losing her temper completely. She took a step forward, intending to push past him, to force him to either lay hands on her or give way.

He didn't move an inch. The heat of her body met the cool aura of his presence. He was so close she could see the fine grain of the leather on his uniform, smell the faint, clean scent of steel and soap. He was larger than she had first thought, his shoulders broad enough to block out the light from the archway behind him. She felt dwarfed by his sheer physical stillness, a force of nature just as potent as her own magic, but disciplined and contained.

Her magic prickled under her skin, begging for release, wanting to lash out and shove this obstacle out of her way. But she saw in his unblinking stare that it would not matter. He would endure it. He would not yield. The silent challenge that passed between them was raw and absolute. It was not about attraction or curiosity; it was a fundamental clash of will, a battle of fire against rock. And as they stood locked in that silent, furious standoff, the only common ground they shared was a deep, mutual, and immediate antagonism.