Chapter Four
There’sno royal security force in the world more elite than the Germanian King’s Guard. Not the British sentries, displayed like living nutcrackers with their tall black hats in front of Buckingham Palace. Certainly not the colorfully-outfitted Pontifical guardians of Vatican City, who look more like circus performers than vigilant wardens. Not even the lethal Konoe Shidan of imperial Japan, bred to protect the emperor at all costs.
Our King’s Guard is world-renowned for their grueling training protocols and exhaustive vetting process. After passing a series of mental and physical qualification tests, it takes five full years to go from initiate soldier to ranking member of the guard; another two before you ever share the same room as anyone of remote importance while on active duty.
The few who reach the elite level — those who live and work on the palace grounds, guarding the royal family directly — dedicate their existence to one aim alone: to shield and surveil the Lancasters. Twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred-sixty-five days a year. Sacrificing any chance at a normal life, with a house and a spouse and a set of toddlers running around the front yard. Because being part of the King’s Guard is more than a career choice.
It’s a calling.
All of this is to say… I can’t even sneeze without it being documented somewhere via satellite. So there’s absolutely zero chance in Hell of sneaking up on The Gatehouse — the sparse, utilitarian barracks and training facilities on the edge of the castle grounds where our highest ranking soldiers spend their off-duty hours. They probably knew I was coming before I’d taken a single step outside into the brisk evening air, teeth chattering from both cold and anxiety.
By the time I walk through the front doors, every guard in the large, gym-like arena is standing at attention, their gazes fixed forward, their spines ramrod straight. I nearly balk at the sight of seventy-five of the most lethal, highly-trained men in the country, arranged in five neat rows, waiting with militant precision for me to address them.
Because that’s not intimidating, or anything…
I drag in a shallow gulp of air that smells like perspiration and antiseptic spray, letting it burn in my lungs. My eyes drift from the padded sparring mats to the hanging punching bags to the extensive collection of free-weights and workout machines. There’s no artwork, no decor. It’s a far cry from the rest of the castle, which is stuffed to the brim with centuries-old antique furniture and ornate wall hangings. I feel as though I’ve stepped into another world altogether.
In a way, I suppose I have.
Set ever-so-slightly-apart from Waterford Palace by both architectural design and day-to-day operations, the Gatehouse functions largely independently from the rest of the monarchy — as do the guards who live and practice here. Like any other Germanian citizens, they are ultimately answerable to the King’s authority… and yet, by their occupation alone, they are also uniquely exempt from it.
No law cannot be broken when it comes to protecting the crown.
I’ve only been here once before and, at the time, I was in such a state of numb disbelief, I barely remember the visit. It was three days after the disastrous coronation. Three days after I held my father in my arms and watched the life fade from his eyes.
Linus was in the hospital. The country was in a state of panic. My world was still a blur of shock and fear and speculation. And I was determined to find answers.
Who had access to that champagne glass? What deadly poison was dropped into it before Linus took a sip? Were there any leads about who could’ve done such a thing? Was this attack connected to the fire that killed King Leopold and Queen Abigail?
I blew through these same doors, seeking an audience with the man in charge. Seeking answers. Seeking anything that might ease the threads of anxiety tangled up inside my chest cavity.
Instead, I hit the brick wall that is Commanding Officer Ramsey Bane — a thin-lipped man with an even thinner supply of patience. Widely known as Octavia’s personal puppet — and occasional lover, if castle gossip is to be believed — he’s so far in her pocket, he might as well be lint.
He stood there, arms crossed over his broad chest, staring me down without an ounce of sympathy as I begged for him to tell me who’d tried to murder my father. Despite my desperate pleas, he refused to give me any answers at all.
I do not report to you, Princess,he told me, voice dripping with clear disdain.Now, if you will take your leave… we have training to resume.
Let’s just say, I’m not exactly thrilled by the prospect of another encounter with the man.
Perhaps this time, things will be different,I tell myself unconvincingly.Perhaps he’ll hear me out with fairness and newfound respect…
Somehow, as I make my way across the practice arena, my footfalls jarringly loud in the silent atmosphere, I have a feeling they won’t be.
When I come to a stop in front of the soldiers, I lock my knees to keep them from quivering and take a deep breath, praying I look braver than I feel.
Considering I’m about to vomit, the bar is set rather low.
“Your Royal Highness,” a gruff male voice barks, snapping my attention to the burly man in fatigues standing several feet to my left. He’s in his mid-fifties, with short-buzzed hair and steely grey eyes. They hold not an ounce of welcome.
Bane.
What a perfect name for a man like this.
“We’ve been expecting you.”
My lips twist. “I can see that.”
I think I hear a chuckle from one of the guards, but the sound is snuffed out quicker than a candle when Bane’s cold gaze cuts through the ranks. Insubordination is not tolerated here — you’d think one unauthorized laugh might topple the whole regime.