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[swcrdsqndperfumc]

Enrique finally arrived, the royals were nice enough to allow him to stray from the princess's side for the event, letting him watch the proceedings through the eyes of a candidate instead of just a dutiful guard. The sprawling royal park buzzed with a different kind of energy than the palace halls – a mix of nervous excitement from the candidates and the gentle murmur of nature. Sunlight filtered through ancient oak trees, dappling the meticulously manicured lawns. The air was fresh, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and damp earth, a stark contrast to the heavy perfumes of court. Colorful banners fluttered from temporary pavilions erected for the event, and the distant strains of a string quartet drifted on the breeze.

Despite the momentary reprieve from his constant vigilance, a deep-seated need to search for danger still hummed in the back of his mind. It was an instinct honed over years of protecting Princess Sophia, a sixth sense for discord amidst the harmony. His gaze swept across the open grounds, cataloging faces among the mingling crowd, assessing postures, searching for anything that felt…off. That's when his eyes fell on Tobias.

Tobias was a man who certainly had a taste for danger, if not a natural aptitude for navigating it. He was currently attempting to gracefully navigate a narrow path winding through a rose garden, a feat that seemed to involve more near-tangles with thorny bushes than actual progress. Was clumsy the right word? Perhaps.

Enrique watched him, a faint, almost imperceptible frown creasing his brow and then a smile crossed his lips. Tobias possessed a peculiar blend of recklessness and charisma that made him both intriguing and utterly exasperating. He was a whirlwind of good intentions and accidental chaos, a magnet for minor mishaps that somehow always resolved themselves, often leaving those around him amused rather than annoyed. He was charming, certainly. And at Times Enrique felt his eyes linger on him just a bit too long, which felt as a betrayal of his feelings for the princess.

Yet he hadn’t held anyone in so long, and for some reason Tobias knew which buttons to press. He wondered if he’d let him touch him if he asked, which he never did - if Enrique learned anything its that feelings are messy. doesnt matter if its love or lust.

"I hope I win-"Enrique confessed softly. And yet, with Tobias it almost felt like it wouldnt be the end of the world, if he didn't.

OPEN EVENT STARTER | OPEN TO ALL (thetonhq) LOCATION | ARCHERY COMPETITION - BOWLS GREEN

If it were card games, Tobias knew he'd be more used to that but this was something different. Still physical so he thought he'd enjoy that and the archery seemed far outside his skillset and with too many eyes on him there. At the bowling, it was calmer and not too many people. It didn't require much skill so he takes his ball and rolls it near the jack only for it to roll right past and outside of the parameters of the rink. He thought he'd do bad but not that terrible. "Well..." he sighs... "that means I can only improve on my next go. I hope." Self-deprecation could be used with his charm, humbling a little which he hoped would stop people talking about the latest gossip issue. "There's no prizes for this one but I'd be happy to wager on it. Like I said, I can only get better. Do you want to place some coin and see who will win?"

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Victoria looked at the dog with an almost childlike glee, though it wasn't noticeable on her face, her heart was drumming in her chest at the beauty of it all. She loved dogs with a passion and was always jealous of her friends having them as pets. Alas, her dad was allergic to most breeds and therefore didn't allow any in the house - but if a gentleman was to want to win her heart, a puppy would certainly make for an ideal first step.

"He, or she, is beautiful," she commented to what she assumed to be the dog's owner.

Victoria giggled, a sound she rarely let escape in public. " What a good dog." She resisted the urge to reach out and pet them, knowing her clothes would soon be covered in fur, a tell-tale sign to her father. But the desire was almost overwhelming. "they looks so happy."

Victoria's smile faltered slightly. "I wished...," she said, a touch of wistfulness in her voice. "My father is allergic. So, I always end admiring them from afar." 

Open starter for: Aera Lytton | Lord Austen's archery event | Location: Hyde Park

Everyone buzzed with excitement as members of the Ton fluttered around the park to observe all the fun entertainment that was to be had. Aera herself was looking forward to the archery competition, knowing that the prize of gold could help her get back home sooner. She had her father's dog with her, an English Mastiff called Keun Gae. She liked to use the dog to protect herself and her friends from unwanted suitors, but she definitely didn't want to seriously scare anyone with him. So when she saw someone staring, she gave a friendly smile and pet the dog's head.

"He's not as scary as he looks, I promise. He's really just a giant puppy." She said with a chuckle.

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For Enrique Mieux, the very air in the palace seemed to thicken with a suffocating weight. Every hushed conversation, every fleeting glance from a passing courtier, felt laden with the news that had shattered his carefully constructed composure. Princess Sophia's hand, the delicate, graceful hand he had so often seen sketching in the royal gardens or waving kindly to the common folk, was being offered as a prize. A mere commodity in a high-stakes game orchestrated by her own mother, the Queen. The revelation ignited a slow-burning fuse within him, the kind of anger that simmered beneath the surface, threatening to erupt.

His fury was a complex, two-pronged beast. Firstly, it stemmed from a deep-seated sense of injustice. How could the Queen, a woman who had sworn to protect and cherish her daughter, treat Sophia with such blatant disregard for her autonomy? To reduce her to an object, a tool for political gain, was an affront to everything Enrique believed in. He had witnessed Sophia's quiet strength, her keen intelligence, her genuine compassion for the people of the kingdom. She deserved to choose her own path, to love whom she wished, not to be paraded before a line of ambitious suitors like a prize stallion. The thought of her forced smile, her stifled sighs, under the scrutinizing gaze of potential husbands, twisted his gut.

Secondly, and perhaps more acutely painful, was the agonizing realization that her hand, her future, her very essence, might not be his. The notion of her life unfolding without him, of her laughter echoing in a different man's chambers, of her gentle touch gracing another's skin, was a torment that clawed at his soul. It was an unbearable, suffocating dread that settled deep in his chest, making each breath a conscious effort. For years, his devotion to Princess Sophia had been the silent, unwavering anchor of his existence, a secret flame he tended with fierce loyalty. The idea of that flame being extinguished, of her light being claimed by another, was a desolation he couldn't bear to contemplate.

And yet, amidst this tempest of indignation and possessive agony, a cold, sharp shard of reality pierced through the emotional haze. A question, whispered by the more rational, self-preserving part of his mind, began to echo with increasing insistence: *Perhaps it was time to let go of all these feelings?* The truth, stark and unyielding, was that the princess had never, not once, shown any sign of affection toward him. No lingering glance, no special word, no hint of a shared secret. To her, he was merely Enrique, the guard – a loyal, dependable shadow in the periphery of her luminous world. His uniform, his sword, his unwavering presence, defined his existence in her eyes, nothing more. He was a sentinel, a protector, a duty-bound figure, and the chasm between their stations felt as vast and unbridgeable as the deepest ocean. His love, however profound, was a solitary burden, a silent anthem sung only to himself.

The weight of this unrequited devotion, coupled with the crushing reality of his position, settled upon him with the force of a physical blow. The dreams he had secretly harbored, the fantastical scenarios of a life intertwined with hers, crumbled into dust. There was no room for such grand illusions in the stark reality of the palace. With that bitter, yet strangely liberating, realization firmly etched in his mind, Enrique Mieux embraced the internal turmoil. He strode with a renewed, almost grim, determination toward the training grounds. The rhythmic clang of steel on steel, the sharp whistle of arrows cutting through the air, would be his only companions now. He would practice his aim, his movements precise and unyielding, for when the real competition began – for a princess's hand, He would be ready, not for duty, but for love.

"Who goes there?" he asked as a branch snapped under the weight of their elegant shoe, he turned lowering the bow.

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The flickering candlelight, struggling against the encroaching shadows of the opulent theater box, caught the polished blade for a fleeting, dazzling second. It was a brief, sharp star, a sudden glint of menace in the otherwise hushed and velvet-clad dimness. Then, with a whisper of silk against silk, it vanished, melting into the deep, intricate folds of her dress hem as swiftly and silently as it had appeared. This wasn't the cold, calculated move of an assassin, or the aggressive display of a brigand. It was, rather, the startled, almost desperate reflex of a young woman who had, by some unfortunate turn of events, stumbled into the wrong place at precisely the wrong time. Her shoulders, which had tensed like drawn bows, now visibly relaxed, and she shook her head, a soft, self-deprecating gesture that seemed to dismiss the entire awkward encounter. "I am not easily startled," she murmured, her voice a low, husky current in the quiet air, a stark contrast to the sudden drama of the knife. "Just... cautious." A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips then, a flicker of light mirroring the momentary glint of the vanished blade, a brief glimpse of something resilient and perhaps a little weary beneath her composure.

"You seem burdened," a voice cut through the lingering stillness, gentle yet direct, its tone resonating with an unexpected depth. "What is it that plagues your mind?" The question hung in the air, not as an interrogation, but as a genuine invitation, a quiet offering of space in the otherwise overwhelming silence of the theater box.

The Thornes were out for a night at the opera. It was a way to get them out and seen by the Ton, show everyone that they were not ashamed of what Lady Whistledown had written (even though they certainly were.) Virginia especially was upset, as she felt like her chances of finding a spouse was cut in half. At some point during the performance, she excused herself to walk around and blow off some steam. So she stepped outside to breathe in the night air, let herself have the quiet moment for herself.

When she came back in, feeling a little more recharged, she found herself a little lost. She forgot what box number they were in, and they all looked the exact same. Virginia sighed at herself and picked a random one to open.

"Oh-- I'm terribly sorry." She said when she saw the young woman there. She recognized her as Victoria Murray. Lord Thorne andThe Duke were rivals, apparently, but she didn't really pay attention to why. Virginia noticed she was holding something, but she couldn't be sure what it was. "I did not mean to startle you. I seem to have gotten lost."

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He greeted the prince with a proper sign of respect, a courteous bow that was not merely a formality but a deeply ingrained reflex, honed by years of courtly life and battlefield discipline. His back remained straight, his shoulders broad beneath the heavy fabric of his uniform, but a subtle tremor in his hand, quickly suppressed, betrayed an underlying exhaustion. His eyes, usually sharp and vigilant, held a profound weariness. They greeted the prince as the eyes of a man who had not just fought a war, but had lived through the interminable, soul-draining reality of conflict, and was utterly, irrevocably tired of its endless demands. Every fiber of his being yearned for respite, for a moment of peace that seemed perpetually out of reach.

Yet, even in his profound fatigue, the unyielding core of the warrior remained. He was, above all else, a protector, and it was his solemn, unyielding duty to safeguard the royal court, to be the bulwark against any threat that dared approach its hallowed halls. And of all within those walls, his duty felt most acutely, most fiercely, tied to Princess Sofia. Her safety was a constant, burning ember in his heart, a responsibility he would never shirk. A silent, desperate prayer formed on his lips, a wish whispered only to the echoes of his own thoughts: he just wished he could protect her in his arms, shield her from the world's harshness with the warmth of his embrace, instead of the cold, impersonal steel of his blade, a weapon that could defend her body but never truly soothe her heart.

"The princess has no blame in this," he spoke, his voice resonating with an unshakeable certainty that brooked no argument, no dissent. It was a declaration, a truth he held with absolute conviction, regardless of the whispers and accusations that might circulate through the court. She was merely, undeniably, profoundly in love with someone else. The words were a bitter draught, a poison he had to swallow daily. That 'someone else' was a phantom, yet a tangible torment. He wished, with a ferocity that bordered on desperation, that he would never have to grace himself before his eyes, that the man would simply vanish from existence. Because he was certain, with a chilling clarity that settled deep in his bones, that if he ever stood face to face with him, his carefully constructed facade of duty would crumble. He would break his sacred oath, the vow he had sworn to the crown and to the princess herself, and he would kill him. The image flashed in his mind: the swift, decisive strike, the inevitable consequence. He knew, with a certainty that pierced his very soul, that such an act would lead to Princess Sofia hating him, perhaps forever. The thought was a crushing weight, a torment far worse than any battle wound, but even that agonizing prospect seemed a small price to pay for the eradication of the man who had stolen her heart and, in doing so, shattered his own.

There was a lot to be learned when someone stood still and watched and it proved even more valuable when it was done in secret or close to it. Enrique had served the royal family with dedication that Nicolas admired and looked the very part of a skilled knight. Anyone looking at him would be able to see it.

Nicolas silently approaches, making sure his steps make no sound, and his posture does not give anything away, but he takes note of what Enrique says and the overall demeanour of him. A charade was not the description Nicolas would have given. He’d have preferred something like structure, but their circumstances depicted how they saw the world.

When the other eyes scanned the room and saw him, Nicolas stepped forward to stand next to the knight. “Are you frustrated with my sister?” The knight and the princess did look close but that was to be expected with the nature of their job. “I’ve read the society papers of this anonymous source, as has my parents. The world around us grows more chaotic and I think some of it is her influence. You know her better than most, what do you think?”

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Victoria's fingers, which had been gripping the hilt of the knife with a white-knuckled intensity, slowly relaxed. The tension that had rigidified her posture seemed to melt away, leaving her shoulders to slump slightly. A soft sigh escaped her lips, almost imperceptible, as her gaze, previously sharp and wary, softened into something akin to relief. She offered a small, hesitant nod, the movement almost a tremor. "Thank you," she mumbled, her voice still a little rough, "thank you for the clarity. It... it helps."

A flicker of something akin to remorse crossed her features, a fleeting shadow of regret for her earlier hostility. She then shifted, patting the space on the red velvet bench beside her, the gesture a silent plea for understanding and a tentative offering of peace. "Please," she continued, her voice gaining a touch more warmth, "allow me to make up for my rude behavior. I... I would be honored if you would join me. I have tickets to this evening's play, and it would be a small way for me to apologize."

Edward had been invited to the theatre by a family friend, a colleague of his father’s, someone he believed to be a distant uncle. It meant dressing up nicely and making an appearance in public. He was still under the public eye, and there were speculations about his position in the season. This was a welcome distraction but also a cautionary warning.

He paused and took a look at where he was supposed to meet this acquaintance of his. Maybe he had walked too far and missed him or maybe this was a ruse to get him out of the house. Edward put his hands up in defense. “I’m here as a spectator, a patron,” he explained quickly, seeing the woman’s knife. He didn’t want to cause trouble. He studied the woman’s face and his forehead creased. “I swear,” he said quickly.

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Unlike her father, whose heart harbored a deep-seated, almost ancestral resentment towards the Thorne family – a bitterness that had, over the years, calcified into an unyielding fortress around his affections and colored his every interaction – Victoria was, by nature and by choice, entirely unburdened by such corrosive emotions. Her spirit, remarkably resilient and unmarred by the lingering shadows of past grievances, possessed an innate capacity for grace and an authentic desire to genuinely connect with others, irrespective of their lineage or the complicated history with her own. It was a refreshing contrast, a testament to her independent and compassionate character.

Thus, when her gaze met his across the bustling foyer, there was no flicker of inherited animosity, no hint of the coldness that might have been expected given the long-standing familial feud. Instead, a warm, truly sincere smile blossomed effortlessly upon her lips, reflecting the genuine openness of her disposition and the absence of any pretense. "No issue at all, please do not fear," she reassured him, her voice a gentle, almost lilting melody that seemed to dissipate any lingering tension in the air, a stark contrast to the stern pronouncements he might have anticipated from her family. Her eyes, bright and inviting, held no judgment, only an earnest welcome. "My father, regrettably, is not present here today," she continued, a subtle emphasis on the "regrettably" that softened the implication of his absence, making it clear this was her invitation, uninfluenced by external pressures. "Therefore, if you are able to allow yourself this small pleasure, and if your schedule permits, I would be absolutely delighted if you would wholeheartedly consider my invitation to join me in experiencing this captivating theatre display." Her gesture subtly encompassed the grand stage before them, a silent promise of shared enjoyment and a moment of respite from the world's more complicated entanglements, offering a bridge where only chasms had existed before.

Given the hectic nature of the past few weeks since the season had started, events were coming thick and fast. Normally, Tobias would have the pried from his room and forced out of the house or hiding away in someone elses company far away from the Thorne family but he hadn’t managed to sneak away in time and had to get on clothes far fancier than how he felt and to the opera house. From the moment he stepped into his families box, he was taken by how full it was. The Lord was there, of course, and with Tobias’ step-mother and feeling a certain way, he excused himself for a moment away.

After a few minutes away and walking idly through the hall, he knew he had to return otherwise things would get worse for him so with a sigh, he made his way back. The orchestra could be heard so he made haste and walked into a box, surprised to see a face only knew in passing from his youth from another family. Startled, he quickly tries a polite smile. “I thought this was the Thorne box,” bashful and trying to show that he was not wanting to cause any harm. “Forgive me, I’m still trying to remember where everything is. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” Of all the boxes he had to get lost in, it was the one with the family that had issue with his own.

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Like always, Enrique listened to the caged little bird with such fascination and longing. He wondered what it would be like to let her roam free in such a dangerous world, not that he allowed anything or anyone to harm her. As long as he was alive, he'd be just that, a silent protector, as much as it was torture to him. His love for her could and should not blossom.

"It will not be like this forever-" he assured her, the words a hollow promise even to his own ears. "No one..." he sighed, the thought of any harm befalling her a physical pain in his chest.

He observed her, a subtle inclination of her head indicating her disagreement with his suggestion. Perhaps it was for the best. He wouldn't have allowed anyone to slander her, Princess Sophia.

"That, my love, is a good and workable idea." He heard the nickname escape his lips, a slip he usually managed to keep confined to the privacy of his own mind. His heart hammered, a frantic drum against his ribs. "My apologies, Princess, for crossing the line there-"

Within her own domain, be it in her rooms at Hanover house or her prison at her majesty’s palace, Sophia had expected those closest to her to speak with nothing but honesty, Enrique and Selena among those with such a rare luxury. Those two were the ones who Sophia held in such high esteem in both their presence and their words. “How can I remain myself when I am thwarted at every turn, every move is counteracted with such precision from her that I am useless.” A tremor ran through the princess’s fingers as the fire burned behind her, supposedly to warm the room but all she felt was a perilous chill until Enrique’s words found her. Somehow, Enrique always had known the right words to say but that could be the benefit of being a protective shadow these past years, giving her the strength when she truly needed it. “I have as much control over Lady Whistledown as I do my own mother, she writes what she pleases and I am not going to be her biggest story!” Sophia was steadfast in her determination to not be the biggest story that Lady Whistledown could write, more so out of fear that her mother would keep her locked away for another year and Sophia would not endure that again, she knew her own limitations and that was among them. Sophia crossed to Enrique stopping just inches away from him and for a moment there was a silence that bloomed between them until the princess drew a slow breath as she straightened her spine and the tears dried. “I want to ruin my mother, but she is imperious and untouchable but her chosen favourites are not. We could ruin them, facilitate scandals to ruin them both and bring into question her choices. Do you think that could work?” 

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Enrique couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle, a sound that held both amusement and a touch of mischief, as his gaze fell upon the magnificent horse that had been selected for Rhys's training. He knew, with an almost paternal certainty, that this particular equine companion would present quite the challenge.

"Sersphina," he murmured, his voice a low, warm rumble, accompanied by a distinct clicking sound he made with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The effect was immediate and profound. The mare, a picture of regal bearing just moments before, responded with an almost dog-like devotion, nuzzling her elegant head against his chest, seeking his touch.

A playful smirk touched Enrique's lips as he turned his attention to Rhys. "They've truly pulled a fast one on you if their intention was for her to simply obey," he explained, his tone light but with an underlying current of shared secret. "You see, this isn't just any horse. This is Sersphina, my warhorse, and our bond stretches back to when she was but a tiny, three-month-old foal."

To illustrate his point, Enrique lowered a single finger, and with a theatrical flourish that only he and the horse seemed to understand, Sersphina dropped to the ground as if struck, feigning death with remarkable conviction. "And she did just that," he continued, a proud glint in his eyes, quickly adding, "not that I want you to think you've done a bad job, mind you." He paused, his gaze sweeping from the 'dead' horse to Rhys. "It's just that, well, she's notoriously stubborn with anyone but me."

closed starter for @swcrdsqndperfumc (Enrique) location: Hanover House

The Royal Ascot Racetrack was a place where royalty had been, but mostly for the big races. Whenever they attended, the Royal Ascot was filled with people just wanting to catch a glimpse of them while the staff ran about, working twice as hard. First, Princess Caroline visited, and now Rhys and his team were in charge of training a royal horse. He was told to give extra care, which he did, but the horse was no standout.  Rhys arrived at Hanover House, the less formal royal residence, with the princess’s horse unsaddled and walking calmly behind him. “Enrique!” Rhys called out, seeing the familiar man outside. It was rare to see the man anywhere else but the princess’s side, so it felt like a rare honour. “Is the princess around, or have you finally decided to give yourself a well-earned break?” Rhys hadn’t met a man who worked harder than Enrique, but those who wanted to work for the crown usually worked themselves to exhaustion. 

“I’ve done all that I can with this one.” Rhys gestured to the horse with a smile. The horse was fast but too skittish for even Rhys’s calm nature to calm the beast. The horse would be good for breeding or a quiet stroll in the park, but not much else. He didn’t want to inform the princess of that, in case he was blamed for the failure. “Do you know if the princess intends to take this one on hunts?” A skittish horse and pistols were never a good mix. If anything were to happen, Rhys knew it was easier to blame his work than the temperament of the horse.

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Enrique had already heard the approaching footsteps, a subtle scuff against the stone floor, long before they reached his chamber door. His hand, calloused from years of training and battle, had instinctively gone to the hilt of his sword, drawing it a silent inch from its scabbard. Intrusion was a constant, unwelcome companion in these shadowed halls, and vigilance was a knight's most trusted armor. But then, the familiar, slightly lopsided silhouette of Tobias appeared in the doorway, and the tension that had coiled in Enrique's shoulders unwound with a soft sigh. He let the sword settle back into place with a faint, almost inaudible click.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, a sound tinged with a weariness that went deeper than physical exertion. "Tired of it, yes, you can certainly say that." The words were a half-truth, a convenient deflection. He was tired, but not of the nightly patrols or the constant threat of unseen enemies. He was bone-weary of the forbidden feelings that had taken root in his heart, feelings he harbored for the Princess, a woman as unattainable as the stars. He, Sir Enrique, the brave and unyielding knight, a man who had faced bandids and armies without flinching, found himself utterly, inexplicably weak when it came to her. Her smile could unravel him, her distant glance could send his carefully constructed composure tumbling. It was a vulnerability he despised, a chink in his armor that no enemy blade could find, yet it threatened to lay him bare.

"A person…" Enrique said, his voice lbarely a whisper that made his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. He didn't need Tobias's keen eye to discern the unspoken question, the subtle shift in the air that suggested a deeper understanding. Enrique wished, for a fleeting moment, that he could simply be alone with his thoughts, to wrestle with the 'person' that haunted him without the need for explanation or even the silent camaraderie of a trusted friend.

He laughed again, a more genuine sound this time, though the double meaning of his next words was undeniably present, hanging in the air between them like a shared secret. "Unless you are going to look for potential danger, then no—I do not need a second pair of eyes." The implication was clear: his inner turmoil, the "person" he was battling, was a fight he had to wage alone, and Tobias, for all his loyalty and keen wit, could offer no aid there. The unspoken understanding passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the burdens they each carried, some visible, some hidden deep within the heart.

Walking around and minding his own business, faces in the crowd had started to become familiar to him now. Names that he knew from his youth and now could assign them to faces but still he was like a stranger getting to know everyone all over again and trying to remember the lie his father told why he was away. The thoughts running through his head were stopped hearing another muttering. “You sound as if you are tired of this choreographed charade. Is it a person who has you down or a situation?” It was too forward but that was Tobias, shameless and upfront without any hint of hesitation.

Looking over the other man, he noticed the finely tailored coat, the straight posture and the sharp watchful eyes. The first thought was that the man was obviously handsome and, Tobias thought, had a strong sense of character or purpose. Nothing like himself. “You look as if you are trying to find someone or something. If you want an extra pair of eyes, I’ll offer my own.”

[swcrdsqndperfumc]

Victoria Murray, her usual vibrant spirit dulled by a pervasive weariness, sat alone in the velvet-lined opulence of their private theatre box. The duke, her father, was confined to his chambers, a prisoner of his latest bout of gout, leaving her to endure the evening's performance—or lack thereof, as her attention waned—unaccompanied. The hushed murmurs of the audience below and the distant strains of the orchestra felt miles away, replaced by the heavy thud of her own exhaustion.

She closed her eyes, just for a fleeting second, seeking a moment's respite from the demanding social façade she constantly maintained. It was in that brief lapse that she heard them: soft, deliberate footsteps approaching her box. Her hand, with an instinct born of both training and an ever-present sense of caution, subtly drifted to the silken hem of her skirt. Beneath the delicate fabric, nestled securely, rested the cool, familiar grip of her concealed blade. A precautionary measure, of course, but one she rarely found herself regretting.

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Enrique Mieux stood by the tall, arched window of the antechamber, his gaze sweeping over the bustling palace grounds below. The morning sun, still weak and hesitant, cast long, distorted shadows across the manicured lawns and the intricate patterns of the cobblestone paths. The clamor of carriages, their wheels rattling against the stones, the distant laughter of courtiers drifting from the inner halls, and the sharp, almost desperate cries of vendors in the market square beyond the palace walls – it all merged into a dull, persistent hum, a symphony of orchestrated chaos that had long ceased to truly register with him. He ran a gloved hand, the leather soft and worn from countless hours of service, over the cool, smooth stone of the sill, a faint, almost imperceptible frown creasing his brow.

"Another day," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly undertone, barely louder than the rustle of his own finely tailored coat. It wasn't a question, nor was it directed at anyone in particular, merely a weary, almost cynical observation. "Another carefully choreographed charade." He wasn't speaking to an audience, but rather voicing an internal monologue, a quiet, weary assessment of the world unfolding before him, a world he was inextricably a part of, yet felt increasingly detached from. The air in the antechamber, thick with the cloying scent of expensive perfumes, the faint metallic tang of ambition, and the unspoken weight of countless secrets, seemed to press in on him, a familiar, suffocating weight. He found himself inhaling deeply, as if to dispel the oppressive atmosphere, but it clung to him, a second skin.

He sighed, a barely audible expulsion of breath that seemed to carry the burden of years of silent vigilance. The grand affairs of state, the whispered intrigues, the endless pursuit of power and prestige – they all felt like a grand, repetitive play, and he, Enrique, was merely a silent, unacknowledged prop. He turned from the window, his posture still ramrod straight, but a subtle weariness in the set of his shoulders. His eyes, usually sharp and observant, now scanned the opulent room, lingering on the gilded cornices, the heavy tapestries depicting forgotten battles, the polished surfaces reflecting the muted light. He seemed to be searching for something, a detail out of place, a hidden meaning, or perhaps, nothing at all, merely allowing his gaze to drift, a reflection of his own drifting thoughts.

[swcrdsqndperfumc]

The smile she offered the princess was a meticulously crafted thing, a masterpiece of calculated niceness sculpted for the glittering ballroom. In this world, a sprawling chessboard of marble and gold, everyone was a piece in play. Her mother, the Queen, was an immovable black queen, her power radiating from the center of the board, casting long, oppressive shadows. The chattering courtiers were pawns, easily maneuvered, easily sacrificed. But the princess… Princess Seraphina was a piece Elara had yet to figure out. An ivory rook, perhaps, with movement that was deceptively simple yet brutally effective? Or a knight, capable of leaping over obstacles others could not?

Victoria’s own power was a quieter thing, a stiletto hidden in the folds of her gown, overshadowed by the Queen’s broadsword. But she had a purpose that burned brighter than any ambition for a title: her father, the duke, was fading. Not from age, but from something insidious, a slow-acting venom that dulled his eyes and slurred his speech, a sickness the duke's physicians conveniently labeled as "melancholy." She needed to know who was responsible, and the duchess, who spent hours reading to the Duke, might find a vital clue. More importantly, she needed to know who else held power in this game. There was her uncle, of course, and then there was the other, the ghost at the feast: the anonymous gossip columnist known only as Lady Whistledown, whose daily pamphlets could build a reputation or shatter it before breakfast.

Drawing closer, Victoria caught the tail end of a courtier’s fawning compliment to the princess. She waited for him to scurry away before speaking, her voice pitched to be an intimate murmur in the cacophony of the orchestra.

"They speak of me as the season's 'Diamond," Victoria began, a hint of shared amusement in her tone. "It is  a curious, and perhaps ridiculous, thing to hear."

"Ridiculous is the word," she spoke, her voice low and smooth. "To be judged and valued like a gemstone at auction. Do you not find it so?"

"I care little for the title," Victoria admitted, letting a sliver of truth into her performance. It was a risk, but a necessary one. "There are more pressing matters than being the most sparkling jewel in the crown's collection." She let her gaze drift meaningfully towards the chair in her mind, where her father sat, looking more like a wax effigy than a Duke. She needed to know who was poisoning him before it was too late.

"There are advantages and disadvantages to every world, are there not?" Victoria continued, changing tack. "Shame and beauty to be found in the city, the same as in the quiet of the countryside." She paused, locking eyes with the princess. "Don't you think, Your Highness? But I suppose I don't need to tell you that. Or are you simply that... caged, that you have never truly seen either?"

The word hung in the air between them, a deliberate, dangerous barb. It was a test. A lesser woman would flush with indignation. A fool would not understand. She had come here to assess a chess piece, but she was beginning to suspect she was facing another player entirely.

closed starter for @swcrdsqndperfumc (Victoria) / Murray Estate

Everything the princess wore had been made to perfection, a standard that a princess should always strive to achieve as should others in London. But perfection was boring and there was more fun to be had with the chaos more so if it was something the queen had strived for and yet an American was named as her diamond when the heir to the duchy of Marlborough was in their sights, an unmarried woman set to do what others could not, inherit the title and lands without a husband despite there being male relatives ready to take on the responsibility. It was enviable and something Sophia had longed for. “Miss Victoria I hope you can forgive the intrusion but I simply had to see you. It is not every day that a future duchess arrives at the social season and has been snubbed from the very title of diamond.” Even if she did  not attend the presentation ball, Victoria has a status that most would envy and covet. Man or woman, her inheritance was something that even a princess of England would have so one could only imagine her dowry. All of that made Victoria a worthy, incomparable diamond but that was upon a first glance, what made a diamond was more than what titles they could hold, they needed to battle with her majesty and her chosen. "I have long heard of your wit and accomplishments. I wonder, do you find town life preferable to the countryside?"

[swcrdsqndperfumc]

It wasn't an uncommon sight to him, Sofia losing composure whenever she had spoken to the queen and safely returned to her chambers. The porcelain mask of regal indifference, so perfectly molded for courtly appearances, would splinter and crack the moment her heavy chamber doors clicked shut behind her. Her slender shoulders, usually held with such defiant grace, would slump, and a soft, almost imperceptible tremor would run through her. He'd seen the faint flush rise on her pale cheeks, the way her usually bright eyes would cloud with a mixture of frustration and unshed tears. It was his unwavering loyalty and silent, steadfast presence as her personal guard over the years that had earned him the rare respect and profound honor to hear her woes, to witness these fragile moments of vulnerability. And truly, he felt for the princess. Her duties were not merely ceremonial dances or polite conversations; they were a gilded cage, a relentless performance under the queen's exacting, unforgiving gaze. He, who harbored such forbidden desires for her, desires that burned beneath his disciplined facade, knew that burden perhaps better than anyone.

He cleared his throat, the sound a gruff rumble that seemed too loud in the hushed elegance of her room. "Well, I think—" The queen would flay him alive, piece by excruciating piece, if she could hear the words forming on his tongue now. The mere thought sent a shiver down his spine, a testament to the dangerous game he played simply by offering genuine counsel. "—that you should remain your rebellious self," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his gaze fixed on a distant point beyond her troubled face, "and hurt her as much as she has hurt you." He pondered, the audacity of his own suggestion thrilling and terrifying him in equal measure. "You can ruin this season for her, Princess. Not with open defiance, but with subtle, surgical strikes. Have Lady Whistledown—she's always eager for a new scandal, isn't she?—write about her spectacular failure, her inability to control her own court, her own blood. Make her wallow in shame, in the very public gaze she so meticulously curates." His words hung in the air, a daring proposition, a dangerous spark in the suffocating grandeur of the royal palace.

closed starter for @swcrdsqndperfumc (Enrique) / Hanover Estate

Another suitor had come and gone and Sophia had been less than cordial to them, almost ignoring every complement, every gift they tried to bestow onto her. None were worthy of her time, nevermind burdening herself to them for a lifetime but her majesty had other ideas. Queen Eleanor had shouted at her only daughter proclaiming that Sophia was born to obey her mother’s every whim including her choice of suitor. By some miracle Sophia had been the epitome of self control as her mother roared at her but the moment she was in the safety of her own room, behind the heavy mahogany doors, the emotions all came flooding to the surface. She was alone except for her trusted Enrique, her silent, efficient shadow that had been as close to her as Nell had been. “I cannot do this much longer, not with her commands or decrees while she keeps me at arms length with her cold heart. I simply cannot!” Sophia paused in the middle of the room after she had paced back and forth while her mother’s words remained at the forefront of her mind. Her gloved hands were clenched at her sides while her mind tried to scramble a way to punish the queen and her biting words. “You have been a constant source of light for me, Enrique, please tell me what should I do?” It was a moment of vulnerability that very few in England got to witness from the princess, not even her eldest brother had such an honor but she did not trust him. Sophia only trusted a handful of people and one of them was in this very room with her. 

[swcrdsqndperfumc]

  Enrique Mieux is a legendary figure within the lore of the English Royal Household, celebrated for his unwavering dedication, unparalleled skill, and profound loyalty as the chief Royal Guard to Princess Sofia of England. Born into a lineage with a long history of service to the crown, Enrique's destiny was intertwined with the monarchy from an early age.

Enrique's early life was steeped in rigorous training, beginning in the secluded and highly disciplined academies reserved for those destined for elite protective service. He demonstrated an innate aptitude for martial arts, tactical strategy, and observation from a young age. Excelling in all physical and mental challenges, his instructors quickly recognized his extraordinary potential. Beyond physical prowess, Enrique cultivated a sharp intellect, mastering various languages, historical knowledge, and diplomatic protocols essential for his future role. He understood that true guardianship extended beyond mere physical defense to encompass discretion, foresight, and a deep understanding of the intricacies of royal life.

His exceptional abilities did not go unnoticed, and Enrique was personally selected by the Royal Head of Security to join the elite corps tasked with safeguarding the royal family. His rise through the ranks was swift, marked by several commendations for bravery, quick thinking, and impeccable execution during high-stakes situations.

It was upon Princess Sofia's entry into public life that Enrique Mieux was formally appointed as her principal Royal Guard. This assignment was not merely a duty but a calling, and he embraced it with a solemn vow to ensure her safety and well-being above all else.

As Princess Sofia's Royal Guard, Enrique became her constant shadow and steadfast protector. He was her first line of defense against any threat, perceived or real, and his presence brought a sense of calm and assurance wherever the Princess traveled. From high-profile state visits to quiet private moments, Enrique was always vigilant, his keen senses attuned to every detail of their surroundings.

His duties extended beyond physical protection. Enrique was a trusted confidant, a strategic advisor, and a silent observer of the Princess's journey. Yet, beneath his disciplined exterior and professional resolve, a deeper, unspoken affection blossomed for Princess Sofia. His unwavering commitment to her safety was fueled not just by duty, but by a profound admiration and a love he dared not voice. This unspoken sentiment added another layer of intensity to his vigilance, making her well-being his utmost personal priority. He was known for his calm demeanor under pressure, his meticulous planning, and his ability to anticipate challenges. Legends tell of his uncanny ability to neutralize threats before they even materialized, a testament to his intelligence and tactical brilliance.

Enrique Mieux's unwavering commitment, the bond of trust he forged with Princess Sofia, and the silent depth of his affection for her, became a testament to the ideal of a royal protector. His story is one of ultimate devotion to duty, the profound connection between a guardian and the charge they are sworn to protect, and a love held silently in the heart of a true sentinel.