told me I had to learn a weapon when we were children, and that was the only kind that was light enough that I could use it and carry a bag of books at the same time.”
Benjimir shrugged. “That intellectual bend of yours is what makes you the better crown prince. But I still regret your incomprehension of your own fighting potential. Wouldn’t you say, Arion?”
Sir Arion was standing by the door, studying a paper. When Benjimir addressed him he looked up, not bothering to veil his impatience. “What.”
Benjimir laughed. “Did I interrupt daydreams of your happy wife and beautiful children?”
“No. This is the official guard rotation for His Royal Highness’s protection.”
“As always, Arion, please call me Arvel.” Arvel smiled at the older man and glanced outside, where the bright sun bathed the gardens in warm light. “Once Myth arrives, we can do with the introductions.”
“Introductions to who?” Myth asked.
Arvel twisted around and smiled at his translator, who was hovering in the doorway with a suspicious look. “Myth, there you are. Arion and Benjimir are here to introduce us to our new protective retinue.”
“I see. Good morning, Prince Benjimir, Sir Arion.” Myth bowed to each man.
“Good morning, Translator Mythlan,” Benjimir politely greeted her.
Arion had no time for such pleasantries. He stiffly nodded and disappeared into the hall where he barked an order at the soldiers gathered there.
Myth glanced back at him as she slowly made her way into Arvel’s study, pausing at her designated table.
Arvel abandoned his spot by his windows and approached her, carefully observing her for any sign of malady.
You’d never guess by the crispness of her jacket, the perfect swish of her ponytail, and her calm expression that the previous night had been so long—and dangerous. She was as well dressed and lovely as usual. Next to her, Arvel felt a little like a slob—he was still in the doublet Benjimir had drilled him in.
I hope I don’t smell too strongly of sweat.
“Was your room to your liking?” Arvel asked. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you.” Myth stared at his shoulder. “How is your wound?”
“Oh, it’s fine. It’s so small Benjimir had no prickle of conscience when he made me practice with my daggers this morning.”
“Practice keeps you alive.” Benjimir was back to studying Arvel’s shelves—a sure sign he was thinking of taking something.
Arvel made a face at his older brother’s back and was rewarded with a throaty chuckle from Myth.
“I’m glad you are well.” Her mirth was slow to fade, leaving a charming smile on her lips.
Myth was an elf. She was beautiful in everything she did. But privately, Arvel liked it best when she smiled—or when she looked at him bug-eyed when he was flirting outrageously. Then she was adorably ruffled.
He reconsidered his thoughts as he basked in her smile, and gulped guiltily.
Myth is a good friend of mine—at least she believes that’s all it is. But despite my inexperience with the opposite gender, I’m fairly certain friends shouldn’t be mesmerized by the lips of another friend. But I don’t quite know what to do about it. I’ve always known she was beautiful, and I thought I’d like her. That’s why I bartered for her to be my translator.
Myth’s smile faded, and she slightly tilted her head as she met Arvel’s open stare. “Arvel?”
“Your Royal Highness, Translator Mythlan, please allow me to introduce you to the captains of the squadrons assigned to you,” Sir Arion announced.
That snapped Arvel out of his sappy reverie. “Wait, captains?”
Three men stood in a perfect row behind Sir Arion, every inch the ideal Honor Guard Captains in their uniforms with light armor and red capes that marked their station. “Your Highness,” they said in perfect unison as they snapped off salutes.
“Captain Grygg, Captain Thad, and Captain Wilford,” Arion supplied to Arvel and Myth. “They are the best captains under my command, are loyal, and they lead excellent guards who are well versed and experienced in combat. They are dedicated to the royal family of Calnor.” He abruptly swung back around and said almost menacingly, “And they will be wholly professional, serious, and will not run any side businesses while serving you. Is that understood?”
The three captains visibly buckled, and they saluted Arion with the same enthusiasm they had saluted Arvel. “Yes, sir!”
Benjimir turned away from his plotting. “Your little Trio of Daftness? Yes, they’ll be perfect for Arvel.”
“I don’t need three squadrons of Honor Guards,” Arvel said.
“Come, now, Arvel. You don’t know what esteemed guards you have here.” Benjimir actually