Jules
Being born into a prestigious family doesn't guarantee the best life. Especially when you come from a branch of the Main family. That's how things are in our family—the Falcon family. I belong to the third branch, and there's one strict rule that has always applied to the second and third branches.
The firstborns must offer protection to the heir of the family. And guess what? It doesn't matter if you're a boy or a girl. Your dreams? They don't matter. Protect the heir—that's your dream now, and you'd better get it into your damn head.
Damn!
I learned this when I turned four. The day Isabella, the family heir, was brought to us. She was set to attend some prestigious school—Wisdom of Hope Girls' Academy. A place where they train young elites in management and leadership. Isabella, with her beauty and fair skin, quickly rose to celebrity status. It was the life I had always dreamed of. And let's be real—in terms of curves and a sexy figure, I was the real deal, meeting all the standards. But instead of chasing my dreams, they shipped me off to a damn military school.
Ah fuck!
Guns!
Self-defense!
Protect your client.
Those were the harsh realities ingrained in me over time, and my father—though we rarely exchanged more than a few words—once mentioned he'd endured the same brutal path. As for my mother? Well, she has no voice in these matters. She's just a woman, right? That's how things work in our family. Unless you're like my sister, women here are expected to keep quiet and serve. My mother's life revolves around studying catering and learning how to entertain guests. It's pathetic. I've heard the same kind of thing happens in the other families, too, especially the Malin family. Their main branch practically rules, with four sons bred for leadership. The previous generation followed the same model.
And their patriarch, Bulmer Malin? That man is a terrifying force—an actual beast in every sense.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the past years have been rough, but don't fret… just a little Moserido, and you'll feel the rhythm!"
The smooth voice of a male model floats through the static of the radio, slicing through the silence inside the military truck. I'm sitting in the back, peering through a tiny slit of a window, but there's not much to see—the dark green tarp covering the back of the truck doesn't allow for any real view. Inside, I'm crammed in with three other girls, all of us transfers from Angels Military Training, now on our way to the Royal Bodyguard Academy.
The head instructor is up front, showing zero interest in us. She's busy fiddling with her M4 rifle, which she's gone so far as to name.
Thud!
The truck suddenly jerks, hitting a massive bump, sending us all tumbling into each other.
"Damn it, Joffery, watch where you're going!" the instructor yells, pounding the dashboard in frustration.
"Sorry, ma'am!" Joffrey quickly apologizes, his voice shaky as he tries to steady the truck.
We continue to bounce along the uneven road, weaving through the narrow streets of Elephant Road and soon turning onto Jogoo Road. Based on the route, I estimate another thirty minutes before we finally reach the Royal Academy. It's a brutal training ground for bodyguards, infamous for its elite standards and brutal regimen. The academy itself sits on a cliffside, overlooking the cold, unforgiving waters of the Espect Sea.
Behind us, the skyline of new real estates looms—six built by the Malin family and seven by the Falcons. These two families compete fiercely in every profession, but bodyguarding remains their most critical battlefield. If a family member is kidnapped, injured, or worse, killed, and the news goes public, it's not just a personal failure but a stain on the entire family's reputation. That's why they invest so heavily in this brutal training.
We continue driving steadily, entering Konvol Town, the busiest port city in the region. The salty tang of the sea mingles with the pungent smell of fresh fish. A cold breeze sweeps in as fishermen unload their daily catch, sellers haggle on the docks, and boats bob lazily on the water. The town is alive with movement, commerce, and noise.
Suddenly, we take a sharp turn. A huge signboard looms into view as the truck barrels forward.
Notice: _You have now entered the grounds of Royale Academy. Be cautious and do not try anything stupid._!!
The message blinks on my interface as the truck rattles on.
A straight damn warning.
The entire institute belongs to the main branch. After a brutal attack on the Falcon recruits during their military training, where many were killed, this place was established as a safer and more covert way to train an elite squad. One that would remain under the radar. A squad has already been formed, and it looks like I'm about to be part of it. The mission is simple but crucial: protect Isabella.
This generation we are just fucked up. No son from the Main family. The only child and heir from the main family is Isabella, who just wants to get fame. The only boys are the three boys from the second family, and honestly, they're no better. Damian, of course, is the main problem—he royally screwed things up. Has a superior complex disorder. His older brother Duncan? Useless, a pathetic excuse of a man. The only one with any redeeming qualities is Sean, who at least has the decency to run the family business without embarrassing us all.
Sigh.
"What's on your mind, Jules?" Grace's voice breaks my thoughts. She's adjusting the straps of her bulletproof vest, her movements deliberate and calm. "You nervous or something?"
I look over at her. Grace is all sharp edges and focus. Her brown skin glows faintly under the dim truck lights, her piercing blue eyes scanning me with that intense, almost unsettling gaze. She's a year older and in peak condition—muscle, precision, and expertise in weapons and stealth. A force to be reckoned with.
Then there's Victoria, sitting beside her. She's the oddball of the group—shorter than the rest of us, with a mind I've never quite understood. But she's sharp when it comes to reconnaissance. And finally, Nelly—the most serious of us all. Not much of a talker, but she's lethal in hand-to-hand combat.
"No, not nervous," I finally respond, sinking back against the cold metal wall of the truck. "Just thinking about how much life is about to change."
The truck jerks to a sudden halt. The sound of heavy boots marching toward us fills the air, the atmosphere shifting.
Bang!
"Out!" Grace commands, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.
We move, but not in a rush. One by one, we jump out of the truck, our feet hitting the gravel. As I regain my balance, I see three men approaching us, fully armed with M16 rifles, dressed in dark commando uniforms that blend into the night.
"Step forward for a body search," one of them orders, his voice cold and efficient. The truck rolls past us, disappearing into the compound.
"Meet at the main building. You won't miss it," the instructor commands.