Arteja sat alone in the dimly lit barracks, her silver-black mask resting on the table before her. She ran her fingers along its jagged edges, tracing the scars that the last battle had left—not just on her armor, but on her spirit. The whispers of her comrades who had fallen on the field still lingered in her ears. Their faces flashed in her mind whenever she closed her eyes, each one a reminder of the price she paid for her survival.
Outside the barracks, the fortress was alive with the sounds of rebuilding. Soldiers hauled wood and stone to repair the walls; blacksmiths hammered steel to forge new weapons; healers worked tirelessly to mend the wounded. Yet Arteja felt distant from it all, like a ghost wandering through the aftermath of a life she barely recognized.
Her hands shook slightly as she picked up the mask, the faint sparks of her lightning magic flickering at her fingertips. She clenched her jaw and suppressed the energy. The mask was more than armor—it was a symbol of her duty. It was the barrier between Arteja the protector and Arteja the person. A person she could barely remember.
The door to the barracks creaked open, and Farel, the emperor's stern-faced messenger, stepped inside. His presence was sharp and commanding, a man who carried authority like a second skin.
"Arteja," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. "You've been summoned. There's no time to waste."
She looked up at him, her expression unreadable beneath her long brown hair. "Another battle?"
Farel shook his head. "No. You're being reassigned. You're to become the personal protector of Lady Ilthea, youngest daughter of House Vilaren. She's at risk."
Arteja frowned. The shift from battlefield to court life felt jarring. She had been forged for war, not the delicate dance of politics. "Why me?"
Farel's eyes narrowed. "Because you've proven yourself. House Vilaren requested a protector of the highest caliber, someone capable of ensuring her safety no matter the odds. After your performance in the last battle, the choice was clear."
Arteja hesitated. The battlefield was simple—kill or be killed. The court was another matter entirely. Layers of deceit, politics, and fragile alliances made protecting someone infinitely more complicated.
"Who's after her?" she asked finally.
"Rival factions within the court," Farel replied. "House Vilaren has made powerful enemies. Lady Ilthea has already survived two assassination attempts. Your job is to ensure there isn't a third."
Arteja's fingers tightened around the edge of her mask. "I'll do it."
Later That Day: Meeting Lady Ilthea
Arteja stood outside the grand estate of House Vilaren, her mask firmly in place, her spear slung across her back. The estate loomed before her like a fortress of elegance, its tall spires and intricate stonework a stark contrast to the rugged fortresses she was used to.
She was greeted by Lord Vilaren himself, a thin, hawk-like man with piercing eyes and a sharp tongue. He scrutinized her silently for a moment before speaking. "You're younger than I expected," he said. "But I suppose the emperor's recommendation counts for something."
Arteja didn't respond. She knew her place and chose silence as her answer.
Lord Vilaren's lips twitched in approval. "Good. My daughter has a…strong personality. You'll need discipline to handle her."
Strong personality. Arteja had heard such words used to describe the spoiled offspring of noble families before. She braced herself for what was to come.
Lady Ilthea was nothing like she expected.
The girl was sitting in the sunlit gardens, her legs crossed as she idly plucked petals from a flower. She couldn't have been older than 14, with golden hair that fell in loose waves around her shoulders and eyes the color of emeralds. But there was something sharp in her gaze, something calculating.
"So you're my new guard," Ilthea said without looking up. Her voice was light but carried an undertone of curiosity. "You're not much older than me. Can you actually protect me, or are you just here to look