Royal Keeper

The ice sculpture of the ancestral falcon was missing its left wing because Aisel had used a soup ladle to smash it off exactly four minutes before the doors opened.

“You look...” her grandfather, the King, paused, his heavy velvet robes rustling as he leaned his weight onto his gold-headed cane. His breath smelled like peppermint lozenges and old paper. “... completely ridiculous.”

“It’s called fashion, Grandpops.

Look it up.

Or ask the chamberlain, he seems like the type to look at silk underwear catalogs when the court goes to bed.”

Aisel didn’t look at him. She was flat on her back under the massive mahogany buffet table, her silver hair spreading over the polished marble floor like an oil slick. She was currently trying to duct-tape a wireless Bluetooth speaker to the underside of the main caviar platter.

“Hand me the scissors. Not the dull ones. The ones from the library that actually cut things.”

“Aisel. Get out from under the charcuterie.”

“Just a second, the tape is sticking to my—ow! Shit. Son of a...”

“Language.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses.”

She scrambled backward, her 5′3" frame popping out from under the white linen tablecloth.

She was wearing her formal birthday gown, except she’d taken a pair of kitchen shears to the tulle skirt, hacking it off at the knees so her scratched-up shins and a pair of scuffed, chunky black combat boots were on full display.

She wiped a smudge of gray grease off her cheek, her big blue eyes blinking up at him with total, unbothered mischief.

“Listen, the party’s dead anyway.

If I don’t spice up the toast with some heavy bass drops, half the dukes are gonna pass out into their soup.

And let’s be honest, Duke Ferdinand already looks like he’s been dead for three days.”

The King let out a long, wheezing sigh that moved his white beard. He looked older today.

Sweat was beaded near his hairline, his fingers twitching on the cane.

“You are eighteen today. The treaty requires the public appearance.

The ministers are already... they are circling, Aisel. They think you are a child.”

“I am a child. A highly sophisticated, chemically imbalanced child with a crown.” She jumped up, dusting off her ruined dress.

She plucked a blackberry from a fruit tower, tossed it in the air, and caught it with her small, pouty lips.

“Relax. I won’t set the curtains on fire this time.

That was a one-off. The supplier lied about the fireworks.”

“I am not joking,” he said, his voice dropping into that heavy, old-regal tone that usually meant someone was getting exiled.

“The world is... it is different now. Your parents aren’t here to—”

“Don’t do that grandpops,”

she cut in, her voice instantly dropping its sarcastic edge, turning sharp and flat as a razor blade.

She didn’t look at him. Her fingers twitched against her skirt. “Don’t bring them into the birthday lecture. It’s tacky.”

The old man closed his eyes for a brief second. When he opened them, the anger was gone, replaced by a kind of exhausted, desperate affection.

“I hired someone.”

Aisel snorted, her silver bangs falling into her face.

“A tutor? Because the last one cried when I hid his dentures in the gelatin mold.”

“A Keeper.”

“A what? Like... a zookeeper?

Am I an animal now?

Actually, don’t answer that, I bite.”

“A Royal Keeper,” the King corrected, his eyes shifting toward the heavy oak doors at the back of the banquet hall.

“His father died in the northern sector.

Protecting your mother’s convoy. You remember the name.”

Aisel stopped messing with her boots. Her small jaw tightened. “Ummmmm.....Lemme think....Matrixxxxx Right???.”

“He finished his rotation at the citadel,” the King murmured, his cane tapping twice on the floor.

“Ten years. The trainers say he... well. They say he isn’t entirely human anymore.

But he is what you need.

Someone who cannot be tricked. Someone who cannot be bribed, broken, or teased.

You are a brat, Aisel.

A loud, clever, exhausting brat. He is the iron fence.”

“I like wire cutters,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

“Where is he? Let’s see the big scary robot.”

The heavy doors shifted and suddenly the light in the room felt different—colder, heavier, like the air right before a thunderstorm hits the coast.

He was huge.

Aisel’s sarcastic comment died in her throat. She was used to palace guards—fat men in shiny breastplates or skinny kids with ceremonial pikes.

This man was six-foot-four of pure, dense, terrifying symmetry. His black tailored suit didn’t have a single wrinkle, fitting his broad shoulders and massive, muscular chest like a second skin.

His hair was dark, almost blue-black under the chandeliers, with just a few slight, wavy strands falling perfectly over a broad forehead.

But his face... it was ridiculous.

It looked like an ancient sculptor had tried to make a god out of marble and then forgot to give him a soul.

Sharp jawline, thin, perfect lips that looked like they’d never smiled in twenty-eight years, a straight, aristocratic nose, and eyes... Aisel squinted.

They weren’t blue or brown. They were cold, dead, winter-cloud gray. Surrounded by thick, ridiculously long lashes that made his stare look even more intense.

“Holy shit, Grandpops,” Aisel whispered, her voice cracking slightly.

“Did you order him from a catalog?

Is he plug-in or battery-operated?”

The giant stopped exactly six feet from the King. He didn’t bow with the usual theatrical flourishes of the court. He just bent his upper body by precisely fifteen degrees, his arms perfectly straight at his sides.

“Your Majesty,” he said.

Aisel’s ears perked up. His voice wasn’t human. It was a flat, monotone baritone—completely level, devoid of any pitch changes, like a text-to-speech program running through a high-end sound system. There was no warmth, no gravel, no hesitation. Just stone.

“Matrix,” the King said, leaning heavily on his cane.

“This is Princess Aisel. Your primary assignment. Your only assignment.”

Matrix’s head turned. His neck didn’t tilt; it was a mechanical pivot. Those gray, frozen eyes locked onto Aisel’s face.

He didn’t look down at her ruined skirt. He didn’t look at the grease on her cheek. He looked through her, as if she were a window pane that needed cleaning.

“Your Highness,” Matrix said. The tone was identical to the one he used for the King. Flat. Empty.

Aisel felt a weird, annoying prickle of heat crawl up her neck. She hated being ignored, and she especially hated being looked at like she was a piece of regular furniture.

She puffed out her small chest, took three aggressive steps forward, and stopped right in front of him. Because of the foot-and-a-inch height difference, she had to crane her neck all the way back just to look into his jawline.

“Alright, Robo-Cop,” she said, her voice dripping with high-speed, mocking energy.

“Let’s get the ground rules straight.

First of all, the suit? Too fancy.

We do a lot of crawling under things here.

Second, you’re standing too close. I can smell whatever weird, expensive soap they use at the citadel.

It smells like... I don’t know, old pine trees and discipline. Gross.

Third, if you’re gonna be my shadow, you should know I don’t do stairs.

You’re gonna have to carry me, or we take the service elevator.

Got it?”

Matrix didn’t blink. His thick lashes didn’t even twitch.

“The security protocol requires a two-foot clearance at all times, Your Highness.

I will maintain the perimeter.”

“A perimeter?

Inside a ballroom?

What, is a rogue salmon going to jump out of the buffet and hit me?”

She stepped closer, her boot almost touching his shiny leather shoe.

“What if I do this? Huh?

Look, I’m breaking the perimeter.

Call the cops. Oh wait, you are the cops.”

“Aisel,” the King warned, coughing into his hand.

“Stop.”

“I’m just testing the settings, Grandpops! I think his volume knob is stuck.”

She reached up, her small, porcelain hand hovering an inch away from his chest, right where his tie clip was fastened. She could feel the literal heat radiating off his massive body, like an engine that had been running for days.

He was solid. Like a brick wall wrapped in wool.

“Hey. Look at me. Are you even listening? Do you have ears under that hair, or is it just more metal?”

Matrix’s eyes didn’t drop to look at her hand.

“The earpiece is active, Your Highness. My audio reception is functioning at optimal parameters.”

“Ugh, you’re exhausting,”

she groaned, dropping her hand and turning on her heel.

“He’s broken Grandpops.

Send him back. I want a refund.

Give me one of the old guys with the bad knees, at least they laugh when I short-circuit the fountain.”

“The contract is sealed,” the King said, his voice softer now, his eyes tracking the servant who was starting to open the main gallery doors.

The sound of string instruments and high-society chatter started bleeding into the room.

“He stays. From this moment until... until the end. Matrix, the oath is active.”

“Understood, Your Majesty.”

“And remember,” the King added, his voice turning dangerously dark, his old eyes fixed on the younger man’s iron face.

“The bloodline remains untainted.

Any deviation from the professional code... any lapse in the purity of her station... the penalty is the iron square.

Publicly.”

“The law is absolute,” Matrix replied. Not a single muscle in his jaw moved.

He didn’t look at Aisel. He didn’t look at the King. He just stared at the wall.