Chapter one
Beneath the Throne
The bells of Avaloria rang differently that morning.
Not with mourning, not yet with celebration but with something in between, something ancient and thunderous that made the air stand still. Before sunrise, under a velvet sky blooming with stars, the next heir to the Avaloria crown was born.
Princess Amelia Sofia de Avaloria.
The palace staff whispered the name like it was both a miracle and a burden. A girl, not the expected boy, with lungs strong enough to shake the nursery walls and eyes dark as dusk. She entered the world not screaming, but glaring. Quiet. Alert. Watching.
Her mother, Queen Sofía, cradled her with trembling hands, already weakened from the difficult labor. Her father, King Rafael, pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered, “My small princess,” with pride heavy in his throat. They didn’t know then — couldn’t know — that Amelia would only have them for eight short years.
In that time, she was the sun in every hallway.
She followed the guards like a little shadow, demanded bedtime stories from generals, and once snuck into a foreign diplomat’s meeting to loudly declare that his tie was ugly. Her mother scolded her gently, her father laughed until tears ran down his cheeks, and the palace learned quickly that the future queen would not be silent or sweet — she would be strong.
And then, one cold January night, the plane carrying King Rafael and Queen Sofía went down over the Atlantic.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
The people mourned. The palace grieved. And in the heart of it all, a small girl stood at her mother’s funeral in a black coat two sizes too big, gripping her grandfather’s hand as the weight of a nation settled silently on her shoulders.
She didn’t cry. Not once.
The King and Queen — her grandparents — took her in without hesitation. They raised her in gold halls and stormy gardens, in a palace filled with memory and melancholy. They gave her love and structure, tradition and tenderness. Under their care, Amelia grew into a woman with steel in her spine and fire in her blood.
But the child who watched her parents be buried never left completely. She lived in the way Amelia never let anyone see her cry.
In the way she flinched at plane engines. In the way she sometimes stared out the window like she was waiting for someone who would never return.
By twenty-two, she had become everything the monarchy demanded — dignified, graceful, a scholar, a speaker, the crown’s pride. She was loved by the people. She was feared in political circles. She had a smile made for diplomacy and eyes that made even seasoned leaders falter.
And by twenty-two, she also knew loneliness intimately.
Her personal bodyguard, Hernando, had been with her since she was ten — the only constant in a world shaped by loss and pressure.
When he finally retired, there was a farewell dinner. A gold watch. A tearful hug that cracked something deep in her chest.
And the next morning, her new guard arrived.
Alessandro Moreliazi.
No press. No cameras. No ceremony. Just a silent exchange of power behind stone walls and polished doors — the changing of shadows.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak much. Just stood tall in the corridor, knight suit immaculate, expression carved from stone. The best in his field, they said. Tactician. Shadow. Weapon.
Hernando had left before sunrise, refusing a grand goodbye. His last words to Amelia had been simple: “You don’t need me anymore, my queen. You’ve already learned how to stand on your own.”
And now, his replacement stood in the marble corridor outside her study, perfectly still.
Amelia saw him before he saw her.
She paused in the hallway, a steaming mug of tea in hand, dressed in soft navy slacks and a blouse with pearl buttons — not a formal gown, not a press look. Just her. The woman, not the title.
He was tall. Not overwhelmingly so, but built like someone who had never once lost control of his body. Posture straight, eyes forward, not fidgeting or glancing at his phone like most of the younger staff did when they thought no one was watching.
His hands were clasped behind his back. His expression unreadable.
She took a sip from her mug and stepped closer.
“Guard Moreliazi,” she said, voice calm, cool, measured. The kind of voice she’d perfected in diplomatic meetings.
His eyes flicked to hers — sharp, calculating, the gray of overcast skies. He didn’t offer a smile. Instead, he bowed his head, barely a nod.
“Your Highness,” he said. Deep voice. Crisp accent, as expected, but precise.
He didn’t elaborate.
She waited for him to offer something — a greeting, a compliment, a self-introduction. He didn’t.
Straight to business, then.
“I understand you’ve been briefed on the protocols?” she asked, stepping beside him now. He kept pace instantly, wordlessly, as she moved toward her office.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you’ve worked protection detail for diplomats and foreign royalty before?”
“I have.”
His replies were short, efficient. Not rude — never that — just clipped. Careful. She recognized military restraint when she saw it. It wasn’t personal. He was simply… not someone who wasted words.
The silence stretched for a few steps.
“I’m sure you’ve read the file,” she said after a moment, unlocking her office. “So you probably know I prefer to walk alone through the palace. That includes morning meetings, private lunches, and—”
“I’ll be nearby at all times, Your Highness,” he interrupted softly. “But not in your way.”
Her brow rose slightly at the interruption — not because it offended her, but because it was the first sign of initiative he’d shown. Not robotic. Just precise.
Inside her office, sunlight spilled through tall arched windows, catching on the bookshelves, the velvet settee, the delicate crown crest carved into the fireplace mantle. She stepped inside. He remained just outside the door.
“I value professionalism, Mister Moreliazi,” she said, setting her mug down.
“As do I.”
“I also value peace.”
“I won’t disrupt it.”
Finally, her lips twitched. A flicker of something close to amusement. Not a smile — but not displeasure, either.
“Very well, then,” she said. “You may begin.”
And with that, she turned her back to him — not out of dismissal, but trust. The rarest currency in a palace like this.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just stood, silent as a statue, while the heir to Avaloria returned to her work, as if nothing had changed at all.
And as she saw him, all proud posture and polite disinterest, Amelia thought:
He doesn’t look like someone who’s ever lost anything.
She was wrong.
And he, too, was about to lose more than he ever expected.
