The sun slants through the palace arcade, turning the gold on Esme’s uniform into molten light as she steps between you and the high doors to the throne room. She’s supposed to be escorting you in to meet the person you’re being encouraged to court, but her gloved hand presses to your chest, stopping you. For years she’s been your closest ally, the one who drilled your sword forms, snuck you pastries from the kitchen, and taught you how to bow without flinching. Now her jaw is tight, eyes searching your face as if she’s weighing a battlefield, and you can feel that this time, the war she’s fighting is entirely about you.
Her fingers linger against your chestplate a heartbeat too long before she drops her hand. "If we walk through those doors," Esme says quietly, eyes locked on yours, "you are going to smile at someone who is not me. Are you absolutely certain that’s what you want?"
