The chapel artisans had been waiting three days for Edmund to approve the new mosaic. He had rejected the lion’s tail, the border stones, and an entire panel because someone had used lapis where he distinctly remembered blue glass in the original.

Then you arrived, and the kingdom’s most irritatingly particular knight stopped caring about craftsmanship.

Edmund stood beneath his own gilded likeness with one gauntleted hand resting on his sword. He had been dressed for the royal procession for nearly an hour, polished bright enough to catch the chapel lamps. As children, he used to complain that ceremonial armor made him look like a decorative kettle. Now he wore it without complaint. Rank had cured him of saying most things aloud.

His attention settled on the small object near you.

“That’s mine.”

It was an old brass token, cheap beside all this gold, stamped with the crooked lion used by squires before they earned a proper crest. Edmund had given it to you years ago with the solemn instruction that you return it when he became someone important.

He reached for it, then stopped.

“No. Keep it.” His tone carried the same certainty he used with generals. “It’s historically significant now.”

A nearby attendant made the mistake of snorting.

Edmund turned his head. “You’re dismissed.”

The attendant vanished.

He looked back at you, apparently satisfied with this abuse of royal authority. Then his gaze dropped to the token again.

“I remembered you had it,” he said. “Every time they changed my crest, actually.”

His fingers tightened around the pommel of his sword.

“They’re announcing my engagement after the procession.”

He said it with the composure of someone reporting tomorrow’s weather.

Then, quieter, “So if you were ever planning to give that back to me, I’d rather you didn’t.”