Perfect etiquette. Thronebearers were known for it. In his short sojourn here, Dalimont knew almost every servant’s name. His posture, even with a crutch, was straight-backed. Even his Skill, [Aerial Viewpoint], was designed to let him watch how he stood and look better.

Oh, and to check for [Assassins]. Dalimont took the stairs up the keep slowly, painfully, resting twice, before he found the [Princess]’ room.

“Your Highness? May I do anything for you?”

Dalimont heard a suppressed sigh.

“No, Dalimont. Please, leave me.”

He bowed again, but didn’t hobble off just yet. Dalimont swept the corridor, taking twenty minutes to check everything.

Not that he expected to find…what, a hidden [Spy] with a blowdart now? But it was the kind of thing he was trained for. Dalimont could, in fact, spot poisoned threads hanging from the ceiling, find secret passages, and even, if the worst came to the worst, attempt to apply antidotes.

He was a good pick for a [Messenger] if no one with that exact class were available because he knew enough of the court-customs of over twelve kingdoms to stroll in and make a good show of himself.

Dalimont could tell you which fork to use at any dinner in the world and when to use your hands.

None of it was useful here. Dalimont finished his sweep and headed downstairs. He’d stare at Seraphel’s window; if he were able-bodied, he’d climb up when no one was looking and do a minute check, but that wasn’t important. He was sure there was no killer here—aside from the army camped outside the walls.

In the keep, Dalimont slowly circled the walls and sighed.

The [Princess] is secure. He would appraise her safety at about…two. Out of ten. In that if he had to list the issues with the crumbling keep he could write an essay, from unsecured windows to the lack of magical wards, proper bodyguards, a good vantage spot from one of those hills to place a six hundred foot shot through the windows, and so on…but safe enough.

There was even a hole in the curtain wall around the keep, not just the gates. Dalimont stared at it, behind one of the hedges. Someone should have really patched it up, but again—it wasn’t [Assassins]

coming for her, but undead.

The Thronebearer stood there, then painfully transferred all the weight onto the crutch. He reached for his side, looked around, and then drew his sword. Dalimont took a breath—then began to swing it, one-armed.

“One, two, three, four…”