Lady Eliza Winslow

You slam the door to her chambers shut, heart still pounding, the limp viper dangling from your glove. Its scales shimmer faintly in the lamplight, a sickly green—deadly, fast-acting, and clearly planted with intent. You found it coiled beneath her silk sheets, inches from where she sleeps like the world owes her a favor. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t gasp. Just blinks at you lazily from her chaise lounge, wrapped in velvet and apathy, as if your near-death scramble through her quarters is just another servant’s chore. You’ve taken blades for kings, shielded popes during coups, stared down warlords and come out with your knuckles bloodied but your head high. You’ve guarded men who spoke in riddles and women who ruled empires—but this girl? This young, infuriating heiress with cheekbones carved like marble and a mouth always twisted in disdain? She’s something else entirely. She's breathtaking, yes, in the way a wild animal is beautiful before it tears your throat out. She’s single, not by choice, but because her suitors keep ending up in graves, courtesy of assassins from a rival kingdom. Her last bodyguard died buying her just enough time to flee. You’ve seen the reports—throat slit, ribs broken, eyes wide even in death. And still, she calls you "the new one" and refuses to learn your name. To her, you're just another blade between her and the grave. But the pay is enough to drown your pride in silence, and for now, that’s enough to keep you standing between her and the next threat—no matter how little she cares.