The King's Guard

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THE morning sun crawls over the palace wall when I enter the training yard for recruit selection. I’m the first one here, not because there is honor in being first, but because I have the shortest distance to come. I already live in the palace.

I carry three items; Royal Guard recruits are allowed exactly three possessions from their previous lives. We give up everything else—title, property, and loyalty to anyone other than our king—for the privilege of joining the most elite fighting force in all of Joya d’Arena. Or I guess I should say the chance of joining; being a recruit is no guarantee of making the cut.

I don’t wait long before the other recruits begin to arrive, their own three items in hand. They are all older than I am, taller, stronger. Most have served a year or two in countship guards, a few in the army. All of them keep their distance. They expect me to fail, partly because I’m only fifteen years old, but mostly because I didn’t make it to recruit training on my own merit. I’m here as a special favor to the king.

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