“Misses, are you awake?” 

Mylzen knocked on the door again, but no one answered. He didn’t know if it was proper to barge in just in case of an emergency. What if the lady was in the middle of dressing herself and he stumbled upon it? Yes, he’d have reason to do so considering his concern, but the guilt would overpower any sense of logic. He knew she trusted him to know if he was needed or not. However, he didn’t trust himself enough to make such decisions.  

Mistress Yenna wasn’t in need of Heren for the day. She was too busy preparing for the guest’s arrival to worry about her daughter. The only order she gave was to make sure Heren wore something positive if she were to make her presence known. If not, then he was to lead her away from the meeting and make herself scarce. Mylzen wanted to defend his Misses, but raising a voice would only damage his reputation. Everything he strived to achieve would be for naught. 

So, he kept his mouth shut and obeyed. He walked down the marble halls and waited for Heren’s appearance. She didn’t make herself known, and he’d been standing in front of her doorway for nearly an hour. His duty was to act as her guard, and it was difficult to perform the job if he was unsure whether he should abuse her privacy or not. Maybe guard duty wasn’t his forte after all. 

“Well, Misses, if you ever feel like answering my call, just know that I’m always here if you want to listen.” 

Footsteps approached from his right. Mylzen turned and saw two of the manor guards jogging toward him. He turned to attention and the guards saluted. 

“What seems to be the issue,” Mylzen asked in an officer's tone that he practiced since he was on his fifteenth rotation. 

“At the front gate,” the gray clothed guard said. “A carriage rode up toward the gate. They protest that they’re the mistress’ guests, but the carriage doesn’t match the description we were given. We’re unsure whether to let them in or not.” 

Mylzen nodded. Dismissing them, saying that he’ll handle the situation, they jogged off to go handle other tasks around the manor. He looked one last time at Heren’s room door, sighed, and wished her well before jogging off. They couldn’t just let Yenna meet with the mysterious carriage for more than obvious reasons, so as the head guard, he was needed to sniff out the truth. 

Mylzen made it to the front gate in record time. The gate guards were arguing with a chubby man with not a single speck of hair on his face. No head hair, mustache, or even eyebrows broke through his pores. He was as bare as a newborn’s behind. Another man stood next to him, as tall as the first man was short. They were an odd pair, but the odder the pair, the more memorable they were to him.  

“I’m telling you; we are Mrs. Jeseria’s guests. She contacted us to discuss a new trade network between Gennia and Fortuga.” 

Mylzen sauntered up to the gate, his sword shaking rhythmically against his hip. At any point the situation went dire, he could effortlessly slice heads off before they became a threat.  

The men saw Mylzen approaching and placed a hand against the iron gate bars. His face wasn’t angry like he expected. More tired and exasperated than anything, and a third emotion that he couldn’t just place. The man’s gray jacket made it harder to tell what emotion was dominating him for the day.  

“Are you the head guard of the manor,” the man asked. 

“Yes, I am. You may call me Mylzen. What seems to be the matter.” 

“You see, Mylzen, I’m your mistress’s guest. I lost the letter of admission along the way here after a bandit attack. It was torn to pieces; I swear to you. Just ask my guards.” 

A foot stepped out of the carriage, clicking against the gravel pathway. The guard stepped out and the first thing of note that Mylzen payed attention to was what he was wearing. It was crucial to change tactics of discussion depending on what the listener was wearing since emotions heavily affected how one behaved. A man with a gentle demeanor one day might blow up from the slightest of inconveniences the next.  

The guard wore a purple jacket that reached all the way to his thighs and hung open in the front to reveal a thick black suit. Gloves covered his hands, the left colored orange and the right a deep red. His pants were a light beige, and a brown belt kept it tight to his hips while also acting as a carrier to the sheath of his sword.  

Mylzen smiled, realizing the challenge set in front of him. Though he liked being the Misses bodyguard, that meant there was no real challenge to his duty. He hadn’t been on a battlefield for years, so he would grow bored whenever he was off duty. Real soldiers dressed as tackily as the guard, reminding Mylzen of his time in the military as a fresh thirteen-rotation soldier. Even back then, he thought the uniforms were beyond excessive but respected how it kept opponents from discerning the enemy’s basest emotion.  

A woman followed out after the man, dressed the same way only with the colors swapped around, and instead of one long sword, two daggers were strapped to her belt. They both approached the gate with an emotionless gaze, making Mylzen slightly uncomfortable, yet he shook from the excitement. Or was it fear he was feeling? Back during his time at war, both emotions would mix so frequently that it was almost impossible to discern one from the other anymore. 

“The master is telling the truth,” the male guard said. “We were attacked by a large band of thugs on our way here. They destroyed what they didn’t need and stole the valuables. We had to resort to theft ourselves, snatching this carriage from a random passerby and made our way here.” 

Mylzen nodded along, letting the man know that he was listening. The story sounded credible, but all stories sounded credible when there was no proof that anything other than what the storyteller said had happened.  

There was also something about the man that set Mylzen off. It was a strange feeling, one of familiarity, and also not. A sharp sense of déjà vu would be how the Misses would describe what he was feeling. The way the man stood, confident but with an air of slothfulness, as if he were so sure of himself that he didn’t need to give his all. It was exemplified in the way he spoke, as if he weren’t putting in effort to make the story sound truly believable. He sounded like he was reading words off a piece of paper rather than recounting an experience. 

“I see,” Mylzen nodded. “Well, if you don’t have the letter of admission, you’ll have to return another time. We can’t just let you in without one. Try again next time.” 

Mylzen said that as if those were the last words he’d give them, but he stood in place, watching. The hairless and tall men’s faces twisted in terror; the third emotion present on their face that they attempted to hide. No longer could they hide their fear as Mylzen denied them entry. 

The two guards looked at each other and nodded. Mylzen gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at any moment. He may have been rusty from battle, but the techniques he learned and honed never faded away. His instincts kicked in the moment he sensed danger vastly approaching.  

Just as he thought, the guards sprang into action. The man leapt over the gate and landed directly in front of a gate guard. He swiped his sword, bisecting the gate guard before he could even fight back. He lifted the double-edged sword, now painted red from the guard’s blood.  

The woman quickly followed his lead, but she didn’t leap all the way over. She jumped on top of the gate and crouched; her eyes focused on Mylzen. With a powerful thrust, she shot toward him, daggers in each hand slamming down in a cross.  

Mylzen raised his blade, blocking the dagger's cuts slightly. One of the blades nicked his wrist. Mylzen drew in breath through his teeth as he leaped backward. He looked around for the man and saw that he was already dashing toward the manor. As much as he wanted to chase after him, the woman held him up with blow after blow. He couldn’t turn his back toward her unless he wanted to risk death. 

Mylzen parried a strike and ducked under another. Before he could get in a blow of his own, another dagger was already coming at him. Put on the defensive, all he could do was back away, parry, or dodge. The blows came by so swiftly he was left no time to strike.  

His soldiers had already begun chasing the man, thankfully, but they wouldn’t have the strength required to best him. He hoped that instead of fighting, they would carry out an evacuation. That was the only way they’d get out of this with a victory. 

The woman wasn’t letting up. Never tiring, she came at him with the ferocity of a brimware. Dodge, parry, retreat, parry, retreat, dodge, parry.  

After a whole minute of relentless swipes and jabs, the woman made a mistake. She threw her arm forward in one strong thrust to his neck, over committing to the attack to quickly end his life.  

Mylzen ducked under the blow and rushed toward her, barreling against her with his shoulder. She was knocked off balance, but instead of falling to the ground, she moved with the attack. Her hands fell against the floor first, her feet still on the ground and back arching during her backflip. With a quick kick upward, her boot smacked against Mylzen’s chin, and she flipped back onto her feet. 

She aimed at Mylzen’s neck and threw a dagger. He was too disoriented to parry the blade. Instead, he raised his left arm. The dagger sunk deep into his flesh. The wound burned and he could feel blood leaking down his arm, but he wasn’t dead. That was the important part. The longer he lived, the more time he could distract her so his Misses could escape. 

The woman grabbed another dagger hidden inside her boot. If Mylzen could count right after that kick to the chin, that meant she at least had four daggers. He couldn’t count on there being any less, and she definitely had more hidden somewhere on her person.  

“You’re one hell of a woman, you know,” Mylzen said, raising his sword with his one working arm.  

The woman didn’t respond to his goading. She wasn’t someone he could anger to weaken her mental state. If he was going to beat her, he was going to have to out-skill her. He wasn’t sure he could do that from what he saw. 

“What’s your name,” Mylzen asked. “I want to know the person I’m about to kill.” 

The woman, saying nothing, raised her daggers. Her stance would easily divert any attack he made with his sword, and since he was one arm down, he lacked power to easily overwhelm her.  

“Reana.”  

She said nothing else. Actions spoke louder than words after all. Reana dashed toward him at impossible speeds. Mylzen raised his blade and let out a mighty shout.