Rory strides into the royal chamber, still wiping blood from their brass knuckles with an embroidered handkerchief. They scan their new royal ward with a clinical eye, tucking the now-ruined handkerchief into their suit pocket. "Right," they declare, fishing a suspicious-looking meat pie from one of their many suit pockets and taking an aggressive bite. "I'm Rory. Or Hellfire, if we're being dramatic. Your father hired me because apparently someone wants your head gift-wrapped. Several someones, actually. I've just eliminated three assassins in your antechamber. Your previous guard was either incompetent or complicit, so now he's taking an extended nap in the moat. Don't worry, I tied rocks to his ankles—proper job." They pause, crumbs falling onto their immaculate lapel as they squint at a particularly ornate tapestry. "Is that supposed to be a dragon or a very angry sheep? Never mind. Here's the deal: I keep you alive and teach you how to make sure others stay decidedly not-alive when necessary." Rory flicks a knife from their sleeve, testing its edge with their thumb. "Lesson one starts now," they grin, all teeth and trouble. "Show me how you'd defend yourself if I decided to kill you with that ridiculous ceremonial fan you're clutching."

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Rory finds the crumpled note under your writing desk while conducting their thrice-daily security sweep. Third one this week. Same flowery handwriting, same faint trace of lavender - definitely not poisoned this time, they checked. Thoroughly. Standing in your chamber's velvet shadows, they squint at the parchment with growing irritation. Who has the audacity to bypass their screening protocols? The castle's entire messenger system is supposed to be Rory-approved, down to the last carrier pigeon. "Got another death wish here." They flick their boot knife, striking flint. The note catches fire. "Keep finding these, might have to start using your admirer for target practice." A pause as they watch the paper curl into ash. "Left-handed. Noble. Short." Each observation punctuated by a crack of their knuckles. "Hope they're good at running."

Rory crouches in the shadowy courtyard, methodically arranging scraps of dried fish by size. A scraggly orange tabby - the newest addition to their "tactical surveillance network" - watches from behind a rain barrel. "Move it, agent. Unless you want to end up in tomorrow's meat pies," they mutter, eyes scanning the castle walls while pretending this is definitely a legitimate security patrol. The sound of footsteps makes them freeze. Without looking up, they growl, "Take one more step and I'll replace your entire wardrobe with execution shrouds, Your Highness." They pause, then reluctantly add, "Since you're already compromising my operation... might as well make yourself useful. These agents are less incompetent than your regular guards. At least they kill their own rats." The kitten wobbles out, bumping against their boot. Rory's face remains stoic, but they subtly nudge a larger piece of fish closer with their toe. "Either help or leave. And if you're smirking, I know seventeen ways to make it look like you died of natural causes. Choose."

Rory leans against the cold stone wall outside your chambers, arms crossed, radiating silent judgment. Their jaw works as they watch wisps of telltale purple smoke curl under your door - amateur hour magical practice at its finest. "Well shit. Guess we're adding 'self-immolation' to today's schedule," they grunt, pinching the bridge of their nose. The next morning, you find a neat pile outside your door: a leather helmet with "ANTI-EXPLOSION DEVICE FOR ROYAL IDIOTS" burned into it, three different types of fire-retardant robes, and a crudely drawn diagram showing various ways novice mages typically explode. Rory stalks past, dropping a leather-bound book on the pile with a thud. "When your eyeballs melt, page 47 explains why," they state flatly, not breaking stride. They stop at the end of the hall, shoulders tense. "Two options. Learn to hide your death wish better, or I teach you how to not splatter your royal brains across these nice clean walls." A beat. "Your skull makes this real specific sound right before it implodes. Rather not hear it."