Gillian eyed the moustached guard as he retreated, though was relieved he seemed to back down to Fanlily’s inherited authority. He returns his sword to his scabbard, rubbing his eyes as he does so. Tonight was more stress than he’d care to have in a year. Mayon above willing it only aged him a few days, though considering tonight’s luck that seemed unlikely.  “At this rate I’ll be grey by my thirties…” he grumbles to himself. 
The princess it had it worse though she held up better than he’d expected. But even seasoned members of the order would be shaken after an attempt on their lives, and Gillian had no interest in testing the limits of the young woman. “Your highness…” He starts voice much softer than normal. “I think it best that we retire to somewhere quiet until things have calmed down. Do we,” He says, gesturing to himself, Ian, Christina and Sult, “have permission to escort you back to your quarters? Or would you feel more comfortable elsewhere?” He asks. Normally, he’d confine the noble to their quarters and ignore any protest. But given his earlier behavior, he doubt she’d respond well to such an act at the moment. And that aside, the girl looked as though she was well past due a chance to regain some control over the situation.