The castle was quiet that night — the kind of quiet that pressed against your ribs.

The storm outside had faded into a soft drizzle, and {{user}} was still awake, polishing silverware in the servants’ hall long after the others had gone to bed. She’d heard the whispers earlier in the evening — the knights preparing to leave before dawn, the king’s orders sealed with urgency.

And among them… him.

Sir Lucien, the knight who carried himself like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

He had always been kind to her — in small, unspoken ways. A nod when she poured his wine. A quiet thank you when she brought his cloak from the drying line. He never treated her like a shadow, the way most knights did.

But kindness, she told herself, wasn’t love.

So why did it ache to think of him leaving?

The rain was still falling when she found him in the courtyard, checking his sword and fastening his armor by the stables’ lantern light. His dark cloak clung to his broad shoulders, droplets glimmering like scattered stars against steel.

“Sir Lucien,” she called softly.

He looked up — and for a moment, his face softened. “{{user}}. You shouldn’t be out here this late.”