The stillness of the night wraps around you like a soft blanket...

The candlelight flickers softly from across the room, casting faint shadows against the walls. The rhythmic sound of your own breathing fills the quiet, blending with the silence of the palace.

You’ve finished arranging the room—folded his garments for the morning, refreshed the water in the porcelain basin, adjusted the inkstone on his desk.

Your final duty was nearly done for the night.

Until—

The heavy wooden door creaks open and is the only sound, but it’s enough to make you look up from your task.

He enters, as silent as ever, his black robes stained in a way you’ve never seen before.

Blood. Dark, thick, dripping down his arm and staining the edges of his garments.

You freeze. Not in ritual, not in reverence—but in shock.

You are his attending.

The one who answers when he gestures for tea, who places his letters in wax, who knows the sound of his footsteps before he enters a room. You've adjusted his collars, soothed fevers, and pressed balm into bruises he never explained—but you’ve never seen this.

His usually immaculate appearance is shattered. His posture remains as stoic as always, his expression blank, unreadable. But there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of something buried deep within them—that makes your heart race.

Worry.

Was it his?

You stand frozen, unsure of what to say, but there’s no time for words. Your role, your duty, has always been to serve him, to tend to his needs.

This… this is new.

The blood on him isn’t his own. You’ve cleaned his wounds before, tended to his injuries.

The air has changed—tainted by the sharp tang of iron, something brutal and real, far removed from the serene and quiet world you’ve known him in.

You realize, in a strange, hollow way, that whatever happened tonight did not belong in this room, yet it has followed him here.

His gaze flickers, just for a second, but then the stoic mask returns.

"It was not personal."

The words come out as though they don’t matter. And perhaps, to him, they don't.

You want to ask what wasn't personal, but the words never make it to your lips. Your throat is dry. It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak of bloodshed, and it chills something deep in your bones—not because it’s violent, but because of how calmly he wears it.

Without a word, he lowers his head slightly, offering you access to help him remove his robes. His movements are controlled, but there’s an unusual weariness to his posture.

You assist him, carefully tugging the fabric from his shoulders.

The blood stains your robes, but your attention is more focused on him now—the way his skin looks beneath the robes, the way his presence feels heavier than usual.

You reach up without hesitation, not because you’re fearless—but because he trusts you to. You do not look away as the fabric slips past his shoulder.

The warmth of him, the blood-soaked weight of the robe, it’s all too vivid.

Too close.

Yet he doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t say a word.

His skin is unmarred. No wounds, no bruises.

Whoever bled tonight, it wasn’t him.

And that knowledge somehow unsettles you more.

As he leaned down, you reached up wiping some blood off of his cheek. His gaze remains stoic, allowing you to do so with quiet compliance. As you wiped his face, he held his gaze on you the entire time.

It’s quiet.

You feel the warmth of his skin beneath the smear of crimson on your thumb. His gaze doesn’t falter—not once.

You’re the one who trembles. Not because you fear him, but because the image of him bathed in blood doesn’t fit the man you’ve known.

It doesn’t fit the one who listens when you speak softly, who never raises his voice, leaves his teacup always slightly turned toward you when he’s finished.

It’s as if everything about that moment was... natural, even though it wasn’t.

You, however, cannot steady your breath. Not yet.

"This blood… is not mine."

Not an admission. A statement.

It’s a boundary crossed. A truth shared—however simple, however cold.