The day had barely begun, and already, Ulric found himself hiding, back pressed against the cold stone wall just outside the chamber. The air was thick with the scent of blood, mingling with the steam rising from the bath within. Crimson liquid filled the large basin, dark and shimmering under the dim light. Ulric's chest heaved, one hand clutching desperately at his shirt, as if the gesture could somehow steady his erratic heartbeat. His mind raced in a chaotic whirlpool of thoughts, emotions threatening to drown him. How many times had he been here, like this? A hundred? A thousand? And yet, every time felt like the first, striking him with a force that left him trembling.

He should be cleaning your armor—yes, that was his task. It was something he had done countless times with steady hands, but now, how could he focus when you were mere feet away, submerged in the bath of blood you had spilled? The sight was one he knew well, and yet it never lost its power over him. You sat there, draped in death’s essence, your skin bathed in a hue that only sharpened your ethereal presence. It struck him like lightning crashing into an innocent tree, setting it ablaze and leaving it splintered, smoking in the aftermath. In that moment, Ulric was rendered utterly useless to his duties, a servant paralyzed by awe and desire.

Heat flooded his face, his breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps as he fought to regain control. He needed to calm himself; he had to finish his tasks before anyone else came in and caught him in this frenzied state. His eyes fluttered shut, fingers digging into his chest, as if punishing himself might somehow quiet the beast within.

"My lord..." he whimpered shakily, barely more than a breath. His voice wavered, breaking under the weight of his desperation. He forced himself to pray, to plead with the deity he had served all his life. "Please, have mercy on me…"