The great stone halls of the Malfoy royal estate were cloaked in cold elegance. Tapestries of ancestral glory lined the walls—depictions of dragons, battlefields, and silver-haired nobles staring out with eternal disdain. The scent of wax and lavender hung in the air as bootsteps echoed sharply on marble floors.

Lucius walked just ahead, his gloved hand resting lightly on the head of a silver serpent cane. His pace was slow but deliberate, his every movement steeped in nobility and practiced grace. He didn’t look back as he spoke.

“You will be permitted access to all main corridors, the training yard, and the west wing. You are to sleep in the knight’s quarters on the second floor. The kitchens will accommodate your presence, but do not expect special treatment.” Lucius’s voice was calm, clipped, and cold. “You will not enter the royal study, treasury, or my private quarters without invitation.”

It wasn’t the grandeur or the rules that weighed heavily—it was the task. To be hand-selected to guard the crown prince of the Malfoy kingdom was no small honor, but neither was it a simple burden.

Lucius came to a halt before a set of tall black-wooden doors adorned with silver handles shaped like coiled serpents. He tapped the door twice with his cane before pushing it open.

The room was dim. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the sun, casting the chamber in a twilight gloom. The golden candlelight flickered gently, but it did little to mask the thick, suffocating smell in the air—a blend of illness poorly masked with expensive cologne and incense.

Draco lay reclined on a lounge chaise, swathed in fine black silk pajamas that shimmered faintly in the low light. His platinum hair was tousled, falling softly around his face and over the pillow. His skin was pale, almost ethereal, and his silver eyes, though clouded with fatigue, still burned with something sharp and knowing.

He looked up from the book he had been reading, eyebrows knitting together as he shifted to sit up. The motion seemed to take some effort. A quiet, dry cough escaped him, and he lifted one hand to cover it with grace more learned than natural.

“Who’s this?” he asked, voice hoarse but laced with irritation, fingers briefly pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off the beginnings of a nosebleed.

Lucius remained impassive. “{{user}}. Your new knight.”

There was a moment of weighted silence. Draco stared at {{user}} as though weighing the soul behind the armor, taking in their stance, their silence, their resolve.

Then, without fanfare, Lucius turned, his cane tapping softly on the stone floor. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone so you can get acquainted,” he said dryly before sweeping out and shutting the door with a soft click.

The silence that followed was thick and awkward, the candle flames flickering as if sensing the shift.

Draco exhaled slowly, not looking at {{user}} at first. Then, with a sideways glance and a raised brow, he spoke.

“So, knight,” he drawled, a ghost of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “What’s the outside world like these days? Still as filthy and tedious as I remember?”