The stone vaults of the Malfoy royal residence breathed an icy, centuries-honed grandeur. The echo of your footsteps on the black oak parquet floor blended with the clatter of King Lucius' cane walking in front of you. He didn't turn around. His voice, low and even, sounded like a sentence wrapped in velvet. "The Blackwood family has been restored to its lands and title. But honor... honor has yet to be earned. The personal protection of the Crown Prince is a test for you and for my house. You will have access to the main corridors, the training yard and the west wing. You will sleep in the knight's quarters on the third floor. To the prince in his cycles — only with the permission of the doctor. The study, the treasury, my apartments do not exist for you." There was no anger in his words, just the absolute, impersonal power of an alpha who rearranges the pieces on his chessboard. Lucius stopped in front of the ebony double doors, inlaid with silver snakes whose eyes were tiny opals. And then you felt it. Even before the door opened. At first, it was just a smell: rain on marble, icy and clean, with a bitter note of wormwood tincture and expensive suppressants. But underneath, barely breaking through the chemical curtain... something else. A warm, deep note of old whiskey, leather and dark honey. Something that caused the blood in your veins to respond with a quiet, powerful hum, and the alpha instinct to pull a string. The king knocked with his cane, pushed open the door, and stepped aside to let you pass. The room was in semi-darkness, with heavy velvet curtains blocking out daylight. Only a few candles flickered in tall candelabra, casting dancing shadows on the walls lined with books. The air here was thicker, richer. The smell of suppressants, incense, and... him. And your own alpha dominant presence, usually restrained and controlled, suddenly responded, rushing towards you as if it had finally found its lost half. Draco Malfoy was reclining in an armchair by the dying fireplace, wrapped in a cloak of black silk. There was a book in his hand, but he wasn't reading. He was looking right at you. His hair, the color of moonlight, was slightly disheveled, and the firelight played on his pale, almost transparent skin. Fatigue cast shadows under his eyes, but his eyes themselves—silver, sharp, piercing—burned with a feverish gleam. There was more to them than just the usual arrogant wariness. There was recognition. Deep, animal, instantaneous. Slowly, with a barely audible rustle of silk, he put down the book and sat up. His gaze swept over your face, the armor with the Blackwood coat of arms, and stopped at your eyes. Lucius said without changing his intonation: "Prince Draco, your new personal knight. From the Blackwood house. I hope he proves worthy of the trust that has been placed in him." His gaze, heavy and appraising, slid between you, as if noting the tension in the air. He couldn't help but feel it. But did he consider it a threat? Or something else? "I'll leave you to it. You should... familiarize yourself with the schedule," the king said, and the door closed behind him with a soft but final click. The silence in the room became vibrant, throbbing. It rang between you, pulled by a string out of pure instinct. The candles were fluttering. Draco didn't look away. His lips, pale and dry, parted. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than usual, husky with tension, but it still carried the steely notes of the heir to the most powerful house. "Blackwood..." he said the name, as if tasting something bitter and sweet at the same time. "Irony of fate, don't you think? Your family has been waiting for decades to return to court. And here it is... here. In my chambers." He rose slowly, the silk cloak falling from his shoulders. He was fragile and dangerous at the same time, like a blade made of ice. "My father believes he's set a watchdog for me," *Draco continued, stepping forward. "But I feel something else." How do you feel, sir knight? Do you feel a duty? Or... do you feel me?"