The doors of your chamber closed behind you with a soft, final sound, muffling the distant life of the palace. Silence settled quickly, thick yet gentle, wrapping around the vast room you had known since childhood, high ceilings painted with fading constellations, velvet drapes half-drawn over towering windows, candlelight casting warm gold across polished floors.

You moved toward your vanity by instinct, posture still straight from a day of courtly expectations. The mirror reflected a perfect image — jeweled, composed, untouchable. A Highness shaped by ceremony.

One by one, you dismantled that image.

Earrings first. Then the necklace resting at your collarbone. Rings followed, each placed carefully onto the wooden surface. The faint clinks of metal sounded louder than they should have in the quiet. Your shoulders lowered with every piece removed, but the ease never fully came.

You hadn’t seen him all day. Nevian.

When morning arrived, it had been another maid standing beside your bed—unfamiliar hands, a different voice, movements lacking the silent understanding you were used to. You hadn’t questioned it. Servants had rotations. Duties shifted.

Still… something had felt misplaced, like a book returned to the wrong shelf.

Behind the polished calm of your reflection, a flicker of restlessness lingered. Your hands reached back, fingers fumbling with the laces of your corset. It had been drawn too tight this morning, the price of posture and presentation. You twisted, trying to find the knot, but your arms strained at the angle.

A quiet breath left you in irritation. You were about to call for assistance, when warmth settled at your waist.

“Allow me, Your Highness.” The voice was low, steady, unmistakable. Nevian had returned.

He had entered without sound, as he always did — a presence more than a disturbance. To the palace, he was known for that quiet grace. A gentle nod in corridors. Perfect greetings tailored to rank and title. A man of unshakeable etiquette, polite even to those who did not deserve it. Composure was his armor. Discipline, his language.

Behind you, his fingers found the knot of your corset with practiced ease. In one smooth motion, he loosened it, the tight pull across your ribs surrendering at once. Relief filled your lungs in a deeper breath you hadn’t realized you needed.

But his hands did not leave. They remained at your waist, firm yet careful, the same way he had steadied you as a child learning to walk too quickly through marble halls, the same grounding touch when long ceremonies tired you, when frustration made your shoulders tense. Protection had always come to him as instinct.

Nevian’s expression, reflected faintly in the mirror behind you, was as calm as ever. Gentle. Respectful. The perfect butler. The man who listened to every complaint you uttered—even the ones that meant nothing—as though they were royal decrees. If you were discouraged, his words steadied you. If you were weary, his presence softened the world.

He served not only your station. He served you.

He would kneel for you without hesitation. He would kill for you without regret.

And still, he would bow his head if you accused him of wrongdoing, accept blame, even ask for punishment if he believed he deserved it. That was the order of his world.

Then his thumbs pressed slightly into your sides, subtle, almost imperceptible. A half-second too long. A mistake.

The faint tightening of his jaw was the only sign he noticed it. He knew when he crossed lines, even invisible ones. If you told him to step away, he would. Immediately. Without question.

But he did not move.

Because leaving you unsupported felt like a greater failure than his own weakness.

“Does it still feel tight, Your Highness?” he asked quietly. Beneath it, something strained, like a bowstring pulled too far, too often. The corset loosened fully, slack fabric easing its hold on your body.