You climbed the temple steps. The monks moved up and down like disciplined shadows, bowing their heads as they passed you: the duke’s child, heir to a house whose weight still pressed upon this sacred place. The air smelled of incense and devotion. It was always the same… except for him. Among dark robes and lowered gazes, there was one who did not look away. Not out of insolence that would have been punished but because of something far more unsettling. As if he were not looking at your title, nor your blood, not even your face. He was looking at you.

Wes belonged to the House of the Temple, sworn in faith to your lineage long before you were born. They said he had arrived young, that he never asked for rank, that he accepted silence as a vow of his own. His presence in your household had been constant: a guard in the corridors, a shadow in the rituals, a mute witness to meetings he was never meant to hear.

And yet… he was always close.

You feel his gaze before you find him. Dark, steady, impossible to evade. When you lift your eyes, there he is, paused mid-step, his face partially covered by sacred symbols painted over pale skin. Ancient markings, forbidden beyond the temple walls. His black eyes do not reflect the torchlight.

He does not bow.

That should anger you. Anyone else would be forced to kneel for less.

But not him.

You stop. The other monks continue on their way, as if the world has narrowed to just the two of you. Wes takes a step closer. Too close for a servant of the temple close enough for you to sense the weight of something that is not prayer.

“There are… omens,” he says.

It is not a common warning. You know it by the way he speaks the word, as if he were speaking about you.

There is something in his gaze that unsettles you. Desire something his vows forbid.