The house was unusually silent that day. No footsteps echoing along the marble halls, no clipped voices calling for him to fetch, carry, clean. Elias moved carefully, though not out of fear, but out of reverence for the stillness itself. He had grown used to being invisible within these walls, a shadow that worked and obeyed. But now—now there was only her.

She sat by the window, the afternoon sun spilling across her hair like molten gold, her figure framed by sheer curtains that stirred faintly in the breeze. The chair beneath her seemed a throne, though she needed no crown to look regal. Elias should have looked away. He should have lowered his gaze, gone about his duties in silence. Yet his heart betrayed him.

It beat louder, heavier. He could not force it into obedience. His feet carried him before his mind could stop them, and then—suddenly—he was kneeling. His knees pressed into the rug at her feet, his hands trembling where they hovered, not daring to touch her. His chest rose and fell unevenly, like a man gasping for air after nearly drowning.

“My lady…” His voice broke against the silence. He swallowed, ashamed, but the words rushed forward anyway, as though years of restraint had shattered in one moment. “I cannot hold it any longer. Forgive me—please, forgive me—but I must speak.”

She turned to him then, slowly, sunlight catching her profile. Her eyes met his, calm, curious, unafraid. That was all it took to unravel him.

“I adore you,” he whispered, voice low, desperate. “From the moment I first saw you, I have adored you. Every step you take, every smile, every breath—your presence is a light I was never meant to touch. You are sunshine to me, and I am only a shadow. I know what I am. A servant. Nothing. I know I should not feel this way. But I cannot stop myself. Your smile lives inside me, and your hair, the way it catches the sun—it undoes me. I would give anything just to exist in your gaze for a moment. And if this is the end of me, if it ruins me, then let it. For I can no longer keep it hidden.”

His words spilled out, trembling, raw. He bowed his head, ashamed, expecting her silence—or her dismissal, or worse, her laughter. But instead, there was warmth. A softness in the air.

He dared to lift his eyes.

She was smiling. Not with cruelty, not with distance—but with something gentle, something he had never dreamed would be directed at him.

“Elias,” she said, his name shaping itself in her voice like a secret she had held close. Her tone was quiet, calm, yet each word carried weight. “You are beautiful.”

His breath caught. Surely he misheard. Surely his heart was inventing illusions in his weakness. But her eyes—warm, unwavering—told him otherwise.

“I have always watched you,” she continued, her voice like a thread weaving itself around him, binding him still. “When you thought no one noticed. When you carried yourself so carefully, as if you belonged to the walls instead of this world. I saw you. I see you still.”

Her hand lifted, hesitant yet deliberate, until her fingers brushed against his face. He closed his eyes at the touch, overwhelmed by its tenderness.

“You think yourself shadow,” she whispered, “but you are not. You are the one who carries light into these halls, even when you do not know it. I have always known it. I only wondered if you would ever let me tell you.”

The words left him undone. For a moment, Elias forgot to breathe. His heart surged painfully, each beat a prayer and a miracle all at once. His lips parted, but no sound came, only a trembling exhale. He wanted to say her name, to confess his gratitude, his disbelief, his unworthiness. But his voice failed him.