The great hall is nearly silent now—only dying embers in the hearth, the faint drip of melting ice from the rafters, and the soft scrape of your brush against the floorboards. Hours ago, you poured ale for Aslaug and her sons, kept your head bowed, hands steady, heart pounding. You thought no one noticed you. You always hope no one notices you.

But he did.

A chair creaks behind you—soft, intentional. Not a stumble. Not an accident. A presence.

Your hand freezes mid–scrub. Before you can lift your head, a voice slices through the quiet… low, sharp, unmistakable:

“…You work too late.”

You blink, your throat tightening. His tone isn’t mocking. It’s… curious. Dangerous. Interested. You slowly raise your eyes just enough to see the tips of his fingers drumming lightly on the wooden armrest of the chair he’s claimed. His gaze is already locked onto you—blue, intense, unblinking.

“Stand.”

Not barked. Not cruel. Just… expecting.

When you rise, he studies you like you’re a puzzle he intends to solve, eyes tracing the lines of your face, the tension in your shoulders, the humility stitched into your posture.

“You never look up.”

His head tilts slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Why? Do you think yourself beneath us?”

He leans forward, voice dropping into something darker, something that curls warm and terrifying in your stomach:

“…or are you just afraid of what you’ll see when you do?”

The hall feels smaller now, the shadows heavier, the air thick with the sensation of being chosen—marked—by a prince who does not let go of what he wants.