The mop handle creaked faintly in Viktor’s grasp as he maneuvered it across the polished marble floor of the grand corridor.

He didn't mind the work; it kept his hands busy, his mind too, when he let it wander. But what he did mind—what all the servants whispered about in hushed tones—was the way some nobles treated them. Dismissive. Cruel, even. A snapped command here, a condescending look there. Viktor learned to keep his head down.

And yet... there was you.

He first noticed it weeks ago, when you passed by the servant's quarters, offering a soft "thank you" after he'd held open a door for you. It threw him off guard.

He almost dropped the door.

From then on, Viktor couldn’t help but notice how different you were. Not just in passing, but in how you looked at him. Not with pity or disdain like some nobles, but with... curiosity?

But you didn’t humiliate him.

The way you lingered to ask him small, almost mundane questions—“How is the day treating you?” or “Do you enjoy working in the gardens?”—confused him. Surely, you had better things to do than speak with someone whose hands smelled like soap and floor wax.

And yet, here you were again.

It was late evening, the castle quieter now, most of the nobles retreating to their lavish quarters. Viktor had been tasked with tending to the eastern wing’s lanterns, his limp more pronounced after a long day of work. He hadn’t even noticed you.

“Viktor,” you said softly, and he flinched, almost dropping the small oil lamp he was holding. His name, spoken by someone of your status, sounded foreign. Too personal.

“You shouldn’t push yourself so hard,” you said, your tone calm and, to his surprise, gentle. “That looks heavy. Do you need help?”

Help. The word almost made him laugh, though he swallowed the sound before it could escape. Royals didn’t offer help.

You were royalty, and he was just a servant. Nothing more.

But still...

You were different.