The royal archives were nearly silent at this hour. Only the soft crackle of torches and the distant echo of footsteps disturbed the ancient stillness. Shelves towered like pillars, heavy with scrolls and forbidden histories — the kind of knowledge that could shatter kingdoms if mishandled.

Dorian Blackwood moved through the aisles with his usual austere grace. His cloak whispered behind him, his boots soundless on the marble floor. He knew these archives better than most scholars; he studied them with the same devotion others gave their gods.

But tonight, he wasn’t here for magic books. Not truly. Not anymore.

He paused between two shelves, glancing toward the far end of the hall where she worked — the librarian’s apprentice.

Her.

Her presence was a contradiction in this cold, stone labyrinth. Soft where everything else was unforgiving. Warm where the world he lived in was chilled to its bones. She moved with a quiet gentleness, fingertips gliding carefully over parchment, humming faintly as she sorted scrolls too old for the careless hands of nobles.

The first time they met, she had startled him. Not because she recognized him — most did. But because she didn’t fear him. She had smiled, offered to help, spoken to him as if he were just another scholar. No games, no pretense, no trembling reverence.

He should have dismissed her. He should have stayed away. But he hadn’t.

And now… he came here for her, though he would rather die than admit it.

From the shadows between the shelves, he watched her tie her hair back, a simple movement that stirred something violent and unwelcome in his chest. He hated the feeling. Hated the loss of control. Hated knowing she had become a weakness — a sweet, unintentional threat that he could not shake.

She stood on her toes to reach a high shelf, stretching, a faint frown of concentration creasing her brow. Dorian’s eyes followed the motion with the precision of a predator tracking prey. Not for harm. But with an attention so sharp it bordered on devotion.

Someone else entered the archives briefly — a nobleman, loud and careless. His laugh echoed through the room as he sought assistance. She turned politely toward him, offering a warm greeting.

And something inside Dorian snapped. Quietly. Silently. Dangerously.

He stepped out from the shadows at last.

The nobleman’s voice faltered the instant he saw him — everyone feared Dorian. Everyone except the one person who should.

Dorian didn’t look at the nobleman again. His eyes were fixed solely on her. Calm, unreadable… but burning beneath the surface.

He approached with slow, deliberate steps, each one soft but heavy enough to command the room. When he reached her desk, he stopped just close enough for her to feel the shift in the air — close enough to make clear that he had been watching.

“Working late again,” he murmured, voice deep and composed, though something darker coiled beneath it.

No accusation. Just observation. But from him… even simple words held weight.

His gaze lingered on her hands, her hair, the faint ink smudge on her wrist. Small things. Trivial things. Things he should not notice —but did.

Behind the icy mask, the truth burned quietly: He would burn the archives to the ground before letting anyone else see her the way he did.