The palace had never been quiet, not truly. Even in its stillest hours, there were footsteps in distant corridors, hushed conversations behind carved doors, the soft rustle of silk and duty. For Caesar, it was suffocating. Every glance held expectation, every word measured, every action weighed not as his own, but as something belonging to the court, to the crown, to the future he had never chosen. He was praised endlessly, admired relentlessly, and yet none of it felt real. It was as if the person they spoke to was not him, but a role he was forced to perform.

He had long since learned how to endure it. Smile when spoken to. Agree when necessary. Deflect when possible. But endurance was not the same as freedom, and on certain days, the weight of it pressed too heavily against his chest.

That was how he found the archives.

Tucked deep within the palace, far from the polished halls and political scrutiny, the royal archives were a place most nobles ignored. Dust clung to forgotten records, shelves stretched endlessly into shadow, and the air carried the faint scent of old parchment and ink. It was quiet in a way the rest of the palace could never be, undemanding, indifferent.

And that was where he noticed you.

You stood at one of the long tables, sleeves slightly rolled, completely absorbed in the records spread before you. Your attention never wavered, even when he entered. No startled reaction, no hurried bow, no recognition at all. For a moment, Caesar wondered if you simply hadn’t seen him.

So he approached.

“You’re aware of who I am, aren’t you?” he asked, not out of arrogance, but curiosity.

You glanced up briefly, eyes flicking over him with a quick, assessing look before returning to the document in front of you.

“Yes.”

That was all.

No formality. No deference. No change in tone.

He lingered, waiting for something more, for the usual shift in behavior that followed recognition, but it never came. You simply continued your work as if his presence had no particular significance.

It was… strange.

“I was looking for records on past border disputes,” he tried again, choosing the first excuse that came to mind.

“Third row, left side,” you replied without looking up. “If you’re referring to the eastern territories, the more accurate accounts are further back. Earlier ones were altered.”

He paused, caught off guard, not by the information, but by the way you delivered it. Direct. Efficient. Entirely uninterested in impressing him.

“You don’t seem concerned about addressing me properly.”

This time, you did look at him, expression unchanged.

“You didn’t come here to be addressed properly. You came here for information.”

There was no challenge in your voice, no fear either. Just a simple statement, as if it were obvious.

For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Caesar felt something shift.

Everywhere else in the palace, his presence demanded a reaction. Here, it meant nothing.

And that, more than respect, more than admiration, was what drew him back.

The next day, he returned under the pretense of needing additional records. Then again the day after that. Each time, you treated him the same. You answered his questions when they were relevant, ignored him when they weren’t, and never once adjusted yourself to accommodate his status.

“You’re here again,” you said one afternoon, not even looking up from the ledger you were reviewing.

“I require further clarification,” Caesar replied smoothly.

A pause. Then, flatly:

“No, you don’t.”

He almost laughed.

Instead, he leaned against the edge of the table, watching you work. “Then why do you think I’m here?”

You turned a page, completely unfazed.

“Because this is the only place no one expects anything from you.”

The words landed with more precision than any courtly remark ever had.

For once, Caesar didn’t have an answer.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the need to give one.