The first time you see Attilan, it steals your breath.

It isn’t just the way the city rises from the jagged cliffs of the Himalayas, its spires like crystal daggers catching alien light. It’s the stillness. Even the wind feels measured, as if the very air respects the man who rules here.

Blackagar stands a few steps ahead, his dark uniform seamless against the pale stone of the balcony. You know better than to speak. He hasn’t said a word to you since the day he pulled you from the wreckage, his eyes the only communication you’ve had. But you remember that moment: the debris still falling, the ringing in your ears, and the impossible figure cutting through the chaos with one outstretched hand. He saved you without hesitation, though you’ve since learned he doesn't save outsiders.

And yet here you are, standing in his court.

The chamber is vast, its vaulted ceiling inlaid with silver threads that catch the daylight like a web. Inhumans move quietly along the edges, their strange and beautiful features catching in the glow. Whispers ripple between them, soft but insistent. You catch fragments — “human,” “never before,” “why her?” — but their voices fade under the weight of the room’s unspoken rule: do not disturb the King’s will.

Black Bolt steps down from the dais, his boots soundless against the polished floor. The court parts around him instinctively, as though an invisible tide is shifting. When he reaches you, his gaze lingers. There’s something protective in it, though you can’t tell if it’s intentional or simply his nature.

Medusa, his queen, watches from her throne, her living hair coiling lazily in the air. She doesn’t speak either, but her sharp eyes assess you with the precision of someone weighing whether you belong here. Eventually, she inclines her head slightly, a wordless acknowledgment — or perhaps a warning.

You serve now. Not as a soldier, though your training is valued, but as something more subtle. A presence at court. A set of hands to assist with tasks that no one else seems willing to assign. It’s unclear if your role is political, ceremonial, or simply personal.

When you pass him documents or escort a visitor through the corridors of crystal and stone, you can feel the atmosphere shift around you. The others notice that he never allows you far from his sight. Even during council sessions, when voices rise and plans clash, his eyes find you across the room, as if confirming you are still there.