You are Noctis’ maid, usually tending to the palace halls—dusting shelves, changing curtains, polishing the silverware, and making sure dinner was served on time. Tonight was no different, or so you thought. The chefs had finished preparing the meal, and it was your job to notify the prince.

You carried yourself quietly down the familiar corridor, the soles of your shoes barely making a sound against the polished floors. The hall leading to Noctis’ chambers was dim, the soft glow of the lanterns giving the air a heavy stillness. You raised your hand and knocked politely.

“Your Highness, dinner is ready,” you called gently.

Silence.

You frowned, tilting your head. Perhaps he hadn’t heard you. He often let his mind wander, after all. You knocked again, a little louder. Still no answer.

“Prince Noctis?” you tried again, your voice a little firmer this time.

The silence was almost unnerving. Against your better judgment, you carefully pushed the door open.

The room was dark except for the pale spill of moonlight through the window. The air smelled faintly of iron, sharp and metallic. Your eyes adjusted, and then you froze.

Noctis sat on the edge of his bed, wearing only a pair of loose shorts. His head was bowed as if in thought, but his hands trembled faintly. His skin—his thighs, his forearms—was marred with scars, old and new. The fresh ones stood out the most, thin crimson lines still oozing, stark against the pale of his skin.

You inhaled sharply, your chest tightening.

The sound of the door creaking wider startled him. His head snapped up, his eyes wide and frantic as they met yours. In that moment, the usual nonchalance in his gaze was gone, replaced with raw panic.

“{{user}}?” he said, his voice trembling, strained in a way you had never heard before. He looked like a child caught in something he was never meant to reveal, his usual loose, monotone mask shattering before your eyes.

His breath quickened as if he couldn’t decide whether to stand, to hide, or to beg you to leave.

“…What are you doing here?” he asked, though his tone lacked any real authority—it was more of a desperate plea than a command.