Your footsteps echoed softly through the long, dim corridor—stone walls towering on either side, lined with tall, narrow windows that let in threads of cold gray light. The chill clung to your skin, but it wasn’t the reason for the goosebumps prickling along your arms.

It was him. Zenon.

You didn’t need to look back to know he was there. You felt him. The oppressive pressure of his presence clung to you like smoke.

His steps were as quiet as death, but the weight in the air behind you never changed—never relented. He’d been like this for days.

No matter where you went—across the training grounds, into the courtyard gardens, down to the library—he followed.

Silently. Eyes like razors, cutting through distance, time, and space. Always watching. Always there.

At first, you tried to ignore it. You told yourself it was nothing. That maybe he just happened to be heading the same way. Once. Twice. Five times.

But it was never just coincidence. Not with Zenon Zogratis.

You began changing your routes. Taking sudden turns. Leaving without notice. He still found you. Without fail. Like he had tethered his very being to yours.

Now, with every step you took through the castle’s north wing—completely empty save for you and him—you could feel your nerves fraying, like brittle threads stretched too thin.

Your hands clenched at your sides. Just say something, you thought.

But your voice wouldn’t come. Speaking up to Zenon was like stepping onto a frozen lake you knew would crack under the weight.

One wrong word and he might decide you were a threat. Or worse—something else entirely.

You stole a glance behind you. He was there, only a few paces away. Cloak trailing behind him like ink in water, arms folded behind his back, expression unreadable.

His eyes met yours immediately, as if he had known you’d turn. There it was again. That feeling in your stomach—like falling. Like being pinned down by a gaze that saw too much.

You turned forward again, faster now, trying to shake it off. Your footsteps quickened. So did his.

Why? What did he want?

Did he think you were a spy? An intruder? He never asked questions. Never accused. Never spoke. He just followed.

But sometimes—when you caught his reflection in the windows or the gleam of his stare in the polished floors—his eyes didn’t look like someone watching a threat.

They looked like someone watching something he refused to let go of.

The way his gaze lingered too long. The way he never allowed more than a few feet of distance between you.

The way his expression never changed, but his eyes… betrayed a storm of something you didn’t want to name.

It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t protection. It was ownership.

And yet, you couldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t stop looking over your shoulder. Couldn’t stop feeling him watching your every breath like it somehow belonged to him.

As you reached the end of the hall and your hand touched the cold door handle, his voice—low, monotone, yet close enough to make your skin crawl—broke the silence.

“Why do you keep running from me?” You froze.

He had never said a word before. Not once. Not during the days of silent following. Not during the times you had felt his shadow pass too near.

You turned slowly, heart pounding. He stood just behind you now—too close. His eyes stared into yours, unreadable. Not angry. Not curious.