You were never supposed to be seen. Servants were shadows, gliding in and out of rooms, unnoticed unless someone needed something. That was how you had survived in Camelot, quiet, invisible, reliable.

But Arthur Pendragon noticed you.

It began with a mistake. You had carried a tray into his chambers, and in your haste, one of the goblets tipped, spilling wine across the polished table. You muttered a curse under your breath, not realizing he was watching.

Arthur smirked. “That’s not very courtly language for a servant.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks. “Forgive me, sire.”

Instead of scolding you, he chuckled and that was the first time you realized the prince might not be as untouchable as everyone whispered.

After that, Arthur found excuses. At first, you thought it coincidence: being summoned to tidy his chamber more often than usual, being asked to help polish his armor when there were a dozen other hands available. But then he started speaking to you. Really speaking.

“You always look me in the eye,” he said once, watching you as you worked. “Most people avoid it.”

“Most people fear you,” you replied honestly.

“And you don’t?” His tone was teasing, but there was something in his eyes, a challenge, almost.

You smiled faintly. “Should I?”

Arthur laughed, the sound warm, genuine. “Perhaps.”

It became your secret. Passing glances in the corridors. His hand brushing yours when he handed you a goblet. A smile that lingered too long, meant only for you.

Then came the night he asked you to stay. He had returned from patrol, exhausted, his armor bloodied from a skirmish with raiders. You helped him peel the dented metal from his body, your fingers steady despite the closeness.

When you reached for his arm to clean a shallow cut, he caught your hand instead.