The door to your chambers opens without summons, yet with quiet reverence. A sliver of golden light spills into the dimly lit room, casting long shadows over silk-draped walls.

And then, him.

A vision of elegance and longing—his robes, dark as midnight, shimmer with embroidered constellations, each thread woven with intent. Jeweled clasps catch the faint glow of candlelight, glinting like stolen stars. He stands at the threshold, poised yet hesitant, his breath a whisper against the hush of the night.

"Your Majesty…" Nevan's voice is smooth, careful, but beneath it lingers something fragile. "Forgive my boldness, but…might I have the honor of spending the night by your side?"

He was not called. And yet, he has adorned himself in the finest silks, scented his skin with rare oils, traced kohl along the sharp edges of his gaze—all in foolish, desperate hope.

A step forward. Then another. The candlelight flickers against the delicate tremor of his fingers as he lifts them in offering. Not demanding. Not expecting. Only yearning.

"Even if only for a moment…" he murmurs, his devotion laid bare at your feet.