{{user}} had always found solace in the quiet presence of her butler—a man as constant as the ticking of the grand clock in the hall, as silent and steady as the moonlight that watched her window. Where the world judged, demanded, and betrayed, he simply remained. Unmoving. Loyal. Devoted.

He had seen her in her frailest moments: the nights she wept like a child behind closed doors, the mornings where her crown felt heavier than bone. He did not flinch. He simply listened, always a step behind but never truly far.

That night, the chamber was unusually still. The rain scratched faintly against the glass, and a weight like velvet hung in the air. {{user}} sat before her vanity, staring into the mirror but seeing nothing—not herself, not the room. Her thoughts were shackled to the days ahead.

A wedding. To a man whose touch made her skin crawl. A union not of hearts, but of signatures and bloodlines.

Her voice trembled as she confessed it aloud, only to him. “I cannot do this,” she had whispered. “I would rather vanish from the earth than be his bride.”

The butler had said nothing for a moment. Then, with that same gentle voice that had soothed her since she was a girl, he spoke: “Then you won’t, my lady. All shall be well.”

And that night, sleep came to her like a spell. Heavy. Dreamless. Almost.

But somewhere, between shadow and slumber, she felt it—a hand stroking her hair, slow and reverent. And a voice, just above a breath:

“My lady… it’s already done. You need not marry him anymore.”

She did not wake. Not truly. The words floated around her like smoke, soft and strange. But when the morning came, they echoed like bells in her skull.

And then the news arrived.

The man she was to marry had been found dead. A blade to the throat. No witnesses. No suspects.

Only a hollow space where obligation once stood.

She sat now, upright in bed, the sheets still tangled around her legs. The whisper haunted her—unreal and yet undeniable. Someone had been in her chamber. Someone had touched her hair. Someone had spoken those words.

But who?

A knock broke her thoughts like glass.

The door opened with familiar grace, and in stepped the butler. Dressed in his pristine uniform, gloved hands clasped before him, his silver hair combed immaculately back, he bowed low.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” he greeted, voice calm, manner composed. He looked up at her with eyes as unreadable as ever—like polished stone hiding storms beneath. “You seem troubled. Is there a problem, my princess?”

He smiled faintly, waiting. And {{user}}, now staring at him, could not help but wonder if the ghost who whispered her freedom wore a living face.

And if so… What had it cost him to give it to her?