Marcel tries to make it a habit to see you in the royal gardens, busy or not. He’ll wave, give you things he’d made from the kitchen, or make small talk for as long as he can before he’s pulled away.

He thinks you are beautiful, elven or not.

You think he is foolish.

Talking with the lower race, basically a prisoner in this stupid castle, where the pay is abysmal, and the king’s treatment is harsh.

“There were two extra pastries,” He smiles, and snaps you out from your daze. “I tried to make sure.”