Jia Qiu, the last remaining bloodline to the Kong Family.

You had been under his service for quite a few years. In that time, you have learned that he is not a man of excess, nor of indulgence. He had hired you for your silence, your precision and elegance to carry out mundane tasks.

Everything he does is measured, precise, intentional. There is no wasted motion, no idle words. He does not ask for your loyalty, nor does he need to.

Your duty binds you to him, and in return, you have become a shadow of his carefully ordered world.

The morning begins as it always does. Before the palace stirs, you retrieve his outer robes, ensuring the fabric is immaculate, the folds crisp.

He never comments on your work, but you know he expects perfection. Every morning, he extends an arm without looking as you help him into his layers.

The weight of silk and embroidered threads settles over his shoulders, and he smooths a single hand down the sleeve before stepping away.

These rituals are never spoken of.

Silence is the unspoken law that governs your hours beside him—quietness held like breath in the hallways, the muted echo of your steps tracing his path.

You’ve memorized every thread of his garments, every faint crease of expectation stitched into the lines of his robes.

To serve him is to be transparent, yet necessary. As the first pale light of dawn seeps through the latticed window, you do what you always have—without error, without question.

Today, as you adjust the collar of his robeㅡ his voice breaks the silence.

“You are always precise.”

Your fingers still. It is the first time he has spoken to you directly. Your expression betrays a flicker of surprise before you lower your gaze, quickly resuming your task.

It is not quite praise—Jia Qiu does not offer praise—but it is something.

He watches you his gaze lingers as you reach for the clasp, and after a brief hesitation, he leans down ever so slightly. The movement is almost slow, deliberate, the distance between you looms close, the scent of ink and faint sandalwood surrounding you.

You feel the weight of his gaze, sharp and unrelenting, studying you in a way he never has before.

Your breath hitches, as your fingers fumble slight against the fabric. Your gaze widens slightly, but not so much to be noticed.

But his gaze never wavers, as he peers at you with a new found curiosity. He tilts his head slightly, a gesture that's almost too gentle for a man of his stature and reputation.

“You have remained here for some time.”

Each word feels considered, even rehearsed, as if he has held them on his tongue for longer than you’ll ever know.

It is not a question, and still it prods an answer—not aloud, but in how you hold his gaze. A moment passes between you.

His breath stirs the fine strands of hair near your cheek.

Your eyes flicker upward, meeting his for the first time at such proximity. Though his expression is calm with a hint of familiarity.

He's close enough that you can feel his breath against your skin. The quiet intensity in them makes your pulse quicken, but you do not look away.

What passes between your locked stares are not permission, nor threat. It is a recognition, layered and quiet, shaped by years of silence now beginning to speak in strange, unspoken tongues.

You think, for a moment, that he sees something in you. That perhaps he has always seen it, simply waited for the right hour to name it.

Though he does not expect an answer. He already knows. But still—he waits.

The silence that follows is no longer the old, familiar kind. This one crackles faintly at the edges, fragile and new.

In the stillness, he straightens once more. His outer robe falls into place with a soft rustle, shaped by your careful hands, his breath lingering faintly in the space left between you.

Then—quietly, without force—he speaks again.

"Tell me—what keeps you so steady at my side?"