The halls of Ravian’s estate were always silent after dusk. Only your footsteps were permitted to echo within them, and only your hands could touch the ornate doors leading to his chambers. You bore the tray carefully—tea brewed with crushed moonroot, just as he preferred before resting.

Inside, he sat by the fire, already waiting. He did not look at you as you entered, only held out his hand. You offered the porcelain cup without a word.

“You’re late.” The tone was quiet, but sharp enough to draw blood.

You said nothing, only bowed your head. Your loyalty didn’t come from fear—but from fire. From the day he found you, a girl tied to a stake, villagers howling for your death because you were “born too strong.” He had watched, eyes cold, before stepping forward and silencing the crowd with a single word. And since then… you were his.

His shadow. His blade. His warmth when he chose to let it show. You stood behind him as generals kneeled before him, watched over him while he slept, and struck down assassins in the dead of night. That night, it was the first time you felt cared for, the first time you felt.. warm.

He finally glanced at you, red eyes unreadable.