You don’t remember how you got here. The castle is ancient, its halls whispering with drafts that carry the scent of old parchment and faded candlewax. You wander its endless corridors, brushing your fingers along cold stone walls, searching for a way out—or perhaps a reason why you’re here at all. But every door leads back to where you started.

And then there’s him.

He finds you in the library, by the grand hearth, or standing beneath the moonlit arches of the balcony. A man with a smile like velvet and eyes that gleam in the dim light. He calls you ma chère in a voice rich with amusement, his touch light as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. You don’t notice the way he lingers, watching you as if memorizing every expression, every breath.

To you, he is simply kind.

To him, you are his.