She was once such a light sleeper.

  Even when recovering from most grievous wounds, she would wake at the faintest creaking of a door creaking two rooms away. But now she rests so soundly, the maids joke they might be able to dress our Lady in her sleep.

  Truly, she seemed so at peace, curled under her blankets. Not reacting in the slightest when I knelt by her side. The pale light of the moon poured through the window behind, illuminating the room that I might properly admire her. Loose strands of hair fell from her braid, perfectly framing her face. Here she wore no harsh glare nor coy smile as a mask—her beauty shone unfettered that I might drink in my Lady's form in its purest state. A moment that ought to be painted and preserved for eternities. Dark hair that shone blue in the light juxtaposed her waxen skin. Blush lips ever so slightly agape murmured the silent tales of her mind. Long, delicate, lashes fluttering as her eyes moved beneath closed lids, lost in dreams I could not see. What world holds you so enthralled, my love? All I can do is pray it is a peaceful one.

  With a quiet moan, she shifted under the covers. Nestling further into the pillows, their plush embrace cruelly hiding her visage from my gaze. Yet, as she moved, her arm stretched across the bed—reaching outward, brushing against the space where another should lie. Her body silently called out for someone to comfort her.

  For me.

  Her love may still go unspoken in the waking hours, but here, in the realm of dreams, she yearns for me. And I shall always be here.

  I extend my hand, moving slowly, ensuring no sudden motion that might startle her from her slumber. The tips of my fingers graze hers first, the barest touch to test her stillness. She exhales, a breath with the faintest tremor, almost a gasp, but she does not stir. The sound emboldens me. I take her hand in mine, gloved fingers enveloping her warmth. Through the thin fabric, I feel the steady pulse beneath her skin, the quiet rhythm of her heart. Even in slumber, she is all-encompassing, her presence drawing me in, holding me in a spell no majick could break.

  It begins with my head resting upon the mattress. A simple indulgence. A stolen moment of closeness. Just to be closer. Just to breathe the same air she breathes. But it wasn't enough. I continue, allowing myself to be drawn in by the gravity of her presence. I shift, slowly, deliberately. My spirit ascending to meet hers. I do not realize how far I have gone until my lips are but a breath away from her brow, my form nestled into the pillows beside her.

  My thumb strokes over her fingers, tracing the elegant slope of each knuckle, marveling at the muted strength that always flows through her thin frame. I lose myself in thought, drunk on the wonder of our proximity. To be near her, so close that her soft breath kisses against my face. A privilege beyond measure. I do not deserve such mercy, yet here I am, basking in it. I could count her every strand of hair, engrave every curve of her body into my mind. I could do anything my mind dare to dream. For in this moment, she is mine and mine alone; here, in the quiet sanctuary of her chambers, there is only us. My Lady and I.

  If only she would stir, if only those wondrous eyes would open to see me at her side—

  She shifts again. The movement is small, but enough to break my trance. Her hand slips from my grasp, tucking itself beneath the pillows. A rejection, no matter how unconscious, still wounds.

  A chill pang settles in my chest. My fingers flex against the empty space she left behind, and I wonder—was it unconscious? Does she flee from my affections, even now? Foolishness. She will not abandon me. She merely sleeps. And yet—perhaps, if I am bold, I might claim something greater than the touch of her hand.

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  My now free palm hovers above her face, trembling with uncertainty. If I touch her, if she awakens, if she sees me like this—will she smile and welcome me into her arms, or recoil in disgust?

  I move slowly, cautiously, descending upon her inch by treacherous inch. A coward’s pace. Then, at last, my fingertips find the strands that have fallen across her cheek. Soft as silk, they yield to my touch, and I brush them carefully behind her ear.

  She does not wake.

  Here, so close, I could lay my hand against her cheek. I could bring myself closer to feel the warmth of her body against mine. Would you lean into my touch, my love? Would your lips whisper my name?

  No.

  Not yet.

  For now, I will be content.

  For now, I will let you rest.

  "Sleep well, my love."

  May my whispers bring you peace, even when I have not the strength to stay by your side. I rise from the bed, each movement measured, each breath drawn carefully as to not shatter what little sanctity is left in the room. The warmth of her presence clings to my fingertips, a ghostly echo of the moment just passed. I close my hand, grasping at nothing, willing myself to remember how it felt—to hold her. Even if it was only for the barest of moments, I must carve every grace received into my memory before severing myself from the temptation to stay.

  The cool air of the room greets me in stark contrast to the cocoon of heat I had nearly succumbed to. It is enough to bring a tinge of shame, a whisper of restraint that I had been so close—so near to losing myself entirely. For the one she chose as her right hand to behave in such a way. To be so selfish and full of greed. To seek more when she has already granted me far beyond what I deserve. It is unbecoming.

  With that souring thought, I step away. casting one last glance over my shoulder. She remains as she was, undisturbed, lost to a world where I cannot follow. A world where, perhaps, she does not even think of me. I force the thought away before it can take root.

  The chamber door opens without a sound, and I step into the dimly lit corridor, the hush of the castle swallowing me whole. But I cannot yet be alone.

  A presence lingers just beyond the threshold, standing like a silent sentinel in the gloom. The flickering light of a nearby sconce catches the polished steel of his armor, the hard angles of his face set in careful neutrality. Marcellus. The head of the royal guard stands just a few paces away, his form rigid, expression blank but I know he stands judging every move I make.

  His gaze meets mine—infuriatingly unreadable. He does not question why I was in our Lady's chambers so late, nor does he avert his gaze in the ignorance he ought to have. He merely watches me. He may know of the sin I've committed, but he also knows his place. Knows better than to question a superior.

  A slow drag of silence stretches between us. Although he does not speak, I feel the silent weight of his gaze pressing against my skin.

  A flicker of unease tightens in my chest. Foolish. He is beneath me. He knows better than to pry.

  Still, the weight of his silence gnaws at me.

  I lift my chin, smoothing my already pristine clothing, letting the weight of my authority settle between us. A single nod is all he offers, a gesture of deference. But that piercing gaze never leaves.

  I move past him without a word.

  My footsteps are swallowed by the plush carpet lining the corridor. In silence I can admire all my Lady's accolades on the journey to my room. Yet, as I walk, the emptiness in my hand where hers once lay, the absence of her warmth against my skin, leaves a hollowness I cannot ignore.

  For all my certainty, for all my assurances that she will one day see me as I see her—why, then, must I commit such petty acts to prove her progress? Truly, is it only a matter of time?

  Yes, it must be.

  For now, I must be content.

  For now, I must let her rest.