The soft hum of silence greeted me as my eyes fluttered open, the haze of sleep still clinging to my senses. Drowsiness clouded my thoughts, but a figure slowly took shape before me. Familiar. Steady. Unshakable.
He was the man who had pulled me from the streets, the one whose presence lingered in fragments of memory like smoke—impossible to hold, impossible to ignore.
How long had I been here? Days? Weeks? Time had blurred into a shapeless void. I had drifted in and out of consciousness, suspended in a dream that felt too real to dismiss and too strange to explain.
"Why did you bring me here?" I asked, my voice hoarse and barely audible.
He said nothing.
"Why am I here?" I pressed, desperation cracking through my whisper.
Still silent, he knelt beside me. His hand reached forward, lifting my chin with a gentleness that felt at odds with the tension in the air. His lips moved, but the words didn't reach me—soft murmurs, spoken more to himself than to me. He pressed the back of his hand to my cheek, checking my temperature, eyes unreadable.
And then, he stood.
Panic surged through me as he turned to leave. I shoved the covers aside and stumbled from the bed, chasing him across the room. The cool floor sent shivers up my spine, and I reached the door just as he pulled it open.
"Wait!" I gasped, catching his coat. "Please. Tell me what's going on. Where am I?"
He paused. For a fleeting moment, his eyes flickered with something I couldn't place—guilt, maybe? Anger? Longing?
"Boss sent me," he said flatly, then walked off before I could ask anything else.
But the door didn't close behind him.
I was no longer locked in.
For a moment, I stood frozen in place, stunned by the freedom. Then, cautiously, I stepped into the hallway and closed the door quietly behind me.
The rug beneath my feet was soft and expensive, sinking under my steps like a cloud. The stone walls stretched high, adorned with ancient tapestries whose threads shimmered faintly under the dim glow of sconces. Every detail whispered of wealth, power, and something more—something secret.
A warm scent filled the air—candles laced with vanilla and something savory, perhaps roasted meat. My stomach growled, sharp and sudden, reminding me how long it had been since I'd last eaten.
I followed the scent, my pace slow and uncertain. Servants moved through the halls with purpose, avoiding my gaze. Except one—a woman, middle-aged, with kind eyes and hands clasped at her waist. She stopped as I approached.
"Please," I said, my voice trembling, "where am I?"
She offered a small, careful smile. "It's almost dinner time. You can join us in the great hall," she said gently. "I suppose."
I followed her, though my mind screamed with questions. Why won't anyone tell me where I am? Why does it feel like I was brought here, not rescued?
As we neared the great hall, a chorus of voices and laughter began to filter through the corridor. The air buzzed with energy—low chatter, clinking silverware, the sound of wine being poured.
Then we entered, and the world seemed to pause.
The hall was massive. Vaulted ceilings soared above our heads, beams crisscrossing like ribs in a sleeping beast. Tall windows welcomed the final hues of dusk. Stone floors gleamed beneath the flicker of candlelight. Long tables stretched the length of the room, groaning under the weight of roasted lamb, baked bread, glistening vegetables, and steaming jugs of wine and water.
I took a seat, numb and overwhelmed. A servant placed a plate before me—meats, stewed vegetables, soft bread warm from the oven. My stomach twisted with both hunger and unease.
But then the air shifted.
The conversation dulled. The laughter faded.
I felt it before I saw him.
He stood at the entrance like a storm waiting to break—tall, broad-shouldered, eyes that cut like steel. His presence alone commanded silence. His beard was neatly trimmed, framing a face sculpted by power and discipline. The embroidery on his jacket glinted in the candlelight, not flashy but unmistakably regal.
He wasn't just a man. He was the one they all waited for.
The boss.
He moved with slow purpose, each step echoing through the hall. His gaze swept the room, sharp and measured, as though weighing each soul seated at the table.
I couldn't look away.
He didn't speak, but his silence said enough. Everyone resumed eating, though the tension lingered—an invisible weight pressing against every heartbeat.
He took his place at the head of the table, regal and unmoving. As he began to eat, I saw it—his eyes, cold and curious, flicker toward me.
I quickly dropped my gaze, pretending to focus on my meal.
But my pulse betrayed me.
Something about him stirred the air. Like the calm before a storm. Like danger disguised as safety.
And though I didn't know who he was...
…I had the feeling my life would never be the same.