Keltherion said nothing immediately.
He was going to make them ask properly.
Then — without being asked — he told them.
{ Keltherion's POV — Centuries Ago }
I was twenty.
Weaker than both my brothers. Weaker than anyone expected a prince to be. The kind of weak that people acknowledged in careful silences and redirected conversations — never out loud, never directly.
That somehow made it worse.
It was around that time Father and Atherion decided I needed a personal maid. Someone to manage my quarters. The small things that filled the space between training and sleep.
I didn't ask for one.
I didn't want one.
What I needed wasn't someone to pour my tea.
Then she arrived.
Knock. Knock.
"Come in."
The door opened — and immediately something went wrong.
Rushed footsteps. A sharp intake of breath. The sound of porcelain hitting the floor followed by something warm spreading across my leg.
Tea. All over my pants. Still hot enough to sting.
She was on her knees in front of me — hands flat against the floor, the broken cup scattered around her, head bowed so low her forehead was nearly touching the ground.
"I— I am so sorry— I tripped and I— the tray slipped and I—"
Her voice was shaking.
I stared at the mess. At her. At the mess again.
"What did you do," I said flatly.
"I'm sorry— I'm so sorry, Your Highness—"
"Clean it. Fast."
She scrambled — pulling cloth from her apron, hands moving frantically, every movement rushed and clumsy and wrong in the specific way of someone trying so hard it was making everything worse.
I watched her.
This, I thought, is my personal maid.
She looked up once — just briefly — to check if I was still angry.
I almost said something harsh.
Then I saw her face properly for the first time.
And forgot what I was going to say entirely.
At first — she was just annoying.
That's the honest version.
Every morning without fail. Knock knock — and then something would go wrong before she'd even fully entered the room. A stumble at the doorway. A tray that tilted at the wrong moment. Tea that was either too hot or somehow, inexplicably, too cold.
I never said anything kind.
"You're clumsy."
"Watch where you're walking."
"How did you even get assigned here."
She would bow her head, apologize in that small shaking voice, and proceed to knock something else over on the way out.
It was exhausting.
Except.
There was one morning — about three weeks in — where she arrived on time. Set the tray down without incident. Poured the tea without spilling. Placed it in front of me at exactly the right distance.
I was so surprised I forgot to drink it.
She stood near the door waiting for dismissal, hands folded, eyes forward.
I picked up the cup. Set it back down. Picked it up again.
"...This is the correct temperature," I said.
Just that. Nothing else.
She blinked. Like she hadn't expected words at all.
Then — so small I almost missed it — she smiled.
Not the nervous smile. Not the careful one she used when she was trying not to be noticed.
Just — a smile. Genuine and slightly crooked and entirely unguarded.
My heart did something I didn't have a name for.
I looked back at my paperwork immediately.
"Dismissed," I said.
She left.
I sat there for a full minute staring at nothing.
Annoying, I reminded myself firmly. She is annoying.
She was annoying.
She was also the only person in the entire empire who didn't treat me like a problem to be carefully managed.
She didn't know I was the weakest prince. Or maybe she knew and simply didn't care. Either way — when she spoke to me, which she did far more than any proper maid should, it wasn't with careful words chosen to avoid certain things.
She just... spoke.
"Your Highness, did you eat today? You look pale."
"Your Highness, this training schedule seems excessive. Even for a vampire."
"Your Highness — and I say this with complete respect — you look terrible today."
I told her twice to stop commenting on things that weren't her business.
She apologized both times.
Said the same things again the next morning.
I stopped telling her to stop.
The first time I caught myself waiting for the knock — I refused to acknowledge it.
The second time — I told myself it meant nothing.
The third time — I was already at my desk facing the door, which I absolutely was not doing on purpose.
She walked in, set the tray down, didn't spill anything —
Then tripped over absolutely nothing on the way to the window.
Caught herself on the curtain. Pulled it half off the rail. Stood there holding it with one hand, looking at it, then at me.
"...I'll fix that," she said.
Something in my chest moved.
"Leave it," I said.
"But it's—"
"I said leave it."
She left it.
I stared at the same line of text for the next ten minutes without reading a single word.
Annoying, I thought.
My heart disagreed.
I lost again.
Same result. Different day.
Veltherion hadn't even been trying particularly hard — I could tell by the careful adjustment in his final strike that turned what should have been devastating into merely painful. He didn't say anything about it.
He never did.
I lay on the training ground looking up at the ceiling and waited for the ache in my ribs to become something manageable.
Footsteps. Light ones. Slightly uneven.
I didn't need to look.
"Your Highness."
"I'm fine," I said. To the ceiling.
"You have a cut above your eyebrow."
"I'm aware."
"And your left hand—"
"I said I'm fine."
Silence.
She didn't leave.
The sound of something being set down beside me. A cloth. Water.
Then — without asking — she knelt and pressed the cloth to the cut above my eyebrow.
I should have told her to stop.
I didn't.
"It was Veltherion again?" she asked quietly.
"Training spar. It means nothing."
"Okay."
She didn't believe me. I could tell by the way she said it.
The cloth was cold. Gentle in a way that made the back of my throat tighten for reasons I refused to examine.
"You don't have to stay," I said.
"I know."
"You have other duties."
"I finished them."
"Elly—"
"Your Highness." Her voice was quiet. Not arguing. Not apologizing. Just steady in that way she sometimes was when she forgot to be nervous. "Please stop trying to make me leave."
I looked at the ceiling.
Said nothing.
She continued — unhurried, careful, her hands steadier here than they ever were carrying a tray.
Strange. She was only clumsy when she was thinking about not being clumsy. In moments like this — when her attention was fully on something that mattered — her hands didn't shake at all.
"You're not a loser," she said suddenly.
"You notice too much," I said.
"Probably." She wrung the cloth, pressed it back. "But you're not. You just haven't found your thing yet."
"My thing."
"The thing that makes everyone stop and look." She tilted her head, studying the cut with a small frown. "Everyone has one. Atherion has his strength. Veltherion has his Dark Matter." A pause. "Yours just hasn't shown up yet."
I looked at her then.
She was already looking back — not carefully, not nervously. Just directly. The way she sometimes forgot not to when she wasn't thinking about the distance between a prince and a maid.
"And if it never does," I said.
She didn't hesitate.
"Then you'll be the prince who survived without it." A small shrug. "That's harder anyway."
My chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with the training.
"You're strange," I said.
"I know." She stood. "Done. The cut isn't deep."
She moved toward the door with that slightly uneven walk.
"Elly."
She stopped.
I was still looking at the ceiling.
"...Thank you," I said. Quietly. Like the words cost something.
A pause.
"Anytime, Your Highness."
The door closed.
I lay in the empty training room for a long time after.
Something that had been closed for years opened just slightly.
Just enough.
It started small.
I noticed her struggling with the quarterly inventory records — bent over the ledger, quill in hand, scratching something out for the third time.
I watched for thirty seconds.
"You're carrying the wrong number," I said.
She looked up. Then at the ledger. Then back at me.
"...Oh."
"Column three. Third row."
She found it. Made the correction with that small concentrated frown.
Proceeded to make a different mistake two lines down.
I pulled up a chair.
Didn't say anything about it. Just sat down and pointed at the error.
She looked at my finger. Then at the ledger. Then at me with an expression that was equal parts grateful and mortified.
"You don't have to—"
"I'm already sitting," I said.
She bit her lip.
Didn't argue.