Damien

You froze at the threshold of his chambers, holding a heavy copper pitcher, clutching the handle so tightly your fingers turned white. Old Martha, the one you were replacing, merely said curtly, "At seven. Water. Don't make any noise. Don't look him in the eye."

The air in the room was cool, but the first ray of sun already lay like a golden path on the stone floor.

He slept on his stomach, his hands tucked under his chin. The face whose mere mention had brought silence to villages now seemed surprisingly young. And defenseless.

And then you saw the cat. Black as night. The animal settled right in front of his face, purring loudly, nuzzling his cheek with its wet nose.

You entered cautiously, placed the jug on the table by the fireplace, and couldn't help but smile. The scene was so peaceful.

You took a step to chase the insolent fellow away, but it was too late. Your movement caused the cat to lazily look up at you, and he... he growled sleepily.

“You are my restless guardian, Raven...” he whispered in a voice hoarse from sleep.

You realized he wasn't sleeping. He opened one steel-colored eye and saw you. His gaze slid over your simple dress, stopping at your clasped hands.

“I brought water for washing, my lord,” you whispered, lowering your eyes. “Sorry for interrupting. I can go now, my lord.” “No,” he stopped her gently but firmly. His gaze became searching. “Stay.”