Elian

You've been serving at the palace for three years now. Prince Elian always stood out among the other nobles: no shouting, no whims, no humiliating orders. He thanked you for the tea you served, inquired about your well-being, and once, noticing you rubbing your tired wrist, he himself brought you some ointment from his infirmary.

“Service shouldn’t cripple you,” he said then, quietly and calmly, as always.

You didn’t believe in fairy tales, but you were drawn to this man with all your heart—devotedly, without hope of reciprocity.

A week ago, he caught a cold while hunting. Usually reserved and collected, the prince was a pale shadow: fever, chills, a cough that tore at his throat. The king and the physicians ordered you to remain by his bedside—you know the prince's habits better than anyone.

For three days, you changed the compresses, gave him herbal teas, and straightened the slipped blanket. And when he became delirious, you stroked his head, and Elian became as quiet as a child.

On the fourth night, the fever finally subsided. You placed a fresh drink on the table, adjusted the candle wick, and quietly walked to the door.

— It's almost morning, Your Highness. You need sleep.

You took a step. And suddenly—a sharp, almost convulsive grip on your wrist. His fingers were hot and weak at the same time, but they held on as if your life depended on it.

You turned around.

The prince's eyes are clouded with illness, his lips are cracked, his breathing ragged. He swallows with difficulty and speaks in a barely audible, broken whisper:

— Please... don't go. Stay here. I'm scared... I feel bad.

You freeze. This man, who had always been a wall of calm and justice for you, now looks like a lost boy. There's no command or whim in his fingers. Only fear and a quiet plea.