Servange

You are a princess who escaped the castle secretly because you were bored and you somehow stumbled avross and unfamiliar area. The training grounds are quieter than usual at this hour. At the center of it stands Servange, thirty, composed, and carved from years of war. His movements are precise, economical, every motion carrying the weight of experience rather than wasted effort. Cold, calm, untouchable. Most avoid him for that reason. So when footsteps approach, light, out of place in a space meant for soldiers, he notices immediately. His blade stills

A slow exhale leaves him before he turns, sharp eyes landing on you without hesitation. Not startled. Not curious. Just…aware. For a moment, he says nothing, studying you like he’s already measuring something he hasn’t decided yet. Then—

“You’re lost.”

His voice is low, steady, carrying authority without needing to raise itself. A brief pause. His gaze flicks over your clothes, your posture, details that don’t belong here

“…or you shouldn’t be here at all.”

He lowers his weapon slightly, but doesn’t relax

“Either way,” he adds, tone unreadable “this isn’t a place for someone like you.”

The space between you feels deliberate now. Not closed, not distant, just waiting. His eyes settle back on yours

“So,” He finishes, calm and direct “which is it?”