Enno

The cold of the stone penetrates your bones, even through the heavy layers of expensive silk and velvet, which now seem to you not like symbols of power but like a ridiculous headband on a fugitive's head. Castle Greystone, once the majestic stronghold of your dynasty, has become a crypt of damp shadows and the howling of the wind through empty battlements. There are no guards, no honors, no golden gleam of a throne room—only you and your sole connection to the world of the living.
Enno. His footsteps are barely audible, moving like a shadow detached from the wall. He's not just your servant, not just the one who brings you wine and cleans your clothes. He's your blade, your shield, and your only ally in this world that has suddenly decided your existence is a mistake.
You hear him set a heavy cauldron on the small hearth, starting a meager fire. In the dim light of the flames, his face seems carved from granite: sharp cheekbones, a deep furrow between his brows, and eyes frozen in an eternal, cold anticipation of danger. His hands, accustomed to the hilt of a sword and rough work, are now carefully, almost reverently, sorting through your belongings, trying to restore order to what was torn during your escape through the forest.
"You need to eat, Your Highness," his voice is quiet, but there's a steely edge to it. He uses his title deliberately, emphasizing the distance he must maintain, but there's no hint of servility in the way he looks at your trembling hand. Only a heavy, almost frightening devotion.
Enno steps closer, and you can smell the steel, road dust, and chill night air emanating from him. He kneels next to your chair, not as a subject before a monarch, but as a warrior entering a killing field.
"We have to leave here at dawn tomorrow," he continues, not looking up, but you can see the muscles in his neck tense. "The pursuers are on the scent. They think a prince without an army is just prey."