The Quiet Before the Door

The corridor to Victor's chambers stretched long and dim, lined with silver sconces that burned low with steady blue fire. The warmth barely touched the stone walls, and the faint echo of his footsteps rolled through the quiet hall like a soft drumbeat.

He walked unhurriedly, calm as always, his expression gentle, the trace of a smile resting at the corner of his lips. The evening wind had followed him from the garden, tugging faintly at his coat, carrying the scent of wet grass and autumn chill.

Two guards stood at the turn of the hall. They noticed him instantly—their posture stiffened, hands to their hearts, heads bowed.

"Lord Victor," one greeted softly, his voice edged with reverence.

Victor's smile deepened a little. He didn't need words. A simple nod from him carried more weight than a sentence. The man straightened, pride flickering faintly in his eyes as Victor passed.

A few maids appeared near the stairway—one carrying a basket of folded linens, another arranging the curtains at the corner arch. When they saw him, the movement in their hands stilled. For a moment, they just looked—caught between awe and nervousness—then hurriedly bowed.

Victor's gaze softened. "You're still awake?"

The youngest maid blinked, cheeks pink. "We—yes, my lord, just finishing the night duties."

"Don't overwork," he said, his tone mild, almost warm. "It's colder now. You'll catch something if you stay too long in the drafts."

She nodded quickly, clutching the basket tighter. The way she smiled—small, surprised—made the other maid glance at her with faint amusement. Victor continued walking, letting his words linger behind him like a small kindness they'd remember.

As he reached the main arch that led to his wing, he slowed down. The torches flickered against the marble, light sliding across the polished floor in broken gold ripples. The air carried a sharper chill here. Winter really was on its way.

He exhaled quietly, watching his breath mist faintly before him. Strange, he thought. This world moves like the one I left—its seasons, its rhythm, its sky. Even its moon breathes the same cold light.

For a moment, he stood still, staring up through the open skylight above the corridor. The moon hung like a polished coin, pale and silent. It painted his features in silver, touched the sharp line of his jaw, and shimmered across the faint trace of moisture on the stone beneath his boots.

Winter, he thought again. It always comes slower here, but when it does, it's merciless.

He wasn't sure whether he was thinking about the weather anymore.

The garden's memory still lingered—the sound of Sasha's shy voice, the tremor in it when she tried not to meet his gaze. The warmth of the fading sunset on her face. The way her eyes had softened, then darted away, her words gentle but trembling: "Now I just take leave... even Ben will worry."

Her departure had left a stillness in him, quiet but deep, like the last ripple on calm water.

For a moment, he stood still, staring up through the open skylight above the corridor. The moon hung like a polished coin, pale and silent. It painted his features in silver, touched the sharp line of his jaw, and shimmered across the faint trace of moisture on the stone beneath his boots.

Winter, he thought again. It always comes slower here, but when it does, it's merciless.

He wasn't sure whether he was thinking about the weather anymore.

He walked again, slowly this time, letting the memory settle.

Why does it linger so much? he wondered, lips curving faintly. She's just… different. The way she looks at me—it's not fear, or admiration. It's something quieter. Something she doesn't even realize herself.

He brushed a hand through his hair, exhaling through a half-smile. "You're thinking too much, Victor," he muttered under his breath.

He brushed a hand through his hair, exhaling through a half-smile. "You're thinking too much, Victor," he muttered under his breath.

The corridor turned once more, leading to the great wooden door at the far end—his chamber. The two guards there straightened the moment they saw him.

"Open it," he said softly.

They bowed, stepping aside. But before they could move, something shifted.

A faint sound—barely audible, like the rustle of cloth—came from near the door. One of the guards hesitated, hand halfway to the latch. Victor's eyes narrowed slightly.

He caught it too. A shadow. A subtle movement. Someone was standing there, almost hidden by the dim light.

Victor's hand dropped to his side, calm but alert. His expression didn't change, though his gaze sharpened. The air around him grew still.

He took a step forward. The torchlight trembled faintly, brushing over the figure.

A faint outline emerged—slender, still, head slightly bowed.

Victor's voice broke the silence, low and edged with curiosity.

"What are you doing here?"

The question wasn't harsh. It carried quiet authority—steady, composed, but with that undercurrent of surprise he rarely showed.

The figure didn't move right away. The light finally caught enough of their form for him to see the faint shimmer of hair, the edge of a cloak brushing the floor.

Victor's brows drew together slightly. His tone softened, but his eyes stayed fixed.

"Standing outside someone's door at this hour… That's not something you do without a reason."

For a heartbeat, the only answer was the wind. Then the figure stirred, lifting their head just slightly, enough for him to catch the gleam of eyes beneath the shadows.

He felt something strange then—a flicker in the air, like the edge of a memory brushing against the present.

His hand lowered slowly from his side. His voice came again, quieter now, more curious than wary.

"Tell me… what are you doing here?"

The question lingered, caught between the flicker of torchlight and the silence of the hall, as Victor stood before the unexpected visitor—his calm expression giving nothing away, but his thoughts moving fast beneath the surface.

The world around them held its breath.

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