THE FIRST LOOK

The clatter of metal trays and the low murmur of voices swirled around Sophia, blending into the thick scent of roasted meat, herbs, and freshly baked bread. Margaret guided her to the far end of the kitchen where platters were being lined up on polished silver trays. The polished shine of them seemed almost out of place in a room buzzing with weary, hurrying servants.

“You’ll follow me when it’s time,” Margaret murmured, her voice low, glancing over her shoulder as though even these walls had ears. “Keep your eyes down. Move quietly. And whatever you do… don’t drop anything.”

The warning lingered in the air like a shadow.

Sophia’s grip tightened on the edge of the tray set before her. The steam curled up from a dish of glazed vegetables, the smell rich and inviting. She wasn’t sure if the knot in her stomach was from hunger or from the sharp weight of unease pressing against her ribs.

The kitchen door swung open, and Madam Grace stepped inside. Her eyes swept over the room like a cold wind passing through. “Ready the first course,” she ordered, her tone clipped. Her gaze landed on Sophia, lingering just long enough to make her shoulders stiffen.

“New girl — follow Margaret,” she instructed, her voice giving nothing away. “You’ll serve from the right side, no chatter.”

Sophia gave a stiff nod, keeping her expression neutral even as something restless stirred inside her.

When the servants began to file into the dining hall, she moved with them, clutching the tray as though it anchored her. The double doors opened to reveal a long, gleaming table stretching across the room. Candles flickered in tall silver holders, casting gold light over glassware and fine china.

The room was quieter than she expected. Conversation was a low hum, the air heavy with an authority she could feel but not quite name.

And then she saw him.

At the head of the table, Azriel sat with the stillness of carved stone. The light caught the sharp planes of his face, shadows pooling under his high cheekbones. His black hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands falling forward to frame his expression — unreadable, but not unwatchful.

He was every bit the figure she remembered from the forest, though in this setting, he felt different. Colder. Untouchable.

Margaret nudged her gently, pulling her out of her stare. “Eyes down,” she whispered.

Sophia forced her gaze to the floor as they moved between chairs, setting down dishes with practiced motions. Still, she felt the heat of his presence at the far end. It wasn’t until she stepped forward to place the vegetables on the table near him that she made the mistake of glancing up.

For a fleeting second, their eyes met.

It wasn’t a long look — perhaps only a heartbeat — but it was enough. Something in his gaze flickered, brief and strange, as though he recognized her yet did not wish to acknowledge it.

She lowered her head quickly, her pulse thudding in her ears.

Madam Grace’s voice broke through the moment. “Back to the kitchen,” she commanded the servants once the plates were in place.

Sophia followed the others out, her steps measured, though her mind was anything but calm. She didn’t know what she had expected — perhaps a word, a sign of recognition — but there had been nothing except that single, unreadable look.

Back in the kitchen, the bustle resumed, but the image of him lingered. The way he sat as though the room itself bowed to his presence. The way a single glance could feel like a hand at the base of her spine, urging her to both flee and stay.

Margaret handed her another tray. “Second course,” she said simply.

Sophia took it without a word, her thoughts tangled. Whatever he was, he wasn’t simply the stranger who had pulled her from death’s reach. Here, in this place, he was something more — something she wasn’t sure she wanted to understand.

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The hall was quiet except for the muted clink of cutlery and the low murmur of conversation. Candles cast their gold light over polished silver and crystal, a familiar scene that had long since lost its warmth.

Azriel sat at the head of the table, his chair angled slightly toward the fire burning at the far wall. Words floated around him — discussions of trade, territory, and lesser matters — but his focus drifted, catching on the steady rhythm of footsteps approaching.

The servants entered, moving in practiced silence, trays balanced with precision. Among them, a new presence moved with tentative care.

She kept her head lowered, yet something in the line of her posture — the way her hands tightened slightly around the tray, the measured pace of her steps — pulled at a place in him he had thought long sealed.

The forest returned to him in fragments. The pale form on the cold earth. The shallow breath that had stirred frost in the air. The stillness that had almost claimed her before he intervened.

The weight of that moment was one he could not explain, even to himself. A decision made not from logic, nor from duty.

When she reached the far end of the table, near enough for the candlelight to touch her face, she risked a glance.

Their eyes met.

It was brief — a single heartbeat suspended between them — but it was enough to feel the jolt beneath the calm he wore. A shadow stirred in her gaze, one that was not entirely fear.

He let it pass without a word, turning his attention to the next voice that addressed him. His expression did not shift. Not here, not now.

Madam Grace’s command pulled her away, and he let her go, his gaze following only until the doors closed behind her.

The meal continued as it always did, each course arriving and leaving without pause. Yet his thoughts lingered on the fragile line between impulse and reason — the one that had led him to bring her here, and the one that kept him from crossing the space between them now.

She was among the servants, as he had ordered. Safe. Contained. Out of reach.

At least, that was what he told himself.