WHISPERS

The faint toll of a bell stirred Sophia from sleep. For a moment she didn’t know where she was — the ceiling above her was low and shadowed, the air warm and close with the scent of wool and the faint tang of ash from the kitchen fires below.

The servants’ quarters were already in motion. Footsteps padded softly across the worn planks, skirts brushed past her bed, and the muted clink of metal on metal came from somewhere down the corridor. A woman Sophia didn’t know was tying her hair back, speaking in low tones to another who carried a bundle of folded linens.

Sophia sat up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. The room felt different in daylight — if it could be called daylight. The single, narrow window above the farthest bed let in only a dim, grey light, filtered by the mist that clung stubbornly outside.

Margaret appeared in the doorway, her expression brisk. “Up with you. Kitchen wants you.”

Sophia swung her legs over the bed and stood, bare feet brushing against the cold floor. She smoothed her dress — still the same one she had arrived in, though someone had mended a tear at the hem during the night — and followed Margaret down the corridor.

The kitchen was alive with quiet efficiency. Copper pots gleamed from their hooks, the hearth roared with a thick pot of broth simmering over it, and the air was heavy with the scent of baking bread. Steam curled from a row of mugs being filled with something dark and fragrant.

Sophia was handed a small stack of plates and told to dry them. The work was simple, and the rhythm steadied her hands, kept her mind from drifting too far. Yet she could not stop noticing how the other servants moved. They were quick, silent, their glances brief but sharp. Whispers followed when they thought she couldn’t hear, but she caught fragments.

Forest.

Brought by him.

Why?

No one dared say his name in full, not while she was near.

When the plates were stacked neatly, Margaret returned with a shallow tray. “Dining hall. Lay these out.”

Sophia followed her through a set of heavy doors, stepping into a space that seemed too large for morning. The dining hall’s high windows were shrouded in the same silver-grey mist that had blurred the servants’ window, and the long table stood empty, its polished surface catching the pale light.

She began placing the plates, one at each setting, careful not to let them clatter. The hall was quiet — too quiet — and the silence pressed at her ears until she almost wished for the sound of conversation, even whispers.

Halfway down the table, she felt it. A weight, subtle at first, then sharper, like the air had shifted around her. She looked up.

Azriel stood in the archway.

He didn’t move, not immediately. His eyes were fixed on her, though his expression gave nothing away. The misted light from the windows caught in his dark hair, in the sharp lines of his face, and the shadows seemed to follow him as he stepped inside.

Sophia’s hands stilled on the rim of a plate. Her breath caught — not from fear, exactly, but from the strange intensity of his presence.

Margaret’s voice broke the moment. “My lord,” she said, bowing her head as she entered from the opposite side of the hall. “Breakfast will be ready shortly.”

Azriel’s gaze lingered on Sophia for a heartbeat longer before he nodded once. The sound of his footsteps was almost too soft, yet when he turned away, it seemed the air loosened, as if something unseen had been pressing against her skin.

When he had gone, Margaret’s shoulders eased slightly. She didn’t speak to Sophia, only gestured for her to finish.

Sophia set the last plate, her hands steady only because she willed them to be. She didn’t understand why the room had felt different while he was in it, or why she could still feel the echo of his gaze as she followed Margaret back to the kitchen.

The kitchen was warmer, louder — but not entirely comfortable. Two younger servants stood near the fire, whispering behind their hands. One of them noticed Sophia and went suddenly silent.

Margaret handed her a small basket of rolls. “Take these to the side table in the hall. Don’t linger.”

Sophia carried the basket carefully, the warmth seeping through the cloth that covered the bread. She passed through the doors again, setting the basket where Margaret had told her. The hall was still empty, but the faintest trace of movement caught her attention — the shadow of someone disappearing up the far staircase.

She told herself it didn’t matter. She was here to work.

When she returned to the kitchen, a woman with hair the color of copper glanced at her and muttered, “Best keep your head down, girl.”

Sophia hesitated, unsure if she was meant to answer. But before she could speak, the woman turned away.

The rest of the morning passed in small, steady tasks — carrying water from the pump, polishing the edge of a serving tray, mending a seam in a tablecloth. Yet no matter how far from the great hall she was sent, Sophia could not shake the memory of the way Azriel had looked at her.

It hadn’t been unkind. It hadn’t been warm either. It was… watchful. Measuring. As though he was deciding something she could not begin to guess.

And beneath it all, there was the sense — impossible to name — that his presence carried a weight beyond what she could see. A gravity that lingered in the corners of rooms long after he left, making the air feel colder, the shadows deeper, and her own heartbeat louder than it had any right to be, as though the very walls remembered him.