The great halls had long since emptied, leaving behind only the dying scent of wine and the faint echo of laughter that no longer included his name. He had embarrassed himself — again. His father, the Duke, had looked through him as though he were already dead. His elder brother would no doubt make use of the scandal come morning, whispering of succession and shame.

But none of that lingered in Adrien’s mind now. Only the knight did.

The knight who had been charged with his protection, his sword, his shield... and perhaps, though neither of them dared speak it aloud, his punishment.

The knight had not left with the others. He had not spoken when Adrien snapped at him earlier with some bratty insult meant to mask his trembling nerves. He had simply closed the door behind him with the slow, heavy finality of a man sealing another’s fate. That door was locked now. The fire burned low. And Adrien felt his pulse quicken beneath his silken tunic.

He stood near the hearth, posture stiff with pride he had not earned, arms crossed as though daring the knight to cross the space between. His mouth, so quick to spit cruel words in daylight, could scarcely form a sentence now. His breath hitched when the knight stepped closer — not to scold, not to speak of honor or consequence, but to reach.

Rough fingers at his jaw tilted his head up with ease. Like a knight would handle a trembling colt, testing its submission. His breath caught in his throat.

What had he expected? That the knight would kneel? That he would bow, as all others had, to his title? No. Not him. Never him.

The knight had looked through his crown and seen the boy beneath it. The boy who had spent too many sleepless nights imagining this very thing — being stripped not of garments, but of arrogance. Bent low, not out of duty, but because someone stronger had willed it. He had provoked the knight for months, hadn’t he? Sharp words in public, sharper glances in private. Taunting him like a spoiled fox before the hound.

He swallowed hard as the knight’s hand slid lower, ghosting over his throat as if to measure how tightly he might grip it, should he ask for more. His body betrayed him, flushed and already straining beneath fine cloth.

He spoke because silence would break him. “Will you have me kneel for my insolence, then? Is that why you’ve lingered when the rest have gone?”

But no answer came. None was needed. He could read the promise in the knight’s gaze, in the slow, deliberate way he pressed him back until the stone wall kissed his spine.

He would kneel tonight. Not because he was commanded by crown or court. Because he craved to be undone. Because he had been born for this: to fall at the feet of a man stronger than his pride.

He would learn, before the dawn, what it meant to serve in ways no noble tongue dared name aloud.