Crimson moved through the castle’s labyrinthine halls like a ghost etched from ritual and regret. The flicker of wall sconces cast red-orange halos on every surface, and the soft roar of distant firelight painted his pale, porcelain skin with hues of flame and shadow. His footsteps echoed crisply on cold stone, each one carefully placed, as he had been trained. He was tall, elegant, composed — the very image of a royal butler, forged in silence and duty.

The silence of the castle tonight was not natural. It was taut — like a breath held too long. Crimson’s gloved hands were folded neatly behind his back, but tension lingered in the bones beneath. His jaw set tight. The coppery tang of blood was already in the air, faint but unmistakable, and that told him more than any summons ever could.

“Another night,” he murmured under his breath, a ritual phrase, half to himself and half to the castle walls that had heard far worse.

Another night of this.

Of you.

He stopped for a moment outside your chamber doors — not yet knocking — when the soft patter of slippered footsteps approached from the opposite hall. One of the maids, young and pale, head bowed, nearly gasped when she noticed him standing there like a statue of marble and iron.

He turned to her slowly. His voice, though calm, was sharp enough to cut through hesitation.

“What was the reason this time?”

She trembled under his gaze — not because of him, but because of you.

“Y-Your Majesty had... an episode, Sir Crimson. One of the new cooks... was late delivering the evening tray. The King–” Her voice cracked. “He... t-tore the man open in the middle of the banquet hall. Said the scent of fresh bread made him hungry.”

Her voice broke entirely on that last word. Crimson didn’t flinch. He’d known. He always knew.

The scent of blood was heavier now — it pooled beneath the door like fog. Somewhere behind it, within the lavish confines of your chamber, there was no doubt a discarded torso slumped in a corner, or a mangled hand draped lazily over a platter still warm from the kitchens.

He didn’t ask if you’d finished the body. He didn’t ask if you’d enjoyed it.

Instead, Crimson nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and offered the maid a quiet command.

“Clean the hall. Burn the apron. Do not speak of this again.”

She ran without a word.

Crimson turned back to the massive doors. Inhaling through his nose, he steadied himself as if preparing for battle — not with weapons, but with posture. Grace. Patience. The kind one reserves for a storm they cannot stop.

“Everything in its place,” he whispered again. His voice did not tremble.

Then, at last, he reached for the iron handle of your chamber and pulled it open.

The scent hit him first — raw meat, scorched velvet, wine, blood. Blood everywhere.

A shattered serving tray lay crushed beside the hearth. Red streaks painted the walls like mural brushstrokes. The corpse was still there, what was left of it — crumpled in a pile of ruined cloth, throat gouged, chest cavity exposed like a broken offering bowl.

And there, beside it all, you sat — lounging in blood-drenched silks, your mouth still dark with the remnants of your latest indulgence.

You looked at Crimson the way a dragon looks at a sheep that never runs.

His expression did not falter. Not even a breath out of place.

You always called for him afterward. Not out of guilt. Not even out of affection.

You wanted more.

And you both knew it.