The Weight of Kindness

The castle library was silent except for the occasional rustle of pages.

Lila sat curled up in a chair far too big for her, her knees drawn close, her head bent over a book. The afternoon sun poured through the tall windows, lighting her hair with soft warmth.

I stood in the doorway longer than I should have, watching. She looked… peaceful. And for once, not clumsy at all.

When she noticed me, she jolted upright, nearly dropping the book.

“M-my lord! I wasn’t— I mean, I was just—”

“Reading,” I said, stepping inside. “Exactly what I told you to do.”

Her lips pressed together, as if she wanted to argue but couldn’t. She clutched the book to her chest, her cheeks pink.

“…I’ve never read in a place like this before,” she admitted softly. “The village library had maybe ten books. Most of them torn.”

I tilted my head. “And yet you look as if you’ve been reading all your life.”

She blinked at me, startled. Then her gaze dropped. “…You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because they sound… kind.” Her voice wavered. “And I don’t know what to do with kindness.”

The words hit harder than I expected. My chest tightened, though I kept my expression unreadable.

“Then learn,” I said simply.

---

Over the next few days, I found excuses to linger where she was. Passing by the kitchens, only to find her humming softly while pouring tea. Stopping by the garden, just to see her frown in concentration at the roses.

She never noticed how my gaze followed her. Or if she did, she pretended not to.

But sometimes, when she thought I wasn’t looking, her eyes would linger on me too—quick glances, shy and uncertain.

And each time, it made the slow burn inside me grow hotter.

---

One evening, I returned later than usual. The knights had kept me with endless reports, and the weight of responsibility pressed heavier than ever.

When I pushed open the door to my study, I stopped.

She was there. Asleep at the desk, her head pillowed on her arms, the remains of a half-finished meal beside her.

My throat tightened. She must have waited.

Quietly, I moved closer, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. She stirred but didn’t wake, her lips parting in a soft sigh.

I should have stepped back. But instead, I leaned down, close enough to hear her breathing, steady and gentle.

The world outside could crumble, and I wouldn’t care—so long as she stayed here like this.

---

The next morning, she avoided my eyes.

“You… covered me with a blanket last night, didn’t you?” she asked, her voice small.

I arched a brow. “Would you rather I left you to freeze?”

Her cheeks flamed. “N-no, I just… you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” I said.

Her gaze flickered, then dropped to the floor. For a moment, silence stretched between us, thick with something unspoken.

Finally, she whispered, “…You make it too easy to forget who we are.”

“Who we are?”

“You’re… you,” she said, fumbling for words. “Important. Powerful. Everyone fears you. And I’m just… the maid who spills buckets.”

I studied her quietly. She truly believed that was all she was.

“You think that matters to me?” I asked.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She had no answer.

---

That night, as I sat alone, her words echoed in my mind. You make it too easy to forget who we are.

Good, I thought darkly.

Because I was determined to make her forget it every single day.

Even if it burned me alive in the process.

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