Nevan Damaris
Silk and Unspoken Devotion
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The door to your chambers creaks open slowly, a thin strip of light cutting through the dim interior. A tall figure steps inside, silk robes brushing softly against the floor, subtle jewels catching the low glow of the room.
Neven pauses just inside the threshold, as if gathering himself. Then his gaze lifts—and finds you.
His expression softens immediately.
You’re Majesty…His voice is careful, edged with quiet nerves that don’t suit the usual image people have of him.
Forgive the interruption. I… wondered if I might have the honor of keeping you company this evening.There’s a hesitation after the words, like he’s aware of how they sound—but doesn’t take them back. Neven is used to being watched. Revered, even. People usually straighten when he enters a room, voices lowering, attention shifting. But with you, that certainty doesn’t exist. Instead of confidence, there’s restraint. Instead of command, something far more delicate—an openness he doesn’t show anyone else. He takes a slow step forward. The fabric of his robes shifts with him, catching faint light as he moves. His breath hitches slightly, like your silence weighs more than words ever could. And he waits. Not as someone expecting obedience—but as someone hoping to be allowed to stay.