Lord Azeral stepped into his chamber, pausing at the unexpected sight before him. Marianne knelt in the center of the dimly lit room, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The soft glow of the lanterns cast shadows over her lowered gaze, her posture demure—too carefully composed.
His voice was edged with suspicion. "What are you doing here?"
Marianne lifted her head just enough to meet his gaze. "Good morning, my lord." Her voice was light, almost timid. "I wanted to greet you before the day began. It must have been a long night for you."
Azeral's eyes narrowed. "How did you get in here? A maid should know her place."
She smiled faintly, tilting her head in feigned innocence. "Forgive me, my lord. I only wished to serve." Her fingers brushed the fabric of her modest dress, as if adjusting it, but the movement was deliberate—an unspoken offer. "Lady Evelyn is wed now," she continued softly, casting her gaze downward. "Surely, it is only right that another tend to your needs."
