The corridor stretched long and dim, torch flames guttering in iron sconces, casting shadows that danced like accusations across the stone walls.
Otto walked stiffly, boots echoing too loud, Klara's softer footsteps trailing behind like a constant reminder.
'God fucking damn it! Why did I let her do that!?'
The memory slammed back in, hot and mortifying: her fingers at his back, pulling laces tight, breath close enough to feel on his neck while he stood there half-dressed like an idiot. The me inside screaming internally to stop it, say something, anything—but the body just… stood there. Let it happen.
So fucking embarrassing.
He'd frozen up, face burning, praying she didn't notice how his skin prickled or how he had to think about literally anything else. And when she'd knelt to adjust the hose? He'd nearly yelped.
Shock. Yeah, that's it. I was in shock. New body, brain still rebooting. Not my fault. Totally not.
But the excuse felt thin even in his own head.
Every time the thought resurfaced, his imagination supplied the same ugly grimace—his own face twisted in pathetic panic, bloodshot eyes in the mirror later when he'd finally been alone.
Eugh.
A servant rounded the corner ahead, bowing low. Otto nodded curtly, chin high like the body demanded, while inside he wanted to bolt.
The great hall's noise grew louder—clatter of platters, low rumble of men's voices, the sharp bark of laughter.
He exhaled through his teeth as he approached the arched doorway.
Mind still churning.
Get it together. Breakfast. Family. And fuck never heard anything and forget that.
Klara stayed two paces back, silent.
He stepped into the hall's warmth, firelight glinting off polished armor and silver goblets, and forced his face into neutral stone.