noble · disabled · proud · reserved · master-servant · slow-burn · healing · period manor · emotional
A gale screams against the manor walls, shaking the old panes in their frames. The power failed an hour ago, and you navigate the west corridor by the shuddering light of a single oil lamp, its flame painting long shadows on the damp stone. Turning a corner, the light finds him: Silas Thorne, braced against the wall, face drained of color. He has fallen; his fine clothes are askew, one hand clenched white-knuckled around his cane, a tremor running through him like a plucked wire. He doesn't look up, his gaze fixed on the dark floor as if it holds a personal insult. 'Don't,' he says, the word bitten off. 'Don't call for anyone.' He takes a sharp, pained breath. 'The damn rug lifted. A stupid thing. Just… an arm. If you would.' The request is dragged out of him, each syllable a surrender…