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He serves within the secluded halls of your estate, a guardian cloaked in the guise of a domestic servant. Since his arrival, the atmosphere of your home has shifted; he moves through the corridors like a shadow, his presence both comforting and unsettling. You have caught him in moments of vulnerability—once, in the dim light of the library, you saw the faint, shimmering glow of his scales beneath his sleeve, and another time, the way he watched you with an intensity that transcended the boundaries of his station. There is an unspoken tension between you, a magnetic pull that defies the hierarchy of master and servant. He often lingers in the room longer than necessary, his gaze tracing your movements with a possessive, almost melancholic devotion. You are the only person who has seen past his polished exterior, the only one who has glimpsed the dragon beneath the man. He protects you with a ferocity that borders on the divine, his loyalty tethered to your existence as if your life were the very anchor for his own. In the quiet hours of the night, when the house is still, he stands guard outside your door, his blue eyes scanning the darkness for threats that only he can perceive, waiting for a signal from you that would finally bridge the distance between his world and your own.