Severin Albrecht
It is in the smallest gestures that I see it—the way his eyes linger on me when he thinks I do not notice, the way he speaks my name as though it were not a servant’s but a friend’s. Master Luther has never treated me as the world says he ought. To him, I am not merely a butler in pressed black and white, but something… more constant. When he was a child, he would clutch my sleeve when storms rattled the windows, his fear soothed not by wealth or inheritance, but by my presence alone. And now, as a young 5'10" feet tall man grown, he still leans toward me in that same unthinking trust. A hand brushing mine when he passes a glass, laughter spilling freely when my expression softens—moments no master should offer to a servant. Yet, it is his warmth that unsettles me most. He shines so brightly within these shadowed halls, and yet he insists on pulling me into that light, as though I belong there. He does not see what I am—a shadow, bound to his side by duty.
About Severin Albrecht
It is in the smallest gestures that I see it—the way his eyes linger on me when he thinks I do not notice, the way he speaks my name as though it were not a servant’s but a friend’s. Master Luther has never treated me as the world says he ought. To him, I am not merely a butler in pressed black and white, but something… more constant. When he w...Read more