His Eyes Own Me

Third person POV Elara learned early that silence was not a choice in Silverwood. It was a condition imposed on people who were not considered important enough to be heard. She moved through the Pack estate the same way she moved through most of her life, carefully, quietly, and with the constant awareness that being noticed could easily become a mistake. The stone halls were always cold in the mornings, even when the sun rose over the outer walls. Elara would begin her day before most of the Pack was awake, cleaning corridors, preparing supplies, and ensuring that nothing in her presence ever disrupted the flow of those above her. It was easier that way. If she did not disturb anything, she was less likely to be corrected. Correction in Silverwood was never gentle. She kept her head slightly lowered as she worked, not out of fear, but out of habit formed over years of understanding her place. People passed her without acknowledgment. Some looked through her as if she were part of the architecture. Others looked at her only when something was required, and even then, their attention lasted no longer than necessary. Elara had long stopped expecting more. By midday, she moved toward the lower storage wing where supplies were sorted and counted. The space smelled of damp wood and dried herbs. It was one of the few areas where she could remain without constant supervision. That alone made it feel like a kind of relief. It was there she met Torin. He was not supposed to be there at that hour. Warriors rarely entered the storage wing unless called. His presence changed the atmosphere instantly, not because he demanded attention, but because attention naturally followed him. Torin was still young, but already recognized within the Pack as someone rising quickly through the ranks. Strength followed him like a shadow, and even when he was silent, people adjusted their behavior around him. Elara noticed him before he noticed her. He stood near the far end of the hall, reviewing supply records with a calm focus that made him seem distant from everything around him. When he finally looked up and saw her, something subtle shifted in his expression. It was not surprise. It was recognition. As if he had been aware of her existence longer than she had been aware of his. “You are new in this section,” he said. His voice was steady, controlled, but not unkind. Elara hesitated slightly before responding. “I was reassigned last week.” He studied her for a moment longer than necessary, not in a way that made her uncomfortable, but in a way that made her aware she was being seen rather than overlooked. “I have not seen you before,” he said. “That is not unusual,” she replied quietly. Something flickered in his eyes at that answer, though he did not comment on it. Instead, he stepped slightly closer, closing the distance between them in a way that felt intentional rather than accidental. Elara did not move back. She had learned not to react too quickly to people like him. “What is your name?” he asked. “Elara.” He repeated it once, as if testing the sound. Then he nodded slightly, as though confirming something to himself. From that moment, his attention did not leave her entirely. Days passed, and Torin began appearing in places he had no reason to be. The storage wing. The training perimeter. The outer paths near the servant quarters. Each encounter was brief, but each one carried the same quiet tension of recognition. He did not treat her like the others did. He did not ignore her. And he did not yet claim her. Instead, he observed. Elara did not understand why that unsettled her more than dismissal ever had. Their connection formed in fragments. Small conversations that lasted only moments. Shared silence that stretched longer than expected. A familiarity that grew without permission from either side of their world. Then came the night everything shifted. It was late when Torin found her behind the outer storage sheds, where the light from the estate barely reached. The air was colder there, and the sound of the Pack was distant enough to feel like another life entirely. “You come here often,” he said. Elara did not turn immediately. “Only when I want quiet.” “That is rare in this place,” he replied. She finally faced him then. “Quiet is not something Silverwood offers freely.” Something in his expression softened slightly at that. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Torin stepped closer, slower this time, as if testing whether distance between them mattered in the same way it did elsewhere. “You should not spend so much time alone,” he said. “I am not alone,” she answered before she could stop herself. That made him pause. He studied her more carefully now, as if trying to understand the meaning behind her words rather than the words themselves. Then, without warning, he reached out and gently adjusted something near her shoulder, a small gesture meant to remove dust or debris. The contact was brief, but it carried a weight neither of them acknowledged aloud. Elara felt it anyway. Not as romance. Not as safety. As possibility. Over time, that possibility became routine. Their meetings became secret, hidden in places where the Pack did not look closely. Torin spoke to her differently in those spaces. Softer. Less guarded. Almost like someone who did not need to perform strength for a moment. To Elara, those moments felt like breathing without pressure. But they always ended the same way. He would leave first. He would return to his world. And she would remain behind. One evening, she asked him something she had avoided for a long time. “Why do you only come to me when no one is watching?” The question lingered in the air longer than expected. Torin did not answer immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful. “Because I am not yet in a position where I can afford distraction.” Elara understood the words, even if she did not want to. “You see me as distraction,” she said quietly. “No,” he replied quickly. “That is not what I mean.” But he did not correct it further. That silence was the beginning of something neither of them named. Not love. Not rejection. Something suspended between both. And in Silverwood, anything that could not be named clearly was usually something that did not survive long enough to be understood.