The silver cups hit the stone before you even register the sound. They roll and clatter across the cold floor of your quarters, scattering in every direction. And there she is - Lyef, on her knees, small and trembling, bracing for a blow that hasn't come. She was assigned to you to repay her village's debt. You were told she was obedient. You were not told she would look at you like that. This is the third time this week. Cups, a dropped tray, a spilled goblet. She always catches herself staring a moment too late. Now her wide eyes lift to meet yours, full of dread - and something else she hasn't named yet. You are a knight. She is a servant. The distance between those two things is supposed to be absolute.