They told me the morning after.
No warning, no whisper, not even the mercy of a delay. Just a summons. A message scrawled in looping gold ink and pressed into my hands with a quiet, "The Prince has requested you."
Requested.
The word rattled in my skull long after the messenger left.
I stared at the letter, at the ink that glittered faintly like it was laced with magic. It might as well have been written in blood.
Requested.
It was a lie. Princes didn't "request" servants. They commanded. They summoned. And when the command came like this—soft, wrapped in velvet and honeyed titles—it meant something worse than shouting. It meant he was planning something. It meant I'd caught his attention again.
I didn't want his attention.
Not when I'd spent the last few days blissfully unseen, invisible in the rhythm of routine. Scrubbing stone, polishing floors, folding linens—mindless, thankless work. It was the safest I'd felt since I arrived.
Now that safety was gone.
I folded the letter and tucked it into my apron, my fingers trembling despite myself. I couldn't afford to show fear. Not even here. Especially not here.
The head of servants found me before I could disappear into some quiet corner of the lower halls. Her lips were pressed into a tight line, her eyes unreadable.
"You're to report to the Prince's chambers immediately," she said. "You've been reassigned as his personal servant."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't even a sentence that allowed for resistance. I wanted to ask why. I wanted to scream. But I didn't.
I nodded once. "Yes, mistress."
She gave a curt nod and turned on her heel, leaving me standing there with the dull ache of inevitability pulsing in my chest. I hadn't failed. I hadn't drawn too much attention to myself. But it hadn't mattered. He noticed me anyway. And I was being pulled closer to the fire.
The Prince's wing was silent when I arrived, silent in the way that made the hair on my arms rise. Not empty. Just... watchful.
The guards didn't speak as I passed. They barely looked at me. But I felt their eyes anyway. I felt the weight of every unseen gaze behind doors and shadows.
And then I stood before his door. That massive, carved thing with veins of silver and runes.
I knocked. The silence that followed was long enough that I wondered if it was a trick.
Then—"Enter."
His voice was like smoke curling under the door. Smooth. Controlled. I opened it slowly and stepped inside. The Prince was at the window, looking out over the dark expanse of the palace grounds. He didn't turn.
"Close the door."
I did. Still, he didn't face me. Just stood there, hands clasped behind his back like he was contemplating the edge of the world.
"You were quiet this week," he said, voice calm. Measured. "I almost thought you were hiding from me."
I swallowed hard. "I was serving in the east wing, my lord."
"Mm." A hum. Not agreement. Not disagreement. "Do you think I'm so blind in my own palace that I didn't notice?"
I said nothing. There was nothing safe to say.
He turned then, and his eyes found mine like knives sliding into soft flesh. And yet... not cruel. Not yet.
"You're to serve me now," he said, stepping closer. "Personally. Every day."
The words rang like a bell tolling in my skull. I bowed my head. "As you command, my lord."
"I do command," he said softly. "And yet, something about your obedience feels like defiance."
My jaw clenched. I kept my eyes low. "That was not my intention."
He circled me again. Always circling. Like a predator testing the strength of a cage.
"No," he murmured, voice nearly a whisper. "But your intentions are rarely what they seem, are they?"
I said nothing.
A long pause.
Then, "Look at me."
I did.
His face was unreadable. Not beautiful, not cruel—just cold. Like marble carved into something vaguely human.
"I've decided something about you, little maid," he said. "I don't believe you're stupid."
My heart stuttered.
He continued. "You're very good at pretending. Your bows. Your silence. The way you avoid eye contact unless ordered. Flawless." A beat. "Too flawless."
I didn't breathe.
"I've seen real fear," he said. "Real servitude. It's messy. Hesitant. You—" His eyes narrowed. "You're calculated."
I forced myself to meet his gaze. Forced every thought screaming in my mind to silence.
"I was raised to serve well, my lord."
He tilted his head. "Were you?"
Another beat of silence. Then he smiled. It was the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes. The kind that said he enjoyed this game far more than he should. And it sent a wave of dread down my spine.
"Well, let us test how well you serve," he said, finally turning away. "Run my bath."
That was it. No more threats. No accusations. Just a command. I moved, glad for the distraction, my hands steady as I turned on the tap and steam rose into the massive tub. I kept my eyes on the water, on the marble and the heat, and not on the man behind me.
This was going to be harder than I thought.
Being in his chamber every day. Serving him directly. Watching his every move while he watched mine in turn. A game of masks layered over steel.
He didn't trust me. But he also didn't suspect what I truly was. Not yet. If he did, I'd be dead.
And so I would play the obedient servant. I would fetch his wine, lay out his clothes, clean the edges of his bath with trembling fingers and a bowed head. And when he spoke, I would listen. Because he thought he was the one breaking me. But cracks work both ways. And every word he let slip, every order, every glance—it brought me closer to understanding.
Closer to the King.
Closer to the throne.
And closer to the dagger I would one day plant in both their chests.