Dawn arrived as a pale promise, slipping through the narrow window of my room and painting the stone walls in soft gold. The bells of the palace rang—not the deep summons that heralded morning parade or council, but the lighter chime that signified the first call for personal servants. My heart stuttered at the reminder of my new role. I was no longer tucked away in distant hallways or blending into the laundry rooms. I belonged to him now, bound by unspoken chains of duty and defiance.
I rose from my bed in silence. My hair was still damp from the night, the silver pin holding my braid in place feeling unusually heavy in my hand. I dressed in the charcoal livery he had chosen for me—simple, unadorned, meant to vanish against the polished stone of the palace. No pockets. No hidden seams. No safety net.
I swallowed. Steady now.
From the small wash basin, I washed my face and rinsed my mouth with cold water. I studied my reflection—Lira, the obedient servant. Lira, who drew his bathwater and lit his candles. Lira, who never spoke unless spoken to, whose eyes only flickered when given permission. The lie weighed on me like a hood of iron.
The corridor outside was hushed. I heard distant footsteps—early risers among the palace guard—and the soft murmur of the wind outside. The air tasted of dew and stone. I followed the path I had memorized, mapping each turn in my mind like a prayer. I passed the empty alcove where I first glimpsed the hidden passage, and I reminded myself that I would return. Soon.
At the Prince's door, I paused. The morning light spilled around the edges of the heavy wood, painting the runes carved into the frame in gleaming relief. My pulse thrummed in my temples. I gripped the silver handle and knocked once, the sound echoing down the marble hallway.
"Enter." His voice was distant, as though carried on the other side of a glass wall.
I drew in a steadying breath and pushed the door open.
He lay across the bed, reading a leather-bound tome with no title on its spine. His hair was loose, spilling over the pillow like shadows, and his tunic was dark against the pale sheets. For a moment, he looked human—just a man absorbed in text. Then he glanced up at me, and the moment shattered.
"Lira," he said, setting the book aside. "You're early."
My mouth went dry. "My lord, you requested my presence early today."
He raised an eyebrow. "I did indeed." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, stretching the tunic taut across his shoulders. The light caught on the runic tattoos at his collarbone—an intricate web of lines that pulsed faintly with magic. "Let us begin."
I moved to the armoire where his clothing lay folded in neat stacks: crisp shirts of muted blues and silvers, trousers of fine wool, boots lined with velvet. My fingers trembled as I selected the first shirt and passed it to him. He took it without a word, buttoning it in precise, practiced movements.
I watched him, every motion, every breath, memorizing. His gaze flicked to me once, assessing, as though determining what I knew. He finished the shirt and slipped into his trousers. Then he turned. His eyes, pale as winter ice, locked onto mine.
"Tell me," he said, voice low, almost casual, "what makes a secret worth keeping?"
My heart froze. I kept my face impassive. "Secrets protect us, my lord. They keep the truth where it is safest."
He smiled—thin and sharp. "And yet, secrets can kill." He gestured at his attire. "Buckle the belt."
I obeyed, fingers deft despite the tremor in my chest. "Yes, my lord."
He adjusted his cloak, the dark fabric falling around him like a cloud. Then he turned away, noting the time by the candlelight.
"The court convenes at midmorning," he said. "You will join me."
I blinked. "Join you?"
He glanced over his shoulder. "Yes. A servant should accompany his master in public. Is this... difficult for you?"
I forced a calm smile. "Of course not." Inside, I reeled. Public appearances with the Prince were dangerous. Every eye would see me at his side. Every whisper would spread. But I nodded. "I will be ready."
He returned to the window, pulling the curtain aside to let light flood the chamber. "Good." He paused, as though considering. Then he said quietly, "You will learn much about me today."
I braced myself, every muscle coiled. "As you wish, my lord."
He didn't thank me. He didn't smile. He only nodded and closed the curtain. The chamber darkened.
I prepared his boots, polishing the fine leather until it gleamed like onyx. Each stroke of my cloth felt like a promise and a threat all at once. When I finished, I placed them at the foot of the bed.
He slipped them on and stood. He reached a hand toward me. My breath caught.
He took my wrist, warming it with his palm, and guided my fingers to the sword at his hip. The hilt was simple—black steel wrapped in midnight leather. My pulse hammered. I knew the weight of that blade. I'd seen it draw blood.
"It matters little who wields a weapon," he said softly, "if the hand is true."
He let go. His eyes bored into mine. "Do not disappoint me."
Then he turned and strode from the room. I followed, silent as a shadow.
The great hall of the palace was already filling. Courtiers in silks of every hue whispered as they found their seats on benches carved with thorn motifs. Soldiers in dark armor stood sentinel along the marble aisles. Above us, chandeliers of crystal and silver caught the morning light, scattering prisms across the gilded walls.
He walked at the center aisle, knowing every head bowed, every gaze followed his steps. I fell in behind him, exactly one pace. Close enough to hear the rustle of his cloak, distant enough to remain unseen. I memorized the faces around me—noble families, envoys, advisors—every person whose name might appear in some ledger or whose loyalties might tip the scales of power.
The King sat on his throne, a towering seat carved into the shape of twisted thorns. He wore crown and robes of deepest crimson. His gaze, when it fell on the assembly, was like ice. When it fell on the Prince, only the faintest flicker of approval passed across his features.
I held my breath.
The Prince knelt before his father correctly, a bow more than mere gesture—an act of respect and subtle defiance. The King's eyes narrowed. The courtiers stilled.
Words were exchanged—phrases I could not catch from this distance. A soft murmur among the nobles, but none dared breathe too loudly.
Then, as if a signal released, the court burst into action: petitions were presented, coins exchanged, alliances whispered. I listened to snippets—something about new border skirmishes, tax levies on human villages, an envoy from Chishma seeking marriage alliance.
My mind raced.
Every word was a clue. Every gesture a potential threat. The King's cruelty lurked in the details. The Prince's subtle resistance glimmered in his stance.
And in the sea of faces, I remained a ghost. Until a hand fell on my shoulder.
I almost flinched. Almost. He was at my side, standing at rigid attention. His gaze was not on me, but ahead.
I realized he had moved me to his side intentionally. Protection or show—that was his choice. But the effect was the same: I was visible now, at the very heart of the court.
My blood chilled.
He leaned close and whispered, "Observe."
I forced my mask. "Yes, my lord."
He turned slightly so we stood side by side, our shoulders aligned. He made no effort to shield me. No offer of comfort. Just a slight lift of his chin, as though daring the world to notice. I swallowed. The truth was clear: he wanted eyes on me. Perhaps to watch me slip. Or perhaps to see how I moved in the light.
I clenched my fists at my sides. This was my moment. Under the watchful eyes of a tyrant king and a cunning prince, I would gather every scrap of knowledge I could. Every whisper. Every glance. Every omission.