The palace feels quieter today, almost holding its breath. The light that seeps through the windows is tinted orange, the color of autumn and secrets.
I’m sitting beside Mira, brushing out her curls, when a soft knock echoes on the door. My heart leaps before I even move—there’s only one person who’d knock like that, low and cautious, as if the walls themselves had ears.
When I open the door, he’s there.
Prince Aldric—though not as a prince. The royal blues and golds are gone; instead, he wears a dark traveler’s cloak, boots dusted with earth, and a scarf covering half his face. If I didn’t know him, I might mistake him for a mercenary.
“Half an hour early,” I whisper, stepping aside. “You’re serious about this.”
He slips inside swiftly, his movements quiet, deliberate. No guard follows. Not even a shadow.
“Do you always sneak around like this?” I ask, shutting the door behind him.
He glances over his shoulder, his tone low. “You’d be surprised how many ways a prince learns to disappear.”
That thought sits uneasily in me—how easily he moves in silence, how well he fits in shadows. How many times has he done this before?
Mira gasps softly when she sees him, her eyes lighting up like lanterns. “Prince Aldric!”
He exhales, clearly unprepared for the child’s joy, but he doesn’t pull away when she runs up and hugs him. His body stiffens at first, uncertain, but slowly—hesitantly—he rests a hand on her back.
“Careful, little one,” he murmurs. “You’ll wrinkle your dress.”
Mira giggles and only holds tighter.
I can’t help but smile at the sight. Something about them—the dark prince and the frail child—feels like a strange painting that shouldn’t exist but does.
“She’s been waiting all morning,” I tell him quietly. “It means the world to her.”
He looks down at Mira again, then back at me. “I’ll take good care of her, Venn.”
“I know you will.”
He adjusts his cloak, pulling the hood low over his face. Then, kneeling to Mira’s level, he offers his hand. “Shall we?”
Mira’s fingers are so small in his, yet she grips them with trust I can’t explain. For a moment, I think—perhaps happiness itself fights curses.
They step toward the door, and I catch myself whispering, “Please, let it go well.”
Aldric glances back at me, hearing the prayer I didn’t mean to speak aloud. His eyes soften, the smallest hint of warmth breaking through his usual frost. Then he turns and disappears into the corridor, Mira trotting at his side.
The door closes, and silence swallows the room again.
I press a hand to my chest and breathe slowly. She’s safe. He’s capable. She’ll be fine. I repeat it like a spell until my hands stop trembling. Then, I return to work.
***
The hallways are half-empty when I pass through them. Outside, the sound of distant laughter drifts through the open windows—music, shouts, the rhythm of drums and joy. I pause once, looking out.
From this height, I can see the streets below. The people march toward the square, bright cloaks swirling in the wind, stalls blooming with lanterns. My heart aches at the thought that Mira is somewhere among them—alive, smiling.
I force myself to move on. There’s still work to do.
Liora is already waiting in the same room where we first met, her sleeves rolled up, hair tied with a ribbon. Spools of thread and stacks of fine fabric scatter across the table like a battlefield.
“Finally,” she says, not unkindly. “I thought the palace swallowed you again.”
“Almost did,” I answer, pulling up a chair. “What are we working on?”
“Uniforms,” she replies. “The diplomats from Ardelian arrive tomorrow. Everything has to look perfect, or the prince will lose sleep.”
“Then we’ll make sure he doesn’t.”
For the next hour, the two of us fall into rhythm—stitching, cutting, measuring. The work keeps my hands busy, but my mind drifts.
When Liora hums softly, I find myself asking, “Liora, can I ask you something… not about sewing?”
She looks up, curious. “That’s rare. Go on.”
“It’s about the king. The late one—King Percival.”
Her hands still. For a moment, the only sound is the faint hiss of thread through fabric. “What about him?”
“I never heard how he died,” I admit. “I grew up far from the capital. People in the villages… they only spoke of loss, not the cause.”
She exhales, the kind of sigh that carries memory. “A poisonous snake,” she says quietly. “It somehow got inside the castle. Slithered right into his chambers. Bit him in his sleep.”
I blink, horrified. “That’s… how?”
“No one knows.” Her lips thin. “He died peacefully, at least. The physicians said he never even woke.”
Peaceful. Yet the thought chills me. If snakes can find kings, what hope do the rest of us have?
“Is it safe here, then?” I ask softly.
Liora gives me a tired smile. “In palaces, safety is a myth, dear. We just keep stitching until someone notices the tear.”
***
Night creeps in sooner than I realize. Liora gathers her things, tucking her tools into her bag. “Don’t stay too late,” she says before leaving. “Even head seamstresses need rest.”
“I’ll finish this piece and go,” I promise.
When the door closes behind her, the silence grows thick again. Only the sound of my needle breaking through fabric fills the air.
The rhythm calms me—until the handle clicks.
I look up.
Lady Seraphine stands in the doorway, her gown a shimmer of ivory and pride. She steps inside without invitation, her perfume drowning the air.
“You’re still working, I see.” Her tone drips with sweetness too sharp to be genuine. “My dear prince has even granted you a higher status—the head of the seamstresses. How… kind.”
I keep my gaze on the uniform in my hands. “The prince does what he thinks best, Your Highness. If you have complaints, you should take them to him.”
Her voice sharpens. “Watch your tongue, little rat.”
I swallow the insult, pressing the needle through cloth. The thread shakes only slightly.
She circles me slowly, like a cat around a bird. “Do not think yourself so important, Lara Venn. The prince doesn’t grant favors to anyone. He pities you because of your father.”
“My father?” I murmur.
“Tailor Durden,” she says with disdain. “His name was known across the kingdom for perfect stitchery. The prince merely honors reputation, not the woman who happens to carry it. Keep your head low—and your thoughts even lower.”
I nod once. “As you wish, my lady.”
She lingers, waiting for me to break. When I don’t, she hums softly and glides toward the door.
When she leaves, the air feels lighter and heavier all at once.
I stare down at the fabric in my lap. Somewhere between her first insult and her last word, my hand had kept moving. But the stitch… It’s all wrong.
Crooked, uneven, the thread looping where it should be straight.
I set the needle aside and take a slow breath, forcing back the sting of tears. Then, carefully, I undo every thread, one by one.
If only hearts could be mended as easily as cloth.