The door creaks open just before midnight.
I’m sitting by the window when they slip in—Prince Aldric and Mira, hand in hand, their shadows long and soft against the candlelight. Mira’s cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright in a way I haven’t seen in months. For a moment, she doesn’t look cursed. She looks alive.
“Mom!” she beams, running to me. “You should’ve seen it! There were lights everywhere, and music, and people who threw candies from the balconies!”
I kneel, arms open, and she collides into me, still laughing breathlessly. “Slow down, sweetheart—tell me everything.”
Her words tumble like water. “There were dancers in masks! And clowns who juggled fire! And a man who made animals out of smoke—oh, and a cart full of pink sweets! The prince bought me one!”
I glance up at Aldric. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his hood down now, his face half in shadow, half in that quiet look that never quite fits a man his age. He watches her with the faintest smile tugging at his lips.
“She wouldn’t stop asking questions,” he says lightly. “I think half the market knows her name now.”
Mira giggles, proud. “He let me sit on his shoulders, Mama! I could see everything from up there!”
“You did?” My voice trembles between joy and disbelief.
Aldric shrugs, but the corners of his mouth curve just a little higher. “Seemed safer than the crowd trampling her.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, holding Mira’s hands. “Truly.”
He waves it off. “She’s stronger than you think.”
When Mira yawns, I brush her hair back. “Go wash your hands, little one, then off to bed.”
She nods, still smiling, and scurries toward the wash basin. The sound of water splashing fills the small room. I rise slowly, turning to Aldric. For the first time in a long while, I feel my chest loosen.
“She’s glowing,” I say softly. “You’ve done more for her in one night than medicine has in weeks.”
He chuckles quietly. “Then maybe I should come around more often.”
I blink. “Is that a joke or a promise?”
“Maybe both.”
The air stills for a moment, heavy but not unpleasant. Then he straightens his cloak again. “Goodnight, Venn.”
“Goodnight, my prince.”
When he leaves, the room feels emptier—but warmer, too. Mira slips into bed beside me, still murmuring about lanterns and music until sleep steals her words.
***
Morning comes with the sharp smell of fabric dye and the clatter of scissors. I meet Liora in the lower hall, both of us juggling armfuls of cloth. She’s already giving orders before I manage a proper greeting.
“Fold the collars evenly. No creases, or the diplomats will cry scandal,” she says briskly. “And remember—the Ardelian delegates prefer gold thread. Too much silver and they’ll start lecturing about wealth.”
I follow her lead, our steps echoing through the marble corridors.
“Everything will go well,” she assures me with a grin. “We only need to deliver the costumes before the council starts. Easy, yes?”
“Easy,” I echo, though my stomach knots.
The day races by in a blur of stitching, measuring, and silent prayers. When the bells toll high noon, we carry the finished garments up to the third floor.
I’ve never been here before. The air feels different—cleaner, colder, sacred. The floors gleam like mirrors. Servants lower their voices as they pass, as if afraid of disturbing the ghosts of power that live in these halls.
“You’ll get used to it,” Liora murmurs beside me. “Or you won’t.”
We stop before a silver-lined door. She gestures for me to hold the folded uniforms while she smooths her skirt. Then she lifts her hand and snaps her fingers.
At once, the golden seams on the garments begin to glow. Threads move like living light, weaving lace and embroidery into impossible patterns.
I gasp. “By the heavens—”
“Magic, my dear,” Liora says with a knowing smile.
“Can it be taught?”
She shakes her head. “It’s born, not learned. Like a song in the blood.”
Before I can answer, she knocks. The door opens with a soft groan, and a rush of perfume and smoke spills out.
Inside, the room is filled with nobles and foreign guests. Every surface glitters with wealth—their rings, their armor, their wine. Aldric stands near the head of the long table, posture firm, expression unreadable. Lady Seraphine glows beside him, all perfect posture and poison wrapped in lace.
I keep my head low, following Liora’s graceful lead as she lays each uniform on the table. The diplomats—dark-skinned, sharp-eyed, like predators among prey—nod in approval.
One of them, a tall woman draped in gold and black, lifts her chin at me. Her gaze slices sharper than any blade.
“That must be Lady Qazzi,” Liora whispers quickly, placing the last garment.
We both bow. Just as we turn to leave, Seraphine’s voice cuts the air.
“Fleetlace,” she says sweetly. “Stay a moment.”
Liora blinks. “Oh? Why would that be, Your Highness?”
Seraphine’s eyes narrow. “Do you dare question my orders?”
Liora lowers her head. “Of course not.” She throws me a quick, apologetic glance. “Go on, dear. I’ll catch up soon.”
I nod and leave quietly, the door shutting behind me with a sound that feels final.
***
Back in the working hall, the world feels normal again. Brina and Lise are hunched over their tables, needles moving in rhythm.
“So?” Brina asks when she spots me. “What was it like? The third floor?”
“Beautiful,” I admit. “Terrifying.”
Lise laughs. “That’s every corner of this palace.”
We talk softly about work, about the festival, about Mira’s sudden brightness. For an hour, the day almost feels ordinary.
Then the door bursts open.
Five guards flood the room, armor clanking, eyes hard. The air freezes.
One steps forward. “Lara Venn, you are to be brought to the meeting room.”
I blink, rising from my chair. “Me?”
No one answers. Rough hands grab my arm before I can say more. “Wait—what is this about?”
“Move.”
The hallway blurs around me. The guards drag me up the grand staircase, past curious glances and whispers. My heart pounds so loudly I barely hear my own footsteps.
They shove open the silver-lined door again and throw me inside. I stumble to my knees on the polished floor.
Aldric is there—standing, watching. His face is carved from stone.
Across the room sit the diplomats. Their eyes are colder now. One of the guards steps forward and places something heavy on the table.
A necklace. Pure gold, gleaming like sunlight.
“This,” the guard says, “was found in Lara Venn’s dormroom chest during inspection. It matches the description of Lady Qazzi’s stolen jewelry.”
The woman in gold—Lady Qazzi—leans forward, her expression thunderous.
My breath catches. “No,” I whisper. “No, that’s impossible. I didn’t—”
Before I can finish, another guard reaches into my dress pocket. I flinch as his hand closes around something cold. He pulls it free—a ring, also gold.
My knees nearly give out. “That’s not mine!”
The guard holds it up for everyone to see. “The stolen ring of Lady Qazzi.”
A murmur ripples through the room. I turn toward Aldric, desperate. “I didn’t do it,” I plead. “I swear I didn’t! You have to believe me!”
But his eyes… his eyes are unreadable. Cold. Controlled. He doesn’t speak and that silence cuts deeper than any blade.
The guards seize my arms again, dragging me backward toward the door.
“I didn’t do it!” I shout, the words tearing from my throat. “Please—you have to believe me!”
But no one moves. No one speaks. Only the sound of the door slamming echoes behind me as they pull me away, and the taste of betrayal burns like metal on my tongue.