The moment I push open the door to my dormroom, a small voice cuts through the air like light through fog.
“Mom!”
Mira’s arms wrap around my waist before I even take another step inside. I sink to my knees at once, pulling her close, breathing her in—soap, lavender, warmth. My throat tightens.
“You’ve grown rather energetic lately, haven’t you, love?” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She laughs, soft and musical. “Ysabet gave me a potion that doesn’t taste like dirt this time!”
I smile, though my gaze drifts past her—to the far end of the room.
Ysabet stands near the bed, tired but smiling faintly as she stirs a potion. The liquid inside the glass shimmers blue, glowing softly like trapped moonlight. And beside the window—half hidden in shadow—stands Aldric.
His posture is rigid, his jaw tense. The way his eyes flicker toward me and then away makes something inside me twist painfully. Guilt. That’s what sits on his shoulders now.
I straighten, keeping Mira in my arms, pretending not to notice him. “You’ve been good for Ysabet, haven’t you?”
“Always,” Mira says proudly, then peers up at me. “Where were you, Mama? You were gone so long.”
I force a smile that feels brittle. “I had to help someone very important at the palace, love. But it’s all over now.”
“Did they say thank you?”
I hesitate. “In their own way.”
Before she can ask more, Ysabet steps forward, lifting the glass. “Time for another sip, sweetheart. Then you’ll rest.”
Mira wrinkles her nose but obeys, taking the potion. Ysabet gently guides her toward the adjoining washroom, murmuring quiet encouragements. The door closes softly behind them, and the silence that follows presses like iron.
I turn to leave—anything to avoid this moment—but before I make it three steps, his voice stops me.
“Lara—wait.”
I freeze. My name. He’s never said it like that before.
His hand closes around my arm—gentle, not commanding. Warm. “Please,” he says quietly. “Just a moment.”
My breath catches despite every wall I’ve built. The ache of hearing my own name from his lips—after days of being “Venn” and “seamstress”—is unbearable. I force myself to meet his eyes.
“I have to go,” I say.
“To where?”
“Work.”
I pull free, too quickly, and slip past him. My steps echo in the hall. I half expect him to follow. He doesn’t.
***
The palace feels different now—quieter, heavier. I walk fast, ignoring the curious looks from guards and servants. The corridor leading to the wardrobe hall smells of cedar and dye. When I push open the doors, I stop.
Liora isn’t alone.
She’s lounging on a velvet couch beside a tall knight in polished silver armor. The late sunlight from the window glints off his blonde hair. Both of them are laughing over steaming cups of tea.
For a heartbeat, I simply stare.
When Liora notices me, her face lights up. “Ah, dear! I’m so glad it’s all ended. Come join us!”
I blink, unsure if I should. “Am I interrupting?”
The knight—handsome in a rugged, almost mischievous way—waves a hand. “Not at all, miss Venn. Madame Fleetlace and I were just discussing the fine pleasures of palace dungeons.”
Liora chuckles. “And whatever may happen there sometimes.”
Something about his tone makes me frown, but I don’t question it. I step closer, and Liora immediately rises to pour me a cup.
“Tea fixes everything,” she says cheerfully, pressing it into my hands. “You’ve earned a moment of peace.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, sitting carefully. The warmth of the cup feels strange after days of cold stone.
Sir Brenno—if I remember the name correctly—leans back, one leg crossed over the other, casual as if the world owes him comfort. “You should’ve seen the look on the guards’ faces when they realized they’d jailed the wrong woman,” he says. “Half of them nearly swallowed their tongues.”
Liora giggles. “You enjoy your work far too much, Sir Brenno.”
“Enjoy it? I live for it,” he declares. “It’s rare that justice gets to wear my name.”
I can’t help a small laugh. It feels strange, foreign, but it escapes me anyway. “I’m grateful you found the truth.”
He shrugs modestly. “All in a day’s work, my lady seamstress.”
Liora rolls her eyes. “He’s unbearable when praised. Ignore him, dear.”
What follows is… unexpected.
For the first time in weeks, the air isn’t heavy with fear or suspicion. Liora tells ridiculous stories about noblewomen who can’t tie their corsets, Brenno one-ups her with tales from the battlefield that sound half true, half fantasy. I laugh—sometimes because they’re funny, sometimes because it feels good to remember how.
Liora laughs more.
“Why was 6 afraid of 7? Because 7 ate 9,” Sir Brenno grins, telling another awfully stupid joke that barely passes as a joke at all.
Liora, though, bursts in laughter. I'm not sure if she actually finds his jokes funny, or is there a different reason.
An hour drifts by like that—tea cooling, sun lowering, tension easing. For a little while, we’re not seamstress, mistress, and knight. Just people.
When Brenno stands to pour himself another cup, Liora leans toward me, lowering her voice.
“Sir Brenno told me Prince Aldric has paid you a visit,” she says softly. “How did it go?”
The cup in my hands stills. “Don’t even ask,” I mutter. “I don’t think I want to see the prince right now.”
Liora frowns. “Why not?”
“Because he didn’t believe me, Liora. I thought he was fair, that he’d at least listen, but when they dragged me out in front of everyone, he—he said nothing. Not one word.”
Her expression softens. “He still worked hard to prove you innocent, though. That counts, doesn’t it?”
I shake my head. “Sir Brenno worked hard to release me.”
Liora tilts her head. “Yes, but Sir Brenno is Prince Aldric’s mentor. Didn’t you know?”
I blink, startled. “What?”
“They’re close,” she explains quietly. “Always have been. The prince trusts him more than anyone. If Brenno fought for you, it’s because Aldric asked him to.”
My breath catches. I glance toward the knight at the tea table, humming to himself while stirring sugar into his cup. He doesn’t look like someone’s mentor. But something in the way he carries himself—unflinching, certain—tells me Liora’s right.
Aldric did believe me.
The realization unsettles me more than comfort does.
“I… have to think,” I say softly, setting the cup down. “Thank you for the tea, Liora.”
“Of course, dear,” she says, though her brow furrows in concern.
I rise, smoothing my skirt, and head for the door. As I walk past Brenno, he glances up and gives me a knowing half-smile.
“Don’t go thanking me too much,” he says lightly. “I hate it when gratitude turns to gossip.”
I pause, unsure how to respond, and he winks. “But for what it’s worth, he never stopped fighting for you.”
I don’t answer. I just nod once and step into the hallway, the air cooler against my skin.
The corridor stretches before me, bright with gold light, quiet with secrets.
I’m not sure what hurts more—his silence when I needed him most, or the thought that maybe… he never stopped believing at all.