Aldric does not come. Not the next day, not the day after. Not in any of the mornings where I steal glances toward the hall expecting the echo of his boots or the low hum of his voice. The silence he leaves behind weighs more than words could.
I bury the memory of that kiss deep beneath my ribs, like a sin sewn into the lining—hidden, close to the heart. But it burns.
In the palace courtyard, they dance again. Aldric and Seraphine—prince and sorceress, future king and queen. She touches his cheek with a smile polished to perfection. He bends his head, allowing her fingers to linger there for all to see. I stand behind the other servants, hands folded, pretending not to watch.
The musicians play bright, merciless tunes. The dancers swirl in circles of silk and gold. My workbasket rests at my hip, but I can barely feel its weight. I only feel the way my stomach knots when Seraphine presses a kiss to his cheek.
I swallow hard. I have no right to feel anything at all.
He glances my way once—so fleeting that I almost think I imagine it. Our eyes meet across the crowd. Then his mask lowers again, and he looks through me as though I am another thread in the tapestry.
***
Later, in the quiet of the servants’ wing, Ysabet reads from a battered book. Her voice drips softly into the candlelight, low and soothing.
“And the prince,” she reads, “fought the dragon not with sword, but with heart, for the truest magic is mercy…”
Mira stirs beneath her blanket, her forehead damp with fever. “Is he real?” she murmurs.
“He can be,” Ysabet smiles faintly.
I sit by the table, mending a torn hem, my eyes fixed on the needle. “In tales, mercy always wins,” I whisper.
Ysabet glances at me. “And in life?”
“In life, mercy is punished,” I murmur, and Mira’s small hand twitches as if she dreams of grasping mine.
Ysabet sighs, closes the book, and blows out the candle. “Go to sleep, Lara. You work yourself hollow.”
I nod, but sleep never comes. Only memories—his breath, his hands, the soft sound of my own breaking heart.
***
By noon, the hall hums with needles. Fabric rustles, scissors hiss. The sun spills stripes of gold across the long tables. I lose myself in work—anything to still the mind. I am stitching guard uniforms, the simplest of tasks, yet my hands move slower than usual.
Bootsteps echo down the corridor. A hush follows, the kind that runs before thunder. Aldric’s shadow stretches before him as he enters the hall.
Each seamstress straightens. Even Lady Seraphine’s absence cannot still the way his presence sharpens air into glass.
He moves between tables, inspecting each garment, his expression unreadable. When he stops beside me, I do not lift my head. My pulse throbs in my wrists. The memory of our kiss feels too near, too alive.
He says nothing. For a long moment, only silence and the sound of his breath. I feel his gaze—not on my work, but on me. On the uneven cut of my sleeves, the too-tight waist that strains when I bend.
I hold still.
At last, he moves on.
The air releases its grip on my lungs, and I exhale shakily. My hands tremble so much I prick my finger and watch the drop of blood bloom on the fabric.
He leaves without a word, and yet I feel more seen than I should.
***
That evening, Ysabet and I grind herbs into a paste. The scent is strong—mint and resin, sharp enough to sting the eyes. Mira lies half-asleep, her breath uneven but steady.
“She’ll sleep easier,” Ysabet says, mashing the bowl with the stone pestle. “This balm will cool her blood.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, helping her pour the mixture into a small clay jar.
Before I can finish sealing it, a knock cracks through the quiet.
Ysabet and I trade wary glances. “Come in,” I say.
A palace guard steps through the doorway. His armor glints in the candlelight. “Lara Venn,” he announces formally, “you are requested by order of His Highness, Prince Aldric.”
My heart skips. “Now?”
“Now.”
I wipe my hands on my apron, glancing once at Mira. Ysabet nods. “Go,” she says. “I will stay.”
The corridor feels colder than usual as I follow the guard. My thoughts twist in circles. Does he mean to reprimand me? Has word reached him that I can barely meet his eyes anymore? Or—
We stop at a set of tall double doors I’ve never entered before. The guard opens them and gestures for me to step inside.
The room beyond is long and filled with mannequins, shelves of folded silk, and chests lined with velvet. The air smells faintly of lavender and candle smoke.
When the doors close behind me, I realize I am not alone.
A tall woman stands by the window, her posture elegant and proud. Her skin is pale as porcelain, her hair nearly white, coiled into a braided crown. She turns at the sound of my steps, green eyes alight with amusement.
Before I can speak, she strides forward and loops a measuring tape around my waist.
I flinch. “Excuse me—who are you?”
“Liora Fleetlace,” she says smoothly, as though that explains everything. “Mistress of Wardrobes. Also the one who approved your employment here.”
I blink. “You… hired me?”
“Of course.” She tilts her head, measuring from my shoulder to my wrist. “Someone has to keep the palace clothed in decency.”
Her smile is quicksilver—sharp, elegant, unreadable. I struggle to keep up. “Madame Fleetlace, may I ask why I’ve been summoned?”
She laughs, a light, charming sound. “You may ask. But you may not receive the answer you expect.”
My confusion deepens. “I don’t understand—”
“Prince Aldric gave me an order,” she interrupts, looping the measuring tape around my hips. “To fashion you a new uniform.”
The words freeze me. “A… new uniform?”
“His exact phrasing was: see that she no longer looks as though she’s sewing in a dungeon.” Liora grins, eyes glinting. “If that’s not favor, I don’t know what is.”
“Favor?” I whisper, cheeks warming.
“Or promotion. Who can tell?” She waves a hand. “He didn’t specify, only that your current dress was an ‘offense to comfort and eyesight alike.’”
My throat tightens. “Why would the prince—?”
“Ah, ah.” She clicks her tongue. “Orders of the prince are not to be questioned. You’ll learn that soon enough.”
Before I can respond, she claps her hands once.
The room trembles faintly. Threads shimmer in the air like fireflies, winding up from the tables. The coarse gray fabric of my dress ripples. I gasp as it reshapes itself—the waist loosens, a black ribbon slides around it, tying neatly at the back. The sleeves shrink to a comfortable length, the fabric softening beneath my fingers.
Liora hums in approval. “Better already.”
“What—what are you doing?”
“Magic, darling.” She taps a finger to the collar, and the dull gray melts into deep crimson. Black lace blooms across the chest, delicate as frost on glass. The skirt flares, weightless, brushing my ankles in perfect measure.
I stand frozen, watching the transformation in awe. “Real magic,” I whisper.
“Indeed.” Liora steps back, admiring her work. “The kind that not many are trusted to wield.”
The mirror near the wall reflects someone I hardly recognize—a woman draped in quiet strength, eyes too bright for the dim light. My fingers trace the lace, the smooth seam of the ribbon.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.
“Thank the prince,” Liora says with a sly smirk. “He was very particular about the color.”
I look down at the deep red—rich as blood, warm as memory—and my heart stumbles.
“The prince,” I murmur, barely audible.
“Yes,” she confirms, turning to gather her tools. “He does have an eye for detail.”
But I am no longer listening. My pulse pounds in my ears, and all I can think is why. Why me. Why this. Why does he keep finding ways to reach me without speaking a word.
As the magic settles around me, I realize the truth with both dread and wonder:
I wear his will like a second skin.