The servants' hall smelled of bread crusts and ash from the kitchen hearth. Long benches lined the walls, each worn smooth from years of elbows and gossip.
Elara—D—sat at the far end, spooning broth into her mouth with the deliberate pace of someone trying not to be noticed. The wooden spoon was heavy in her hand, and her mind was still replaying the banquet: the gleam of the prince's coat, the way his gaze had almost met hers before A stepped in.
It shouldn't have been possible. She was just D, a maid with no face, no lines, not even a scene in this part of the story. And yet, the prince had looked—
"You saw it too, didn't you?"
Elara blinked. Across from her, B was leaning forward, voice low, eyes bright. "At the banquet. The prince looked right at you before A got to him."
The spoon paused halfway to her mouth. "…I was just serving wine."
"That's what makes it strange." B glanced toward the door, lowering her voice further. "Everyone says the prince never notices anyone unless they're highborn. But I swear, he was about to speak to you."
On the next bench over, C let out a laugh that was more snort than humor. "Please. D's just a shadow. If the prince looked at her, it was by accident."
Elara smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. C wasn't wrong—that was exactly what the story wanted her to be.
But then the door opened, and the hum of chatter dimmed.
A stepped inside. Her crimson hair ribbon caught the lamplight, her skirts swishing as she crossed the room with that same poised glide she'd used at the banquet. Conversations restarted in cautious whispers as she sat at the center bench, accepting a mug of cider from one of the kitchen boys without so much as a "thank you."
Her gaze swept the hall like she was taking attendance. Then it landed on Elara.
It wasn't long—just a flicker of attention before she looked away. But Elara's stomach tightened.
A was suspicious.
She had every reason to be. The wine incident had not gone as planned in the story—A should have been the star of it, holding the prince's focus just long enough to set up the heroine's entrance. Instead, the moment had fizzled, and worse, the prince had almost looked past her.
Almost looked at D.
The thought was dangerous.
Elara lowered her head, forcing herself to sip the last of her broth as if nothing had changed. But deep inside, she felt the faintest thrill.
The script was already fraying.