The palace gates were rarely opened for guests of such high standing.
When they were, the entire household seemed to hold its breath.
By midmorning, the front courtyard was lined with guards—1 through 20 standing at perfect attention, armor polished to a mirror sheen. Maids clustered at the edges, whispering behind hands as the sound of approaching hooves echoed down the stone road.
Elara didn't need to see the carriage to know who was inside.
The heroine.
The girl who, in the novel, had walked into the palace like sunlight, pulling the prince's gaze away from everyone else as though it had never belonged to them at all.
The lacquered carriage rolled to a slow stop. Gold-embroidered curtains parted. A slender hand emerged first, gloved in pale silk, followed by a figure in traveling robes of deep sapphire.
Her hair fell like a waterfall of golden silk, her skin pale against the vibrant fabric. Every detail was flawless, from the measured way she stepped onto the carpeted stones to the faint, demure smile she offered the steward.
"Welcome, Lady Serina," the steward intoned, bowing deeply.
Serina. Hearing the name out loud made Elara's stomach tighten. It was one thing to remember the heroine. It was another to watch her come to life.
The prince appeared at the top of the steps, striding down with an ease that made the crowd draw back. His smile was warm, his bow deep—not the curt nod he'd given any other visitor in Elara's memory.
"You honor the palace with your presence," he said.
"It is I who is honored, Your Highness," Serina replied, her voice smooth as velvet.
The crowd shifted, pressing closer to catch every word. Elara hung back, staying in the shadow of the archway. Serina's gaze swept briefly over the servants, polite but without focus, as though she were looking at wallpaper rather than people.
That was fine. In this scene, she was invisible.
And invisibility was safety.
By evening, the palace buzzed louder than before. The maids in the servants' hall argued heatedly—
"Lady Serina is clearly the most beautiful woman in the palace," Maid B insisted.
"Not true," Maid C countered, "what about Lady Miren of the Eastern Isles? She's been close to the prince for years."
"That's different," B scoffed. "Lady Miren has status, but Serina's beauty is unmatched. Even Guard 4 said he nearly dropped his spear."
Elara kept her head down, polishing silver. She knew both names from the novel—Lady Miren was a political match for the prince in one timeline, but Serina's arrival usually erased her from the narrative. If the two women were already being compared…
The story was moving into its original track.
Somewhere deep in her gut, she felt the shift: the warmth in Serina's smile now carried the faintest edge of calculation. It wasn't aimed at her yet—but she'd read enough stories to know the moment anyone threatened the heroine's spotlight, that warmth could turn sharp.
And when that day came, Elara would have to be ready.