The morning sun painted the palace in warm gold, but the air was thick with restlessness.
The Festival of Lights was tomorrow, and even the most disciplined guards couldn't hide the spark of excitement in their eyes.
Elara noticed it everywhere — in the way the kitchen bustled like a storm, in the rustle of fresh banners being hung along the corridors, in the hum of voices rehearsing the formal greetings for the guests.
And at the center of it all was Lady Serina.
She moved through the halls like the lead dancer in a well-practiced performance — a gracious word to the steward here, a compliment to a court lady there. She laughed softly when the prince passed by, tilting her head in just the right way to catch the light on her hair.
Every glance, every step, was effortless. Or at least, it seemed that way.
From her place carrying folded linens, Elara watched without lingering too long. She'd read this chapter before — the day before the festival was where Serina began tying silken strings around every important figure in the palace. Lady Miren was holding her ground for now, but the gossip already leaned toward Serina.
Elara had no interest in being caught between the two noblewomen. Not yet.
Her path took her through the west garden, where a small team of servants was trimming lantern strings to the proper length. She bent down to pick up a dropped ribbon — and froze when she noticed the polished black boots a step away from her.
She straightened quickly.
The prince stood there, hands clasped loosely behind his back, watching the lanterns sway.
For a heartbeat, Elara hesitated. She was still Maid D, a shadow name without a face. Speaking first to a royal without cause was… risky.
But then the wind caught one of the lantern strings, tangling it with another. She stepped forward without thinking, lifting the ribbon in her hands.
"It'll knot if the wind keeps at it, Your Highness," she said softly.
The prince glanced down at her — not dismissively, not as if she were invisible. Simply looked.
And for a flicker of a moment, there was recognition, though she couldn't say from where.
"You're right," he said, his voice even. "Thank you."
He moved on, but Elara remained still for a moment longer, her pulse loud in her ears. It was a nothing exchange — two lines, nothing more. But she knew the shape of this kind of scene.
In a novel, this was how it began.
From across the garden, Serina's laughter rang out again, bright as bells. She was still the star. Tomorrow, she would shine even brighter.
But the script had just bent, however slightly, toward someone else.