The banquet after the Festival of Bloom shimmered with gold light and murmured laughter. Laughter that would soon be silenced.
Elara, tray in hand, stood exactly where Lady Miren had instructed her — just behind the Duke of Aurenne's chair. It was a position she would not have dared take otherwise, so close to one of the highest nobles in the land. But Miren's calm, imperious voice from earlier still rang in her ears:
> "You're assigned to serve the Duke. Mistakes will not be tolerated."
Across the table, Lady Serina glowed under the warm candlelight, her laughter musical as she charmed the guests. She was meant to be the focus, the star of this evening.
The ceiling above groaned. A sound too faint for most to notice — but the Prince did. His gaze snapped upward, dark eyes narrowing.
Before Elara could turn, a sharp crack split the air.
The chandelier's great golden frame lurched.
It was aimed for the far end of the table — directly over Serina's seat. But Serina had shifted moments ago, leaning to speak with a foreign envoy. Now… Elara and the Duke stood beneath it.
A blur of motion — the Prince shoved both Elara and the Duke out of the way, his arm an iron bar across her shoulders. Crystal rained down in glittering shards, smashing into the marble with a deafening crash.
Gasps erupted. Guards surged forward.
Elara blinked, breathless, her knees scraping the floor. The Prince's hand was still on her arm, steadying her. His voice was low, urgent. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, but her voice faltered. "N-no, Your Highness… thank you."
His gaze lingered on her for half a second longer than necessary before he straightened, already barking orders to the guards.
Lady Miren's eyes narrowed ever so slightly from across the table. She knew this wasn't how the night was meant to unfold. That chandelier was supposed to fall for someone else — yet, because she had told Elara to stand here… the pattern had shifted.
The banquet resumed in uneasy fragments. Nobles murmured, casting wary glances upward as servants swept away shards of crystal.
It was then Lady Miren noticed who had been seated beside her — the same foreign dignitary she had met once before, when she'd been asked to stand in Serina's place. The man whose eyes had assessed her with the cool precision of a blade even then.
"You again," she said softly, the corners of her lips curving in faint acknowledgment.
He returned the look with measured ease. "I thought it might be you. Fate, perhaps."
"Or bad timing," she countered, sipping her wine.
His lips curved faintly. "I was merely observing how people react when danger strikes. Some scream, some freeze… and some," his eyes locked with hers, "remain calm, as if they've seen worse."
Miren's smile was polite, yet unreadable. "If you've lived in court long enough, you learn that most disasters here begin under chandeliers or behind closed doors."
"Spoken like someone who has survived a few."
She tilted her head. "And you speak like someone who knows more than he says."
He raised his goblet, the faintest glint of challenge in his gaze. "Perhaps I do. Or perhaps I simply enjoy interesting company."
Their glasses touched with a soft chime. Neither looked away.
Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, Elara kept her head bowed as she brushed tiny shards of crystal from the Duke's sleeve.
"You," the Duke said, his deep voice breaking the hum of conversation, "saved my life tonight, whether you realize it or not."
Her breath caught. "I… I only—"
He studied her for a moment, as if trying to place her. "What's your name?"
The question hit harder than she expected. Her first instinct — the truth she had carried since arriving here — rose to her lips: Maid D.
But something in her chest tightened. The words shifted, and at the last possible heartbeat, she said, "Elara."
"Elara," he repeated slowly, tasting the sound. "Then I owe Elara a debt."
Unseen by most, the Prince's half-brother — Lord Rael — observed the entire exchange from the shadows near the columns. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes followed Elara longer than they should have.
Somewhere deep in the weave of the story, threads shifted. And the plot… noticed.