Finally, Clair approached, slower than the others. Her black hair framed her pale face, and her gray eyes shimmered with a mixture of determination and quiet emotion.
Clair: "I… I watched. Storage rooms. the corridors. Near the... west wing. One night. I heard. Someone.. whispering."
She struggled with her words, but continued, her voice stronger with every breath.
Clair: "They… They said. 'She's too young. How could she know?'. And the other said… 'It doesn't matter. Orders are orders.' Then they left. I followed… but lost them."
Evelyn leaned slightly forward.
Evelyn: "Could you identify anything—clothes, voice?"
Clair shook her head. "Too dark. But. Remember. Scent. Smelled like.. burnt wood and.. herbs."
Evelyn's gaze darkened for a second.
Evelyn: "Good. You did well, Clair."
Clair's eyes welled up slightly at the praise, but she didn't cry this time. She stood a bit taller as she returned to her place.
Cassy had remained silent throughout the entire exchange. Now, however, her expression softened. She looked at the five girls again—how they stood without fidgeting, how they responded promptly, how they understood Evelyn's instructions without needing reminders.
She remembered Evelyn's words from earlier that week: "They are perfect for this job. As for why... you'll understand in time."
Now she did. Cassy finally understood.
They were no longer just servants. They became Evelyn's shadows—loyal, clever, and unnoticed by those who underestimated them. They didn't need swords or spells to protect the princess. They used information. And in this cold abandoned palace, information was the sharpest weapon.
Evelyn clapped her hands once.
Evelyn: "You are dismissed for tonight. Rest well. Report again tomorrow."
In unison, the five girls bowed. "Yes, Your Highness."
As they filed out, Cassy remained behind, watching Evelyn as she moved silently to the large window overlooking the quiet courtyard.
The moon hung high in the sky now, framed perfectly in the glass. The gardens below were dim, shaped in silver shadows.
Evelyn placed a hand against the window pane. Her reflection stared back at her—small, delicate, with eyes far too old for her six-year-old frame.
She didn't say a word.
Cassy hesitated, then approached.
Cassy: "Your Highness?"
But Evelyn didn't respond. Her mind was somewhere far away, lost in thoughts only she could comprehend. She looked like a girl carrying a weight no one could ever decipher.
Cassy didn't press further. She took a step back and left Evelyn in silence.
The moonlight bathed the room, and the only sound was the gentle rustling of the wind outside the palace walls.
——————
They said time dulled pain. That it smoothed out the sharp edges of grief, wore it down until all that remained was a dull ache buried deep inside.
Edrick Rochester disagreed.
Even now, six years later, he remembered everything.
The scent of lilac perfume clinging to his mother's gown. The way her hands would card gently through his hair when he fell asleep in her lap. The sound of her laughter echoing down the long corridors of the Rochester estate, turning stone and silence into warmth.
And then—silence.
No lullabies. No soft arms wrapping around him. No warmth.
Just a sea of black clothes and whispering adults. A funeral too grand for a four-year-old heart to understand.
Edrick was only four when his mother died.
Old enough to remember.
Too young to make sense of it.
He sat now at the edge of the training grounds behind the estate, his wooden practice sword resting across his knees. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, throwing gold streaks across the ground. A breeze tugged at the edges of his blue hair, which had grown a little past regulation length.
The golden eyes in his reflection stared back from the surface of the polished blade—cold, sharp, and focused. Just like his.
Just like his father's.
Tutor: "Your stance faltered again."
Came the clipped voice of Sir William, his combat instructor. The man crossed his arms, face unreadable.
Tutor: "Again."
Edrick said nothing. He didn't bother explaining that his stance had shifted on purpose—to better counter a different angle. It didn't matter.
Explaining weakness never changed anything.
He rose silently and went back through the forms. Precise. Calculated. Unyielding. Sweat trickled down his brow and into his eyes, but he blinked it away.
Again.
And again.
Until his shoulders burned.
Until he felt nothing but the rhythm of movement.
Until Sir William finally dismissed him with a nod.
He didn't thank him. He bowed once and left the training grounds, boots crunching lightly over gravel.
"You can rest now, Young Master."
The words never came.
They never did.
There were no rewards for effort. No soft pats or gentle encouragement. Only correction. Expectation.
Perfection.
After his mother's death, the world had changed overnight.
His father, the Grand Duke of Rochester—once a man of fierce presence but hidden warmth—turned to stone. The transformation had been subtle at first. No more storytelling before bed. No more early morning walks in the rose garden.
And then, not even eye contact.
The man who had once hoisted Edrick onto his shoulders to show him constellations now barely acknowledged his existence.
He buried himself in statecraft, ledgers, military strategy, and letters from the capital. His study door remained shut for hours. Days. Weeks. Staff learned quickly not to disturb him.
So Edrick learned, too.
He learned to stay silent when his father entered the room. He learned to recite law and military history before he could read poetry. He learned to hold a sword before he could whistle a tune.
Tutors replaced caretakers.
Expectations replaced affection.
And yet, a part of him still waited—waited for the door to open, for his father to look at him and see the boy he once held in his arms.
But that never came.
Back in his chambers, Edrick pulled off the sweat-soaked tunic and poured cold water from the basin over his head. The sting brought clarity.
His gaze drifted toward the bookshelf near the window. Tucked on the bottom shelf was a book, old and worn, with faded pressed flowers between its pages—his mother's favorite.
He hadn't touched it in a long time.
Carefully, he knelt and pulled it free. When he opened it, a flower petal drifted out, landing silently on the floor. He stared at it.
And just like that, memory hit him.