Chapter 5:
Soft morning light filtered through the windowpanes, gently rousing Mariela from sleep. She sat up slowly, her thoughts already wandering.
The greenhouse. The garden.
"There was a plant," she whispered, sliding out of bed. "I saw it... but was it near the fountain or the pond?"
Barefoot and curious, she wandered the palace gardens, weaving between hedges and flowerbeds, trying to retrace her steps.
"This place is enormous," she muttered. "How does anyone find anything here—?"
A voice cut through her thoughts.
"Out sneaking again, my lady?"
She spun around. "Gideon! You scared me!"
He raised a brow, arms crossed. "You disappeared last night. Again. Do you plan to make this a habit?"
"I don't know what you mean," she said airily, refusing to meet his gaze.
"Your father is calling for you," he said. "Breakfast is served."
Her eyes lit up. "Maybe he'll finally tell me what he really thinks…"
With a stiff nod, Gideon gestured for her to follow. "After you, my lady."
Inside the guest dining room, Peter sat at the table, warm smile in place.
"Little one! Come eat with me. Look—they brought my favorite cornbread. And... chocolate milk cream."
"Chocolate milk cream?!" Mariela beamed and hurried over. "Why didn't you call me sooner, Gideon?"
"I didn't want to ruin the surprise," he said, unusually soft.
"Well, mission accomplished," she mumbled, happily sipping. A streak of cream lingered on her upper lip like a mustache.
A soft voice interrupted the moment.
"I'm glad to see you both enjoying your breakfast."
They turned to find a well-dressed man standing with a respectful bow.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he said smoothly. "Lavish Parn. I serve His Majesty Prince Richard, and I've been assigned as your liaison. Should you wish to communicate with the prince—or need anything at all—I'm at your service."
Peter nodded politely. "A pleasure, Sir Parn."
"Lavish will do, Sir Mariott," he said, then turned to Mariela. "And for you, my lady?"
"You can call me Mariela," she said brightly. "Please don't be like Gideon—he's too stiff."
Lavish chuckled. "Mariela, then."
She smirked at Gideon. "See? Obedience is key to satisfaction."
"I'll keep that in mind, my lady," he replied flatly.
Lavish cleared his throat. "Forgive the intrusion again. I came to inform you that the prince invites you to explore the capital today. You are welcome to anything you desire."
"The capital?" Mariela gasped, gripping Gideon's arm. "Can we really go?"
But Peter's calm voice cut through her excitement.
"I appreciate the king's generosity," he said, "but we'll be declining. We're leaving today."
Mariela blinked. "What…?"
Lavish hesitated. "May I ask why, sir?"
"This visit was for service, not leisure. It's time we returned home."
"I see." Lavish bowed. "The prince hoped to speak with you before your departure."
"That won't be necessary," Peter said firmly. "Please have our belongings prepared."
Lavish glanced at Mariela, then back at Peter. "And regarding the prince's proposition…?"
Peter's expression darkened. "Do I not have the right to return home as I choose?"
"My apologies, sir." Lavish bowed deeper. "I'll prepare everything at once."
As he departed, Mariela's chest tightened.
"Father," she began gently, "about the prince's proposal—I wanted to talk—"
"We'll speak once we're home," Peter said curtly. "Go pack, Mariela."
Her heart sank. "Yes, Father."
Gideon stepped forward. "Let's go, my lady."
She followed him, her steps slow and heavy.
He's never spoken to me like that before.
And somehow... that hurt more than she expected.
At the prince's manor, the air was tense.
"They're leaving?" Richard stood sharply.
"Yes, Sire," Lavish said. "Sir Peter refused any further hospitality. I suggested you might want to bid them farewell, but... he declined."
Richard ran a hand through his hair. "You did well, Lavish. I'll take care of the rest."
"If I may, Sire," Lavish added. "You might speak to the guard—Gideon."
"Gideon?" Richard arched a brow. "Noted. I'll handle it myself."
Outside, Gideon loaded the carriage, Mariela watching from a distance. Her gaze drifted to the towering city walls.
If I don't see the capital now... I may never get the chance.
A beat of silence.
Then—resolve.
She turned and bolted.
A nearby tree stretched over the guesthouse fence. Climbing with ease, she balanced on a branch, then swung herself over, landing lightly in the grass beyond.
Cloak pulled tight, she sprinted toward a merchant's departing chariot and slipped inside unnoticed, hiding beneath bundled cloth.
As the chariot rolled through the gates, Mariela peeked out, her pulse quickening with exhilaration.
"Perfect," she whispered.
The capital unfolded like a dream.
As the chariot slowed near the grand market, she leapt out, boots landing on sun-warmed cobblestones.
Everywhere she turned was color, motion, music.
Fiddles and flutes filled the air.
Children chased ribbons between stalls.
Dancers spun in the center square like wildflower petals in the wind.
Mariela stood still, heart pounding.
I dreamed of this. But this… this is magic.
The scent of roasted almonds, grilled meat, and honeyed pastries teased her senses.
She wandered like a girl unchained—sampling sweets, admiring jewelry, skipping from booth to booth.
A shopkeeper handed her a golden fruit tart. "First bite's free, sweetling."
She gasped after one taste. "That's... heaven."
She wandered deeper until something unusual caught her eye.
Tucked between two towering stalls was a smaller stand, adorned with pressed flowers and ribbons. Delicate bracelets, carved stones, and glass pendants shimmered on its table—each one utterly unique.
"Oh," she breathed, picking up a butterfly charm strung with amber beads. "How precious…"
"All handmade, dear," came a warm voice.
She looked up. An elderly woman with gentle eyes and gray hair in a braid smiled behind the stall.
"They're beautiful," Mariela said. "Did you make them yourself?"
The woman nodded. "My hands are slower now, but they still remember beauty."
Suddenly, she coughed—a deep, rattling sound. She steadied herself against the table, trembling.
"Are you alright?" Mariela rushed forward.
The woman waved her off, but the coughing worsened.
Instinct took over.
"I can help," Mariela said gently. "If you'll let me."
From the pouch at her waist, she pulled dried mint, chamomile, and goldenroot—her emergency kit. She borrowed warm water from a tea vendor, crushed the herbs with a nearby stone, and whispered under her breath as she mixed.
"Mint for the lungs, chamomile to soothe, goldenroot to strengthen…"
She handed over the cup. The woman drank, slow and careful.
Minutes passed. Then—relief.
"That… helped." The woman let out a soft sigh. "You have the hands of a healer."
Mariela smiled. "I'm still learning. I hope to be a real physician one day."
"You already have the heart for it," the woman said, then reached beneath the table. "Here."
She placed the butterfly bracelet in Mariela's hand.
"I couldn't—"
"You must. There are many buyers here, child. But not many with a soul like yours."
Tears pricked at Mariela's eyes as she fastened the bracelet around her wrist.
"Thank you," she whispered. "I'll treasure it."
As she melted back into the music and color of the market, a shadow lingered at the alley's edge—hood drawn, gaze steady.
He had watched it all.
The climb over the wall.
The chariot escape.
The healing, the laughter, the quiet fire in her step.
The corners of his mouth curved into a soft smile.
A silver pin gleamed on his cloak's collar.
"So this is what you wanted to see," he murmured.
"Good."
And just like that, he vanished into the crowd.
Silent. Watchful.
Always a step behind.