The moment Army stepped into the East Wing, she knew this was going to be different. The air was colder here, the shadows longer, and the silence so thick it swallowed her footsteps whole. No maids giggled in the halls, no clinking of silverware or lively chatter — just the faint echo of a curse she hadn't quite understood yet.
"Prince Castor's chamber," the head maid had said, with a grimace that felt like a warning.
Army, mop in hand and a bucket sloshing by her side, wasn't sure if she was ready for this, but she sure as heck wasn't going to back out now.
The door groaned as she pushed it open.
A whirlwind of flying objects greeted her — a chair, a cushion, a decorative vase that shattered spectacularly against the wall.
"GET OUT!" a voice screamed, raw and furious.
Army dodged just in time, her eyes landing on the source: a boy no older than ten, with wild dark hair and stormy eyes that held more fire than she'd ever seen in a kid. He was wrapped in a tattered blanket, glaring daggers at her like she was an invading army.
"Well, that's welcoming," Army muttered, setting down the mop with exaggerated care.
"I don't need another maid!" the boy barked. "No one lasts more than a day. They all run or get bitten. Get lost!"
Army gave a slow smile, unbothered. "Prince Bitey, huh? That's a charming nickname. Did you come up with it yourself?"
He snarled, launching a pillow that just missed her head. She caught it and tossed it back with a grin.
"Try me."
The boy glared but didn't throw anything else. Instead, he huffed and curled deeper under the blanket. Army took a careful step forward, holding the bowl of lukewarm soup like it was a fragile treasure.
"Soup. It's mostly chicken broth, so don't expect a feast."
Castor's eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he made no move to grab it or reject it.
Army lowered herself to the floor opposite him. "I'm Army. I'm the new maid, apparently the only one brave enough to survive your charm offensive."
He snorted, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "I'm not charming. I'm cursed."
"Cursed, huh? Well, I'm not one to judge. I get assigned to laundry and cleaning up after nobles who can't be bothered to keep their socks paired."
For a moment, the anger in Castor's eyes softened, replaced by something like tiredness. "My mother died not long after I was born. Everyone pretends I don't exist. I'm cursed because I'm alone."
Army blinked. That was… sad. Way sadder than any tantrum.
"So you throw chairs to keep people away?" she asked gently.
He looked away, embarrassed. "It's the only way."
Army nodded. "Well, Prince Bitey, I'm not going anywhere. And if you throw any more pillows, I'm dumping this soup on your pillow."
There was silence, then a tentative, "You wouldn't dare."
Army smiled, "Try me."
That was the start of many days filled with flying objects, loud arguments, and more than a few moments of unexpected laughter. Army quickly learned that Castor's temper was as fierce as the rumors said, but beneath it was a boy starving for attention and kindness.
One afternoon, as she was folding his laundry, she found a faded handkerchief embroidered with a strange symbol. It looked like a flower—delicate, but ominous.
"Where did this come from?" she asked.
Castor shrugged, avoiding her eyes. "Mother's. She left it behind."
Army frowned. The palace staff never mentioned his mother much, only whispered about her death and the "curse" she left.
Curiosity gnawed at Army. Why was the youngest prince treated like a ghost? And why did the king's advisors act like he was a problem to hide?
That night, as Army lay awake on her straw cot, she wondered if she'd been sent here for a reason beyond laundry duty. Maybe this forgotten prince held the key to the story's real secret.
The next morning, Army caught a glimpse of a palace official slipping a folded letter into the king's desk—marked with the same strange symbol from the handkerchief.
"Looks like I'm in deeper than I thought," Army muttered.
Meanwhile, Castor watched her from the shadows of his room, his expression unreadable. For the first time, someone wasn't running away.
And that terrified him more than anything else.