Chapter 3:
Whispers in the Dark
The palace of Eldoria never truly slept. Even in the small hours, its corridors whispered with secrets—servants scurrying, guards patrolling, and nobles scheming behind closed doors. Elara moved silently through the east wing, her lantern casting a soft glow on the stone walls. Her shift was meant to end hours ago, but a spilled wine cask at the wedding feast had kept the maids working late, scrubbing stains from the great hall's floors. Now, tasked with returning a silver tray to the kitchens, she took the long route, savoring the quiet.
As she passed the council chamber, voices drifted through the half-open door, low and urgent. Elara slowed, her instincts prickling. She recognized Lord Cassian's nasal tone, a noble whose sharp eyes and sharper tongue had always unnerved her. "The prince is too soft," he was saying. "This marriage to Valoria weakens us. If we discredit him, the king will name a new heir—one we can control."
Elara froze, her grip tightening on the tray. Another voice, gruff and unfamiliar, replied, "And the princess? She's no fool. She'll protect her husband to secure Valoria's interests."
Cassian laughed, a cold sound. "Lysandra's loyalty is to her kingdom, not Alaric. A few well-placed rumors about his… indiscretions, and she'll distance herself. We start with the maid he's been eyeing. The auburn-haired one."
Elara's heart lurched. They meant her. She pressed herself against the wall, barely breathing, as Cassian continued, "Frame her for theft, or worse. It'll shame Alaric and sow doubt in the court. By winter, we'll have the throne within reach."
Footsteps approached the door. Elara slipped into an alcove, her lantern doused, as Cassian and his accomplice emerged, their cloaks blending into the shadows. When their steps faded, she exhaled, her mind racing. She had to warn the prince—but how? A maid accusing a lord would be dismissed, or worse, punished. Yet silence felt like betrayal, not just to Alaric but to the kingdom she'd grown to love, despite its cruelties.
By dawn, Elara had devised a plan. She couldn't approach Alaric directly, not without risking suspicion. Instead, she sought Mira, her friend among the maids, who worked in the royal quarters. "Leave a note in his study," Elara whispered, handing Mira a scrap of parchment. "Don't let anyone see you."
The note was simple, written in her careful script: Beware Lord Cassian. He plots against you. Trust no one. She didn't sign it, but the risk still gnawed at her. If Cassian traced it back, her life—already precarious as the daughter of a disgraced noble—would be forfeit.
Meanwhile, Alaric sat through another tense breakfast with Lysandra in their private dining chamber. The table was laden with fresh bread, smoked fish, and berries, but the air was sour. Lysandra picked at her food, her eyes on a letter from Valoria. "My father wants a progress report," she said, not looking up. "He's concerned Eldoria's dragging its feet on the trade agreement."
Alaric's fork paused midair. "We agreed to revise the terms yesterday. Your envoys are drafting a new proposal. What more does he want?"
"Assurances," she snapped, then softened her tone. "He doesn't trust Eldoria's commitment. Neither do I, frankly. You seem… distracted."
He met her gaze, her green eyes probing. Did she sense his thoughts straying to Elara, to that fleeting moment in the courtyard? "I'm juggling a kingdom's worth of problems," he said, deflecting. "If you have something to say, Lysandra, say it."
She leaned back, folding her arms. "I'm saying we're partners in this, Alaric. If you're hiding something, it weakens us both."
Before he could respond, a servant announced a council meeting, cutting their conversation short. Alaric left, his mind a tangle of Lysandra's words and the memory of Elara's voice—The roses don't care about politics or titles. He didn't notice the note until later, when he retreated to his study to review trade documents. Tucked beneath a quill, the parchment caught his eye. He read it, his pulse quickening.
Cassian, plotting against him? The lord had always been ambitious, but this was treason. Alaric's first thought was to confront him, but the note's warning—Trust no one—stayed his hand. Who had written it? The script was neat, deliberate, not the scrawl of a typical servant. His thoughts flickered to Elara, her quiet intelligence, but he dismissed the idea. A maid wouldn't dare involve herself in court intrigues. Would she?
He pocketed the note, resolve hardening. Whoever had warned him, they'd given him a weapon. And if Elara was somehow connected, he needed to know why—and what it meant for the dangerous spark he felt whenever she was near