Chapter 6:
Beyond the Palace Walls
The palace of Eldoria was a world of polished marble and gilded mirrors, but its underbelly—the servants' quarters—was a maze of narrow corridors and flickering lamplight. Alaric found himself there again, drawn by a need he couldn't name, his boots echoing on the worn stone. It was reckless, a prince lingering where he didn't belong, but the note—Beware Lord Cassian. Trust no one—and the memory of Elara's guarded eyes pulled him like a tide.
He'd made excuses to his advisors, claiming he was inspecting the palace's preparations for an upcoming harvest festival. In truth, he sought Elara, hoping to unravel the mystery of her warning and the spark he'd felt in her presence. The air grew warmer as he descended, carrying the scents of baking bread and laundry soap. Servants paused to curtsy or bow, their surprise evident, but Alaric's focus was singular.
He found her in a courtyard tucked behind the kitchens, where maids hung linens to dry in the late morning sun. Elara stood on a stool, pinning a sheet to a line, her auburn hair loosened by the breeze. She hummed softly, the same melody he'd heard in the garden, and for a moment, he simply watched, struck by her ease in this hidden corner of the palace.
"Your Highness," a voice said, startling him. It was Mira, Elara's friend, carrying a basket of damp clothes. Her tone was polite but wary, her eyes flicking to Elara, who turned and nearly lost her balance.
Alaric stepped forward instinctively, catching her elbow as she steadied herself. "Careful," he said, his hand lingering a moment too long before he released her.
Elara's cheeks flushed, and she curtsied, her voice low. "Thank you, Your Highness. I didn't expect… What brings you here?"
Mira's gaze darted between them, but Alaric ignored it. "I wanted to see how the festival preparations are coming," he said, the lie smoother now. "And… to thank you again, Elara. For your diligence."
Her eyes met his, sharp with understanding. She knew he was here for more than pleasantries, but she played along. "We're doing our best, Your Highness. The festival means a lot to the common folk. It's a rare chance to forget their troubles."
Her words carried a weight that intrigued him. "Tell me," he said, leaning against a stone wall, "what are their troubles? I hear reports, but numbers don't tell the whole story."
Elara hesitated, glancing at Mira, who busied herself with the laundry but was clearly listening. "The harvest has been lean," Elara said finally. "Taxes take more than most can spare. Families go hungry while we feast in the palace. The festival gives them hope, but it's fleeting."
Her candor surprised him, not just for its boldness but for the quiet passion behind it. He'd grown up insulated by privilege, his view of Eldoria shaped by maps and ledgers, not the lives of those beyond the palace gates. "And what would give them more than hope?" he asked, genuinely curious.
She paused, as if weighing the risk of speaking freely. "Fairer taxes. Schools for their children. A voice, even a small one, in how they're governed." Her voice softened. "They're not so different from you, Your Highness. They want to matter."
The words struck deep, stirring a restlessness in him. He wanted to ask more, to keep her talking, but Mira cleared her throat pointedly. "We've work to finish, Elara," she said, her tone a gentle warning.
Elara nodded, stepping back. "Good day, Your Highness," she said, curtsying before returning to the laundry. Alaric watched her go, her words echoing in his mind, a glimpse into a world he'd never truly seen.
Back in the royal quarters, Lysandra was waiting, her arms crossed, a letter from Valoria clutched in her hand. The room felt stifling despite its high ceilings and open windows. "You're late for the council meeting," she said, her voice clipped. "Again. Where were you?"
"Checking on festival preparations," Alaric said, the half-truth bitter on his tongue. "We can't afford mistakes with the envoys watching."
Lysandra's green eyes narrowed, seeing through him. "You're not that meticulous about banners and bonfires, Alaric. Don't insult me." She stepped closer, her voice lowering. "I told you to be careful. The court's already whispering about your… wanderings. Lord Cassian's been particularly vocal."
Alaric's stomach twisted at Cassian's name, the note's warning flaring in his mind. "Cassian's always stirring trouble," he said, deflecting. "What's he saying now?"
"That you're too distracted to lead," she replied, her tone sharp but not unkind. "And that your interest in certain servants isn't as discreet as you think. I don't care about your feelings, Alaric, but I care about this alliance. We're bound by it, like it or not."
Her words were a cold splash of reality. He nodded, forcing calm. "I'll be at the meeting. We'll show the envoys a united front."
As Lysandra left, Alaric sank into a chair, Elara's voice lingering—They want to matter. She'd opened a window to a world he'd ignored, and with it, a part of himself he'd buried under duty. He didn't know how to reconcile the prince he was meant to be with the man who wanted to hear her speak again, to stand closer, to know her heart. But he knew one thing: every step toward Elara was a step away from the life he'd been given—and he wasn't sure he could stop himself.