Chapter 8:
A Dangerous Spark
The servants' dormitory was a cramped attic room, its slanted ceiling dotted with cobwebs and its air thick with the scent of straw and candle wax. Elara sat on her narrow cot, her knees drawn up, a worn book of poetry open in her lap. The words blurred before her eyes, her thoughts consumed not by the verses but by Prince Alaric—his voice in the kitchen, soft and curious, asking about the festival, about her. Maybe I'd like to hear those stories, he'd said, and the memory sent a warmth through her that was as thrilling as it was terrifying.
She closed the book, her fingers tracing its frayed cover. It was one of the few possessions she'd kept from her old life, before her father's disgrace had stripped her family of their noble title and cast her into servitude. Reading was her refuge, a reminder of who she'd been, but tonight it couldn't quiet the storm in her heart. Alaric's visits to the servants' quarters, his questions, his lingering glances—they weren't the actions of a prince inspecting his staff. They were something else, something that made her pulse race and her resolve waver.
The door creaked open, and Mira slipped inside, her dark braid swinging as she carried a basket of mended linens. "You're up late," Mira said, setting the basket down and eyeing Elara's flushed cheeks. "And you've got that look again. Don't tell me it's about him."
Elara's face heated, but she didn't deny it. Mira was her closest friend, the only one who knew her true origins, and she'd never been able to hide much from her. "He was in the kitchens today," Elara admitted, her voice low. "Asking about the festival, the villages. He… listens, Mira. Like he cares."
Mira snorted, sitting on her own cot across the room. "He's a prince, Elara. They don't care about us, not really. He's chasing a fancy, and you're the one who'll get burned when he tires of it."
The words stung, but Elara couldn't dismiss them. She knew the stories—nobles dallying with servants, leaving broken hearts or worse in their wake. Yet Alaric's eyes, warm and earnest, didn't feel like a game. "He's different," she said, almost to herself. "He asked about the people, their lives. No one else in that palace does."
Mira leaned forward, her brown eyes fierce. "Different or not, he's married, Elara. To a princess who could have you whipped for looking at him too long. And you're not just any maid—you're hiding who you are. If the court finds out you're a traitor's daughter, you think a prince's smile will save you?"
Elara flinched, the weight of her past pressing down. Her father's failed rebellion had cost her everything—her family, her status, her safety. She'd learned to keep her head down, to blend into the shadows of the palace, but Alaric's attention was pulling her into the light. "I know the risks," she said, her voice trembling. "But I can't stop feeling it, Mira. When he's near, it's like… like I'm seen. Not as a maid, but as me."
Mira's expression softened, but her tone stayed firm. "That's what makes it dangerous. You're falling for him, and it's a fall you won't walk away from. He's got a crown to wear, a kingdom to rule. You've got nothing but dreams, and they'll break you if you let them."
Elara looked away, her throat tight. She wanted to argue, to say Alaric's kindness meant something, but Mira's words echoed her own fears. She'd written the note to warn him of Cassian's plot, driven by a sense of duty to the kingdom, but also by something deeper—a need to protect him. Now, every glance, every conversation, was weaving a thread between them, one that could unravel her life.
"Promise me you'll be careful," Mira said, reaching across to squeeze Elara's hand. "The festival's tomorrow. The whole court will be watching, and so will Lysandra. Keep your distance, for your own sake."
Elara nodded, but her heart wasn't in it. "I promise," she whispered, though the words felt hollow. She lay back on her cot, staring at the ceiling as Mira blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. Sleep wouldn't come, not with Alaric's voice in her mind, asking about stories, about dancing. The festival loomed like a crossroads, a chance to see him again, to feel that spark—even if it burned her.
In the shadows, she admitted what she couldn't say aloud: she was falling for him, and no warning, not even Mira's, could stop her heart from wanting what it could never have.