Instead, it had turned into something she never wanted to remember.
Her mind replayed every mortifying detail: the rip of her gown, the white masked guy's cool stare, the whispering nobles. She pressed her palms over her eyes, willing the memories to dissolve.
But they didn't.
The ballroom was quiet now. The music had stopped. A hush had fallen over the palace, punctuated only by the distant rustle of servants extinguishing candles and locking doors.
In the darkness, she thought of her mother's voice—soft and steady, humming lullabies while she drifted to sleep in a tiny cottage in Dunvalle. She thought of her father's laugh, her brother's small hand clutching hers.
Had they ever imagined she would end up here—alone in a gilded room, surrounded by luxury that felt like a cage?
A part of her wished she could simply slip away, walk back to Windale before dawn and pretend none of this had ever happened. But she knew she couldn't. The palace guards wouldn't let her go wandering. And even if they did, she wouldn't know how to navigate the maze of corridors and high gates.
She was trapped here, at least until morning.
Exhaustion pulled at her, but sleep remained stubbornly out of reach. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his masked face again—those dark eyes studying her as though they saw every fracture in her pride.
She didn't understand why he unsettled her so much. She didn't even know his name.
And yet, some part of her knew she would remember the sound of his voice long after tonight.
She shifted restlessly on the chair, then finally climbed into the bed. The sheets were cool against her skin. She pulled the covers up to her chin, willing herself to stop thinking.
But the quiet here was strange, too. At home, there were always sounds in the night—Lina's breathing in the next cot, Kaeli's occasional mutters, the distant creak of Uncle Jorren moving in his workshop.
Here, there was nothing.
Just the crackle of the dying fire.
The echo of her own heartbeat.
And the knowledge that when morning came, she would have to walk out of this place with her head high, as though she had not just been reminded—again—that she would never belong among people like them.
Nysa closed her eyes.
But sleep would not come.
---
Sleep refused to come.
No matter how tightly she closed her eyes, Nysa couldn't quiet her mind. Her thoughts roamed from the ruined gown to the masked man's mocking voice, to her own wretched humiliation.
It was too much.
The fire had burned to a sullen glow. Shadows pressed in at the edges of the chamber, thick and uneasy. She lay still for a long while, listening to the occasional creak of the palace settling into night.
And then—
A soft sound broke the hush.
Eeeek.
She stiffened. At first she thought she must have imagined it. But a moment later, it came again—a high, thin squeak, followed by the almost imperceptible rustle of skirts brushing polished floors.
Her heart gave a single, startled thump.
It was probably nothing. A servant passing through the hall, tending to some late-night duty. The palace was enormous; it must have dozens of staff who never slept.
Still, unease prickled along her spine.
She turned her head on the pillow, listening.
Another faint scuff—like a slippered foot sliding against the tiles.
She couldn't help herself. Slowly, she pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. The nightdress whispered around her ankles as her toes met the cold rug, and a shiver climbed her legs. She padded to the door, slowly, carefully, she cracked it open.
Don't be foolish, she told herself. Go back to bed.
But she was too curious, too restless, too unsettled by everything she'd witnessed tonight to lie there any longer.
Moving as quietly as she could, she crossed to the door. She cracked it open a hair.
The corridor lay bathed in moonlight filtering through the tall windows, all soft silver and deep shadows. For a moment she saw nothing—only the rows of closed doors, the flicker of a distant wall sconce.
Then, just as she was about to retreat, a shape moved at the far end of the hall.
A woman in a plain gray dress, a white apron wrapped tight around her waist. She carried something bundled in her arms and walked with her head low.
Nysa watched as the maid reached the corner of the hallway and turned out of sight.
She hesitated, her hand tightening on the edge of the door.
She should close it. She should crawl back into bed and forget she'd ever seen anything.
But her curiosity—sharp and gnawing—had already rooted itself in her chest.
Holding her breath, she slipped into the corridor and shut the door behind her with a tiny click.
For a moment she stood perfectly still, listening.
Nothing but the hush of the sleeping palace.
Gathering her skirts, she padded down the hall, past closed doors and pale marble busts staring blankly into the dark. Each step quickened her pulse.
She reached the corner where she'd last seen the maid and peered around it.
A flicker of movement ahead. The woman's shape bobbed through a cross-corridor, disappearing again.
Nysa swallowed hard and hurried after her.
It felt reckless. Wrong. But the strange tension of the night demanded she keep going, as if she'd been drawn into a story she couldn't escape.
The next passage was darker, with fewer torches burning in their brackets. The hush here felt deeper somehow, as though the palace itself held its breath.
She passed a window overlooking a courtyard garden, its fountains stilled for the night. The reflection of the moon glimmered in the water, and for a heartbeat she wished she were outside instead of sneaking through halls that weren't meant for her.
Ahead, the maid turned down yet another corridor. Nysa quickened her pace, the cold stone floor seeping through her bare feet.
How far was she going?
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