My life was quiet until the day I slapped that man.

For more than nine years, I have served as Princess Gisselle’s personal maid. She is light itself, so precious, so untouched by the shadows that hang over these palace walls. She’s always seen me not just as her servant, but as a friend.

I cannot recall a life before the palace. My memories begin and end within the stone corridors of Seravale palace. The head maid raised me like one of her own. Though her love was carved from discipline and duty. She taught us all we needed to survive, and she taught it without mercy.

She used to say, "One careless breath from your lips could roll your head on the ground." I never forgot those words.

I tried, gods know I tried, to avoid mistakes. But I am only flesh and blood. And when I slipped, it was always Princess Gisselle who forgave me with a smile, or gently showed me how to do it right. She never scolded, never raised her voice. In truth, she taught me more with her kindness than the head maid ever did with her switches.

The very first lesson for a maidservant in this palace is simple: Obey, submit, never meet a noble's eye. They consider disobedience a slight, and disrespect a sin. I've seen the consequences firsthand. Maids beaten in silence, bruised and bloodied. Others vanished and shoved into cells, forgotten by the world. 

Nobility does not forgive.

His Majesty’s concubines are the most dangerous of all. Serving them is a game of knives. We tend to them, cater to them, and often... spy for them. They ask us to whisper secrets about one another concubines, especially those favored by the King or even the Queen herself. It's a web of venom masked behind silk veils.

Why do they chase the King's favor like dogs chasing scraps? I cannot understand it. What good is a man’s attention, when it only binds you tighter to a gilded leash? Yes, their rank may rise if he so much as glances twice in their direction but at what cost?

What do they gain from climbing the hierarchy? The higher they rise, the heavier their chains. Is it power they seek? Or simply the luxury that power brings?

One evening, the Princess was laughing with us, playing like a child unburdened by her crown. Then her maid reminded her to take her medicine—for her cold, nothing serious. But she refused, giggling, and darted off like a fox in the woods.

When we found her again, the laughter was gone. She was crying. Two knights stood before her, and one of them—gods help him—was speaking to her with such gall, such irreverence, I thought he’d lose his head before dawn.

And before I could stop myself, my hand flew. I slapped him to silence him.

And he did fall silent.

After that… he vanished. I searched for him in every corner of the palace. In corridors, in courtyards, in training fields. I wanted—no, needed—to find him to apologize. To explain that I hadn’t meant to shame him. That I only acted to protect him.

But he was nowhere to be found.

So, I gave up.

I returned to my duties with the Princess as if nothing had happened. I told myself that if fate willed it, I’d find him again... and I’d offer my apology properly.

But not like this. Not with my knees pressed to the earth, and my heart clutched in fear’s cold hand.

I never imagined—never dared to imagine—that he was a noble. And worse… that he bore the name of a Dragonborn house.

Terror writhes in my gut.

The Dragonborn Houses are not mere nobles. They are the ancient bloodlines, the founders of Seravale. Long before the Montclair family ever wore crowns. It was they who chose the Montclairs to sit upon the throne. And it is still within their right to strip that crown away.

And I slapped one of them.

The moment I heard his house name, my heart ceased to beat. Everything within me froze.

Surely, this is the last day I draw breath.

I apologized. I bowed. I begged.

But I have no faith left in mercy. Not when the stories say nobles know nothing of forgiveness.

Tears spill from my eyes and darken the soil beneath me. My vision is hazy, my breathing shallow, my body trembling so violently it feels like I might collapse entirely.

He says nothing. Silence stretches like the blade of an executioner.

Then, a low and impossibly kind voice brushes my ears.

“Stand, Jill,” he says. “I’ve not come to punish you. I’ve no wish to see you groveling at my feet. Please… get up.”

But I can’t. My limbs are too heavy, my fear too suffocating. I’m not even certain I deserve to stand.

“I’m really, really sorry, my lord,” I whisper, the words splintering in my throat like glass.

“Please... don’t,” he murmurs again, gentler now. “Jill, can you please get up?”

I try. I press my palms to the earth, willing my knees to straighten. But my legs refuse to obey. I remain crumpled, ashamed, and unmoving.

Then, a pair of strong warm hands grip my arms. He hauls me to my feet with ease, and I gasp as I’m forced to look upon him.

I flinch, eyes wide with terror.

He frowns. “Can you not look at me like that?” His voice is calm, firm, but not cruel. “I’m Draven. Just Draven. A knight, not a god. I’m not here to harm you or demand your head.”

He holds my gaze. “I know you meant no disrespect. Now breathe.”

I blink at him, stunned, breath catching somewhere between a sob and disbelief.

Then, with a quiet tsk, he reaches out and wipes the tears from my cheeks with the cuff of his uniform. The gesture is so unexpected, so tender, it rattles something inside me.

Why is he doing this?

Why didn’t he strike me down? Or call the guards? Why offer mercy when he could wield fear?

He’s a noble. He should punish me. That’s what we were taught.

The head maid always said, “Nobles do not forgive. Nobles do not forget.”

Was she… wrong?

“Don’t go about slapping people to save them,” the other knight drawls from beside Draven. “They won’t all be as saintly as our dear Draven.”

My eyes snap to him.

He’s grinning, mischief and amusement dancing in his expression.

“I’m Hector, by the way. Hector Lask Bel-Uh...Blex?" He clicks his tongue and looks at Draven for help to pronounce his name. “This name. Belxfinate. Finally." He exhales.        

And just like that, my heart leaps into my throat.

Another Dragonborn member.

Panic surges through me like fire through dry grass. I jerk away from Draven’s hold and bolt. The only place I know to flee, the servant quarters, beckons like sanctuary.

And I run. I run with all I have left without looking back.

I burst into my room, slamming the door shut behind me as if it might keep the world out.

My feet drag me to the bed, where I collapse, face buried in the pillow. My body trembles still, helpless to the storm within. My fingers clutch the linen sheets tightly.

Then the door creaks open.

I gasp and jerk upright, breath caught in my throat.

Ciel stands in the doorway, her brows arching as she takes in the sight of me. We shared this room for years and she knows me better than most. Her expression tightens, concern blooming across her face.

“What are you—” She steps forward, eyes narrowing. “Jill? What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost… or worse.”

I shake my head too quickly, too desperately. “No! No, nothing,” I stammer. “I just... got spooked on the walk back. The garden path was... dark, that’s all.”

She exhales slowly. “Heavens, Jill.” She walks over and sinks onto the edge of the bed beside me, wrapping one arm around my shoulders. “You’re safe now. It’s alright.”

Her hand rubs my side in slow, calming circles. I lean into her warmth, letting the silence speak where I cannot.

“You’re drenched in sweat,” she murmurs. “Your skin’s cold. Are you sure you’re alright?”

I nod, though I don’t feel it. “I just... need to sleep.”

“Alright.” She shifts gently, helping me lower back onto the bed, tucking the woolen blanket around me.

She offers one last squeeze, then turns toward her own cot.

“Tomorrow’s the day, Jill,” she whispers over her shoulder. “Get some rest. Everything begins anew in the morning.”

And then she’s still.

Yes. Tomorrow is the day.

The Prince of Seravale returns from Rhenevor at dawn. All eyes will be upon him. All duties will or shall fall into perfect order.

I have to sleep. I have to focus. I must hold myself together, no matter the storm within.

I must.

I chanced upon him thrice today. More than thrice, if I dare count the fleeting glimpses. This is strange. When I yearned to see him, he vanished like mist at dawn. But when I willed the very heavens not to let our paths cross, there he was... as though summoned by my dread alone. 

And that blasted smile on his lips.

Why must he smile at me so? I struck him—my hand upon his noble cheek. He bears a title, a name gilded in esteem, yet he carries the insult as if it were a flower pressed between pages. How can he treat it with such levity?

Still, every time our eyes meet, a shiver coils down my spine. When I passed the training yard, he was amidst a spar, blade clashing with grace and precision. I saw him and saints, help me, I could not look away.

That tousled brown hair, wild like the wind's own child. The sculpted line of his jaw, the proud tilt of his head, and those eyes…those indigo eyes.... 

The way his lips curl when he sees me... why does he act as though nothing ever transpired between us?

I do not understand. Gods, I understand naught.

I shake my head, as if I might rattle sense back into my bones and will myself to turn away. What madness is this? My mind feels like it’s fraying at the edges. Is this fear? Could fear feel so… consuming? So breathless and blinding?

I have never known fear to feel like this.

Inside the princess’s chamber, one of the maids fusses over her curls, arranging silken strands into place with pins that glint in the sunlight. Princess Giselle looks radiant more so than usual with a smile wider than I've seen in moons.

“You seem joyful, Your Highness,” I murmur, offering a small smile of my own.

“Of course I am,” she replies, her eyes alight. “My brother has arrived at last, and I am to see him after many long years. I have missed him dearly, Jill.” She fingers the jeweled necklace at her throat, gazing into her mirror with fondness in her eyes.

“You look breathtaking, Your Highness. But today… there’s a glow about you. Brighter than any court lantern,” I say, meaning every word.

She lets out a soft, melodic laugh. “You should accompany me, Jill.”

My breath catches. “Pardon?”

“You are my personal maid, are you not? You ought to come with me.”

“But Your Highness... Lady Mary always accompanies you to such gatherings.”

“I want you this time.”

My knees nearly betray me. A tremor rushes through me anew. “B-but, Your Highness, I—I do not feel… It’s—”

She cuts me off gently. “It is well, Jill. Breathe. You look near to fainting. Worry not. I shall take you with me next time.”

I nod quickly, attempting to steady my breath. “Thank you, Your Highness. It’s only that... if I made any mistakes at the ball, then...”

“Nothing ill shall come of it,” she says warmly. “Do not trouble yourself. Next time, you shall be by my side.” She chuckles once more, light as spring air.

A maid pushes open the chamber door and enters with a graceful bow before the Princess. “Your Highness, the Prince has requested to visit you,” she announces, voice steady though her eyes flicker with something unsaid.

At once, Princess Giselle’s face brightens like the morning sun breaking through mist. “Is everything prepared?”

The maid attending to her hair gives a brisk nod and steps back, hands falling to her sides in silent completion.

“You’re all dismissed. Rest well, Jill. I shall summon you should I have need,” the Princess says, her smile gentle but edged with anticipation.

“Yes, Your Highness.” I lower into a respectful bow, preparing to take my leave when the door creaks open once more.

I assume it’s the signal for our exit, but instead, a tall figure strides in, cloaked in command. The very air shifts—heavy, charged. I lift my gaze, and it lands upon him. My heart lurches. My breath stutters. And instinctively, I bow my head low.

Gods above... it is the Prince. What folly have I committed?

The room stills, every servant bowing in unison as if the wind itself had frozen in reverence.

“Leave,” he commands, voice deep and final as the clang of iron gates.

We retreat in silence, not daring to breathe until the doors click shut behind us. Only then do we exhale, as though we had been submerged in deep waters.

How does one man’s mere presence summon such weight in the air? Is this the power nobles wield? Or is it him, alone?

I shake the thought from my mind and follow the others down the corridor.

“I’m going straight to bed,” one of the maids mutters with a huff. “My bones feel like they’ve served the whole court by themselves.”

It’s true—we only find a moment’s peace when the nobles are occupied with festivities or require our aid at grand gatherings. Tonight, the Princess’s personal maids are dismissed early, save for the one charged with her appearance. The rest of us are to vanish like shadows at dusk.

I quicken my steps toward the servant quarters, yet an unease coils in my belly like a knot pulled too tight. Something feels... off. My heart pounds with wild abandon against my ribs. My limbs tremble, and not from fatigue.

Why am I shaking like this?

I draw in slow, deep breaths, but they offer no solace. Each one only fans the flames within me, making my heart race all the faster.

What am I thinking? Why can’t I stop?

I need to distance myself. From everything. From everyone.

Gods help me, what is this feeling?

I walk in a daze, my feet carrying me through the winding corridors of the palace, dimming now beneath the dying light. The sun hangs low, bleeding crimson across the sky like a bad omen. It burns too brightly for eventide—like fire licking at the horizon.

I must find shelter. I must get inside.

My steps hasten, urgency clawing at me as my thoughts spiral. The question drums louder and louder in my skull:

Why won't my heart calm down?