The third day at the palace began, as all cursed mornings do, with a door slam.

Not a knock.

A slam.

I shot up so fast I nearly concussed myself on the bunk above.

“Ouch” I groaned, clutching my forehead.

Liora didn’t even look up. She was already awake, calmly sketching at her desk like door slams were just part of the ambiance.

“Good morning, emotional avalanche.”

“Is that my new nickname?”

“Until you do something more embarrassing, yes.”

“I give it an hour.”

From outside, Delphina’s voice screeched like a banshee who’d been gifted a megaphone for her birthday.

“All staff to the main hall. That means everyone unless you’ve tragically perished overnight—which, frankly, would be the first useful thing some of you have done.”

Liora glanced at the door. “That’s our cue.”

I dragged myself into the plain uniform—neutral, stiff, and designed to make sure you blended into the walls. It made me miss my old clothes. Not that I had many left after the fire.

“You look like you’re heading to a funeral,” Liora said, eyeing me with a lopsided smirk.

“Maybe I am. For my dignity.”

She snorted. “That died the moment you walked through those gates.”

She wasn’t wrong.

We joined the growing tide of staff heading toward the main hall. The air smelled of fresh bread, dust, and impending doom. The palace buzzed with the kind of tension only royals could create—unreasonable expectations wrapped in luxury fabrics.

Inside the hall, chaos reigned. Someone wore mismatched shoes. Someone else had toothpaste on their collar. Everyone looked like they’d already given up on life, or at least on grooming.

“Is she firing us?” someone whispered.

“I hope she fires me,” came the reply.

“I already packed.”

Delphina stood at the front of the room like a fashionable executioner. Clipboard in hand, stilettos clicking against the polished floor, eyes sharp enough to flay egos on contact.

“Attention,” she barked. The room fell so silent you could hear the dust sweating. “Today’s assignments are non-negotiable. Fail, and you’ll wish you were never born.”

“Too late,” I muttered under my breath.

Liora elbowed me. “One day,” she smirked, “your mouth is going to get you launched into the stratosphere.”

“Maybe I’d prefer that.”

Delphina gestured toward an old whiteboard that looked like it had seen several failed kingdoms.

“Royal Gala. One month,” she announced. “That means cleaning, stitching, fluffing, polishing, baking, bedazzling, and pretending none of you are barely functional disasters.”

A collective groan rippled through the crowd.

I leaned toward Liora. “What’s a Royal Gala?”

She blinked. “It’s the Royal Gala.”

“…Which is?”

“A party,” she said like it should be obvious. “But not just a party. Nobles. Diplomats. Royals. Rich people who drink carbonated disappointment and judge your shoes.”

“So… a nightmare.”

“Exactly.”

Delphina began rattling off names and assignments like she was drafting soldiers for war. Her tone only softened once—to yell at a boy who sneezed.

When she got to my name, her eyes lit up with the kind of joy you only see in villains who’ve just spotted the protagonist.

“Ember,” she said, slow and sweet like poison syrup. “Due to your… enthusiasm with thread, you’ll be reassigned as a temporary seamstress runner.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’ll pick up fabric, deliver completed garments, and try not to trip into a royal’s changing room and end up on a gossip blog.”

“Wait, I thought I was supposed to be sewing?”

“You were. And now you’re also running. Think of it as cross-training.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously

Cross-training. Right. I didn’t survive a burning studio just to become the kingdom’s most glorified delivery girl.

Liora leaned in. “She’s making you her errand pigeon.”

“How majestic.”

---

One hour later…

I was already regretting everything.

My first assignment was to deliver a newly tailored uniform to the East Wing. The fabric was expensive. The buttons probably cursed. And the palace map might as well have been written in hieroglyphs by a drunk, blindfolded goat.

I turned down one wrong corridor, then another, and somehow ended up in a hallway that smelled of old money and silent judgment.

The lighting shifted—golden, soft. The air smelled faintly of citrus and something I could only describe as generational wealth. Even the wallpaper looked like it wanted to kick me out.

And then… I saw him.

Prince Vale.

Sitting in a velvet armchair like he owned silence, stillness, and the concept of disappointment. One leg crossed, espresso in hand, wearing a dark shirt and an expression that said nothing in this world—including me—was living up to his standards.

His ring glinted silver. His stare was glacier cold.

He didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just said, “Lost?”

His voice was low. Smooth. Lethal. Like velvet draped over a sword.

I turned slowly, gripping the garment bag like an emotional support pillow with anxiety issues.

“I wouldn’t say lost,” I replied, carefully. “Just rebelliously misaligned with conventional directions.”

He raised one perfect eyebrow. “You’ve passed the East Wing twice.”

“So you’ve been watching me.”

“Observing. There’s a difference.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll add that to my growing list of humiliations.”

His eyes scanned me, lingering like I was some exotic but mostly unimpressive species.

“You should feel honored,” he said. “It takes skill to be that disoriented.”

“Wow. I didn’t realize sarcasm was part of the royal curriculum.”

“I majored in it,” he said, deadpan. “Top of my class.”

His gaze dropped to the garment bag in my arms. “That’s mine.”

I blinked. “Are you sure? Because I was instructed to deliver this to someone cold, brooding, and generally unpleasant—and I passed a marble bust and a taxidermy falcon on the way here that both fit the bill.”

A twitch. Barely there. But his mouth almost smiled. Almost.

“Charming.”

“Thanks. I do birthday parties, too.”

“Is that your idea of small talk?” he asked.

“Depends. Did it make you uncomfortable or just bored?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me again, longer this time. Like he couldn’t decide whether I was an idiot or… something else.

“Do all palace staff come with commentary?” he finally asked.

“Only the deluxe models.”

“Is sarcasm a core skill for new hires?”

“No. Just a coping mechanism.”

That earned another twitch of his mouth. Not a smile. Just… a thought trying to form and deciding against it.

Then he stood, every motion smooth and deliberate. Taller than I expected. Colder up close.

I didn’t move.

I should’ve said something. Should’ve handed him the uniform and disappeared down the hall like a professional.

But instead, I just stood there, clutching his clothes like a girl who’d just been handed a riddle with legs and cheekbones.