He stood—not abruptly. Slowly. Like gravity owed him a favor.

The height difference became very real, very fast.

“You’re new,” he said.

“You’re observant.”

“Most people don’t speak to me that way.”

“Well, I’m new. Give it time—I might develop some self-preservation.”

He didn’t react to that, which was both infuriating and oddly satisfying. Instead, he took the garment bag with a smooth motion, like he didn’t want to risk catching commoner germs. His hand brushed mine—briefly. Cold. Indifferent.

Another pause stretched between us, thick with judgment on his end and defiant awkwardness on mine.

“Name?” he asked—not quite a question. More like a quiet command.

“Ember,” I replied. “I know. It’s a little on the nose, right?”

He tilted his head, just slightly. “Fitting,” he said, like the universe had specifically designed me to be inconvenient.

He turned to leave, all effortless elegance and espresso-steeped disdain. Then paused.

“Next time,” he said, “try using the map. It’s a more efficient way of finding your way around.”

I exhaled. “Next time, try labeling your hallways like a normal kingdom,” I muttered.

He didn’t reply.

Just turned his head a fraction—eyes flicking toward something behind me. For a heartbeat, his calm expression shifted. Not quite surprise. Not fear. But… recognition?

I glanced over my shoulder.

Nothing.

Just silence.

When I turned back—he was gone.

The velvet chair sat empty. The garment bag, too. Like he’d vanished into smoke. Or shadows. Or whatever highborn nonsense he traveled by.

I stood there, pulse thudding too loudly in my ears.

---

As I made my way back through the palace, something in me felt… off. Like static under the skin. Like the air was holding its breath.

At the corner of a hallway, I passed a tall mirror—and stopped.

I saw myself. Uniform. Slouched posture. End-of-day exhaustion written all over me.

But for a flicker of a second, the girl in the glass wasn’t quite me.

Same clothes. Same face.

But her eyes were burning.

Not blazing. Not glowing. Just… sparking. Tiny embers at the center.

I blinked—and it was gone.

Just me again.

Tired. Ordinary.

Shaken.

---

“YOU TALKED TO VALE?” Liora choked later, halfway through her emergency biscuit stash.

“It was barely a conversation.”

“Did he blink at you?”

“Once.”

“That’s flirting. For him.”

“I think he wanted to report me to the sarcasm police.”

“No. You made an impression.”

“Is that good?”

She shoved another biscuit into her mouth. “Ask me again when you’re not blushing.”

“I’m not—oh, shut up.”

---

The rest of the day unraveled with the grace of a falling piano.

At one point, I was chased by a goose that had somehow invaded the laundry courtyard and decided I was its nemesis.

“Shoo!” I yelled, waving a cleaning rag.

It hissed like a winged demon sent to punish me for crimes I hadn’t committed—yet.

Liora watched from a safe distance, recording everything on her contraband phone.

“This will go viral,” she said, deadpan.

Later, I got sent to the royal kitchens, where I knocked over an entire tray of custard tarts. The head chef—an aggressively short woman with the fury of a thousand ovens—declared that my ancestors were cursed and that I was banned from pastry proximity for life.

Then I slipped on a tile and fell directly into a sack of flour.

By the time I limped back to our room, I looked like a haunted scone.

---

Liora handed me tea in a chipped mug that said “Definitely Not Poison.”

“I think today hated me,” I muttered, peeling off my uniform like a bad decision.

“Today hates everyone. But you survived. That’s better than most.”

I sipped the tea. It tasted like boiled despair and forgotten dreams.

“Do you think I’ll ever get used to this?”

“Used to being mocked by royalty, chased by poultry, and hexed by pastry chefs?”

“Yes.”

She smiled faintly. “Eventually.”

We sat in silence, the chandelier above us flickering like it was gossiping. The palace still felt like a maze I hadn’t been invited to, but at least I wasn’t wandering it completely alone.

“So… when’s your next run to the East Wing?” Liora asked.

I groaned.

“You’re gonna see him again.”

“Not if I live in a linen closet and legally change my name to ‘Not My Problem.’”

“You’ll be fine,” she said. “Just… wear better shoes next time.”

“What’s wrong with my shoes?”

“They say, ‘I work here,’ but they also scream, ‘I’ve given up.’”

I looked down at my scuffed boots. “They’re survivors.”

“Like you,” she said softly.

I looked up. For all the jokes, Liora had this quiet way of seeing people—really seeing them. Like she spotted the cracks you tried to hide and didn’t judge you for them.

“Thanks,” I murmured.

“For what?”

“For being the least awful part of this week.”

She grinned. “You’re welcome, emotional avalanche.”

Then she stood and pulled out contraband snacks from behind a loose tile.

“This is strictly against the rules,” she said, munching on a suspicious biscuit.

“Then why are we doing it?”

“Because rules are just suggestions when the tea tastes like sadness and boiled regret.”

We sat on the bunk, legs dangling, sharing biscuits and surviving the day one sarcastic bite at a time.

“You’re not what I expected,” I said finally.

“Thanks. Most people think I’m going to steal their shoes.”

“Are you?”

“I have standards.”

I laughed—actually laughed—for the first time in days. And Liora grinned like she’d won something.

Maybe I wasn’t alone in this glittering nightmare after all.

And maybe—just maybe—the palace wouldn’t chew me up completely.

Only time would tell.

Or Delphina’s clipboard.

Whichever came first.