The music in the banquet hall had shifted to something softer, a slow melody guided by strings and harps. Laughter and conversation wove together under the glittering chandelier light, the air warm with perfume, wine, and polished nobility as the couples continued dancing.
After finishing his conversation with the foreign king and Princess Ella, Ciaran had quietly stepped away, drifting toward the shadowed side of the hall. He preferred the edges, where the noise softened and the world felt easier to observe. His gaze followed the crowd, not with interest, but with the habit of someone who had learned long ago that most dangers were dressed in silk and smiles.
He did not expect to see her here.
Leila entered from the servant corridor, balancing a polished tray of crystal decanters and golden cups. Her steps were steady, practiced. She moved like someone long used to making herself invisible, yet tonight there was no such mercy.
A few heads turned first. Then more.
Whispers slipped like threads across the room.
A girl with skin the color of caramel, deep, warm, strikingly different from the pale and golden tones common to the Kingdom of Varre. Her veil covered most of her face as she always did but it didn't hide the simple truth they had already decided about her, an oddity, a blemish among polished glass.
Leila noticed, of course, she always did but her expression didn't change. She simply continued, placing decanters at an empty refreshment station. Confusion flickered only once—Why had Mister John sent her here, again, when there were other maids much more suited? but she moved as instructed. Questions changed nothing.
Ciaran watched her without expression. Not surpris or recognition made dramati, simply observation—steady, careful. He had seen her strength before, in quieter places where no music played. He had no reason to intervene now.
But someone else did.
From a nearby cluster of noble daughters, a soft scoff broke.
"Look at her veil. Does she think she's hiding something?" The speaker was Yvonne, daughter of Duke Victor—beautiful, fair-haired, always aware of eyes on her. Two other noble girls flanked her, eager to echo her words.
"It must be dreadful," one murmured dramatically. "Imagine being that unfortunate."
Yvonne stepped closer, voice dipped with sweet venom. "Tell me, maid, who allowed you to attend a royal banquet? Or did you wander in by accident?"
Leila paused, tray still in her hands. Calm as usual.
"No, my lady. I was ordered to replenish the drinks." Her tone was polite and flat, neither fearful nor bold. Just truthful.
Yvonne smiled. It was not a kind smile.
"Orders? And you simply obey? How obedient." Her eyes flicked over Leila slowly, assessing her like some curious specimen in a glass case. "Tell me, does your village not teach dignity? Or were you simply born… unfortunate?"
The two noble girls laughed quietly behind their hands.
Leila remained still. Her thoughts moved, slow and deliberate. 'If I answer wrongly, this becomes worse and if I don't answer, it becomes unforgivable.' She only needed to leave the conversation without trouble.
She lowered her head slightly, not in shame, but in acknowledgment. "I meant no offense by being here. I'll continue my work and be on my way."
But Yvonne stepped into her path.
"Oh, but we aren't finished."
Before Leila could respond, another voice joined them—smooth, composed, and unmistakably familiar.
"That's enough, Yvonne."
Prince Lenard approached, his expression unreadable. His presence shifted the air, not with force, but with the awareness that royalty had spoken.
Yvonne straightened instantly, smile brightening to something meant to be charming. "Your Highness," she greeted, voice softening like warm honey. "We were only—"
"Harassing a servant," Lenard finished, tone calm but undeniably cold. "I wasn't aware our noble upbringing included that."
The corners of Yvonne's smile stiffened. "I only—"
"You only forget your place," he said gently. Too gentle. The kind of softness that cut far deeper than anger.
The hall was not silent, but many eyes were watching now.
Leila's hands tightened slightly around the tray. She simply dipped her head, quietly respectful. She remembered the last time Lenard had spoken to her, his warning sharp and unkind. She did not trust him.
Lenard did not look at her long. Just a flick of his gaze, brief, like something passing and unreadable.
"Resume your duties," he told her, tone level.
"Yes, Your Highness." Her voice held no tremor. Just steady obedience as she stepped away and returned to her task.
Yvonne stood, face stiff but smiling, and curtseyed before turning sharply to leave with her companions. The admiration she held for Lenard making her keep her composure.
Ciaran had watched all of it in silence from the corner—his gaze tracking Leila's retreat. He knew better than to assume kindness where politics could exist instead.
But the small things mattered.
Like the way Leila had not bowed too deeply.
And the way Lenard's voice, for one breath, had hardened when speaking to her.
The music swelled again and the banquet cintinued.