It was finally Oryen's turn.
A bright, practiced smile curved her lips as she stepped forward, inclining her head slightly toward Hugh. Her voice stayed low, smooth, careful—not because she feared being heard, but because drawing attention had never been her habit.
"Hi there, Mr. Leavston."
Hugh's dull, half-lidded eyes sharpened almost instantly the moment they settled on her. The tiredness he usually wore like a second skin seemed to lift, replaced by something warmer, something far more attentive. Oryen noticed it, as she always did. She was well aware the man had a fondness for her—one he had never been foolish enough to voice outright.
Anytime he attempted to linger near her, to strike up a longer conversation than necessary, she would politely excuse herself, claiming an overwhelming amount of work. Hugh had never challenged it. He was always respectful, always courteous. A gentleman to the core.
And today, she intended to use that to her advantage.
"Oryen," Hugh greeted, lowering his voice to match hers, though his gaze roamed her face freely, almost reverently. "How have you been?"
His eyes lingered longer than appropriate, intoxicated by the sight of her. He could never forget the first day he had laid eyes on her. She had been tending to the stables at dawn, the sky still washed in pale blues and golds, when he arrived atop his horse to begin his usual duties at the palace.
He had heard her before he saw her—her calm, sweet voice humming softly as she worked. When he finally looked up, it was as though time had stilled. Raven-black hair framed a face as pale as fresh snow, her icy blue eyes catching the early light. Something in his chest had tightened painfully that morning, and it had never truly loosened since.
He had never pressured her. Never demanded more than she offered. The affection he carried was genuine, patient, and quietly enduring.
Oryen's smile did not falter. Instead, her eyes flickered briefly—subtly—toward the person standing just behind her.
Hugh followed her gaze.
The instant his eyes met the pair of ocean-blue ones staring back at him, the warmth in his expression vanished.
His breath hitched. His pulse spiked.
Those eyes.
Hugh remembered waking up days ago with his body sprawled unceremoniously in a bush, his head pounding as though struck with a hammer. His pockets had been empty, his horse gone. But the first thing—no, the only thing—etched clearly in his mind had been the image of a girl with strange features and unforgettable eyes.
He had assumed she was taken by the same people who robbed him. Regret had gnawed at him for not acting faster, not claiming what he wanted when he had the chance.
And now—fate had delivered her back to him.
This time, he would not hesitate.
Oryen observed the shift in his expression immediately. The light in his eyes sharpened into something darker, something hungry. Her gaze slid to the young witch behind her just in time to catch the intense glare Dydra shot at Hugh.
It was raw. Burning.
Oryen stiffened.
Do they know each other?
She looked back at Hugh, then at Dydra. Hugh again. Then Dydra once more. Her eyes lingered on the girl this time, unease settling deep in her chest.
A frown creased her brow as she felt it—an immense surge of energy rolling off the girl like a rising storm. It pressed against Oryen's senses, heavy and volatile.
Her frown deepened.
What got her this angry?
Whatever it was, it could not be allowed to manifest here. The kingdom was not fond of witches. Any display of power—any hint of magic—and both their heads would be rolling within seconds.
Without thinking further, Oryen reached out and interlocked her fingers with Dydra's, squeezing tightly. A silent warning. A plea for control.
Dydra barely felt it.
Her blood was boiling.
There he was.
The man who haunted her dreams. The man whose face twisted into shadows every time she closed her eyes at night. The man who had tried to take her—forcefully, brutally—when she was helpless.
Her lips trembled. Her chest heaved with shallow, furious breaths.
The room began to vibrate.
At first, it was subtle—a low tremor beneath their feet. Then stronger. Plates rattled. Wooden beams groaned. It felt as though the earth itself had turned restless beneath the building.
Panic erupted.
People stumbled, grabbing onto whoever stood closest.
"Why is everywhere shaking?" a maid cried out, clutching another in fear.
One of the guards scoffed, clearly unbothered. "Does it matter?!" His sharp gaze landed on Oryen, whose attention was entirely on the girl trembling beside her. "You there. Get moving, or else—"
He never finished.
The doors burst open violently as another guard stumbled in, drenched in sweat, chest heaving as he fought for breath.
"The prince!" he gasped. "The crown prince has arrived!"
Everything froze.
Without hesitation, the guards stationed near Hugh moved away, rushing toward the entrance. Hugh tore his gaze from Dydra with visible reluctance and pushed himself to his feet.
"You heard the man!" he barked. "Get to work, all of you! Now!"
His voice snapped the room back into motion.
He offered Oryen a polite, almost charming smile, then shot Dydra one last lingering glance—one she returned without blinking—before hurrying out.
The servants scattered instantly, rushing to their posts.
Oryen did not waste a second.
She grabbed Dydra's arm firmly and steered her toward the kitchen, her grip unyielding. There was no time to question what had happened in the checking room—that was what it was called. Survival came first.
The kitchen doors swung open, and chaos greeted them.
The head of the kitchen maids stormed in—a huge woman with a commanding presence and a voice that carried effortlessly across the room.
"You aren't being paid to stand around and chat!" she bellowed. "Get to work! The crown prince has arrived!"
She jabbed a thick finger at three maids. "You three! Prepare his refreshments!"
Oryen was acutely aware of Dydra's appearance. Red hair was rare enough—but on dark skin, it was bound to draw dangerous attention. She had packed it tightly into a bun and hidden it beneath a scarf, ensuring the girl stayed close as she fed more wood into the crackling fire.
"You!"
Sandra's voice roared.
Her finger pointed directly at Dydra.
The girl stiffened, her body trembling as she bit her lip hard, silently praying it wasn't her.
Sandra advanced, towering over her. She had to bend slightly to speak, her shadow swallowing Dydra whole.
Her lips hovered close to the girl's ear.
"Are you deaf?!"
Dydra flinched violently, her shoulders jerking as the shout rang painfully in her ear. She spun around instantly, coming face to face with the woman, pressing her lips into a thin, rigid line.
Sandra paused.
Those ocean-blue eyes caught her off guard.
For a brief moment, surprise flickered across her face—but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by a harsh glare.
"Do you know how to make food without using seasoning?"
Dydra's brows knitted together in confusion. Her gaze darted to Oryen, silently pleading.
The raven-haired woman straightened immediately and spoke before the girl could.
"She doesn't, ma. She's new here."
Sandra's eyes snapped to Oryen.
"No wonder she looks unfamiliar," she muttered. "You're in charge of her."
With that, she turned away to inspect the others.
Both witches released a quiet breath they hadn't realized they were holding.