The garden stretched across the palace grounds like a living tapestry, the sun scattering gold across a sea of blossoms. Dydra carried a wicker basket in her arms, stepping carefully among the flowerbeds, her eyes scanning for blooms worthy of picking. It was a task all palace maids coveted, the simplest and most rewarding work available—arrange flowers in the baskets and deliver them to the halls for decoration. Today, she worked alongside three other maids, each stationed in a different section of the sprawling garden. They minded their own business, silent in their labor, the occasional rustle of leaves and soft pluck of petals punctuating the summer heat.
Dydra was no stranger to this work. At Thelmond Mansion, she had been tasked with similar duties countless times, though never in the vast, formal grounds of the palace. The sun beat relentlessly on her back, warming her shoulders and sending a few beads of sweat along her spine. Her long red hair was braided simply, falling down her back and swaying slightly with each step. She reached toward a particularly vibrant red rose, wincing slightly as the thorns pricked her fingers. Carefully, she plucked the flower, inhaling its delicate scent. The aroma reminded her of the washroom at Oryen's cottage, a soft, floral calm that lingered in memory. For a moment, she allowed herself the small pleasure of the fragrance.
A few yards away, a male servant paused mid-task. Thick brown hair stuck slightly to his forehead, tanned skin gleaming faintly under the sun, evidence of hours spent laboring outdoors. His deep green eyes fixed on Dydra, captivated, tracing her movements as she admired the rose. From his vantage, he could see only her profile, but it was enough. The sunlight caught in her braid, turning strands into molten red, and the subtle freckles along her cheekbones formed a delicate crescent beneath her radiant skin. Her ocean-blue eyes, even in profile, held a calm intensity that made his pulse quicken. He swallowed hard, feeling a rare flutter of awe in his chest.
His hands went to work nervously. The sack he had been carrying dropped with a muted thud. Bringing his palms to his lips, he licked them quickly, trying to regain composure. A shaky breath followed, and he ran fingers through his hair to smooth the strands that had fallen loose. Then, cautiously, he plucked a wildflower from the ground, holding it out toward her as he stepped closer.
"Excuse me, milady," he said, voice slightly quivering despite his effort at formality. "I—I'm Joe Mackle. And I must say… you have a lovely side view." He extended the flower, offering it with a hand that shook ever so slightly.
Dydra froze, her hands tightening on the basket for a brief moment before carefully setting the rose she had been holding down. She turned her gaze to the young man before her, ocean-blue eyes meeting green. For a heartbeat, the world around them fell silent. His words, his presence, the warmth of sunlight on her shoulders—it all collided inside her chest. She offered a polite smile, the soft curve of her lips melting him further, and in that instant, he could see the fullness of her heart-shaped lips, the tiny crescent freckles that dotted her cheeks, and the subtle glow of her dark skin beneath the bright sun.
It was more than beauty. It was a presence, quiet and commanding, almost impossible to look away from. Joe's breath caught, and the flower in his hand trembled slightly. In his mind, he whispered silent prayers of self-restraint, afraid that his admiration was far too apparent.
Dydra, however, didn't take the flower. Her lips set into a thin line, a mixture of polite acknowledgment and subtle reservation. Her gaze swept over him carefully, taking note of his uniform—the indication he, too, was a palace servant—and his calm posture. Memories of the night before flared faintly in her mind. Leonard. The events. The danger. She wasn't in a mood to be approached by strangers, certainly not men, no matter how harmless they appeared.
"Thank you so much for the compliment," she said gently, her voice a soft melody. She offered a bow, shallow but polite, before taking a deliberate step back. "Excuse me." And with that, she turned gracefully and walked away, resuming her task of flower picking with measured calm.
Joe's heart lurched. The flower slipped from his grasp and fell onto the soft earth. He bit his lower lip, frustration and embarrassment flooding him. Too forward! Too eager! He chastised himself inwardly, mentally rehearsing a more careful approach for the future. With a slow, deliberate breath, he bent down to retrieve the flower and his dropped sack, pushing aside the rush of blood and heat in his chest as he tried to regain composure.
Inside the palace, Princess Naiya observed the scene with growing irritation. From her window, she watched the red-haired maid bending gracefully among the flowers. The sight reminded her painfully of the maid Ellen, whose clumsy attempts to impress had always provoked the princess's scorn. Naiya's delicate lips twitched, her hand snapping the teacup she held against the porcelain saucer, shattering it with a sharp, satisfied crack. The maid behind her froze, instantly assuming guilt. She dropped to her knees to gather the broken shards, the terror of the princess's wrath prickling her skin.
Naiya turned abruptly, walking away without a backward glance, her heel pressing into the maid's fingers. Pain surged, but the girl dared not cry out. Tears welled from the sting and the humiliation alike. Naiya, meanwhile, continued down the corridor, regal and unyielding, as if the small chaos around her could not touch her.
Her thoughts drifted toward her brother, Henry. Rumors had reached her that he had been involved with a dark-skinned maid. Curiosity mingled with envy and irritation as she scanned the hallways, eyeing the maids busy with their duties. Today, he was absent, leaving the perfect opportunity for Naiya to discover the identity of this maid herself.
"You!" she snapped, her voice sharp as a blade, addressing the nearest maid. "Fetch me whoever is in charge of your sloppy frogs. And bring me a hot cup of blood tea." She glanced around, eyes glittering with cold amusement as she left the room, fully expecting obedience.
The maid's heart sank at the insult—"sloppy frogs"—but she obeyed, knowing that to defy the princess was to risk far worse than embarrassment. With careful, trembling hands, she began to gather the necessary items, her thoughts racing as she imagined what Naiya might do next.
Meanwhile, back in the garden, Dydra continued her work, oblivious to the storm her presence had caused. The roses, daisies, and lilies she arranged in her basket became a quiet sanctuary, a small island of calm where her thoughts could drift. The sun burned overhead, but she paid it no mind. Her focus was the gentle care of the flowers, the simple pleasure of arranging petals just so. It was, for the moment, a reprieve from the shadows and intrigue that seemed to follow her everywhere within the palace walls.
Even in the warmth of the sun, and the calm of her task, Dydra's mind remained partially alert, ever aware that the palace was a labyrinth of danger, ambition, and hidden agendas. Each flower she set, each careful placement in the basket, was a small act of control, a way to center herself amidst the chaos that always seemed to orbit around her.