The castle was a hive of motion, but not of joy. The engagement was a day away, and the air felt heavy with expectation. Servants moved quickly, heads bowed, eyes lowered. The halls echoed with footsteps and clipped orders, and the scent of roses barely masked the tension that clung to every corner.
Lady Viremont sat in the drawing room like a queen without a throne. Her gown was a deep emerald, her fingers adorned with rings that caught the light like daggers. She sipped tea with a precision that suggested judgment more than thirst.
Carmine entered quietly, carrying a tray of soup — warm, fragrant, carefully prepared. Her hands were steady, but her heart was not.
Lady Viremont didn't look up.
"You're late," she said.
"I came as soon as the soup was ready, my lady."
Lady Viremont sniffed. "It smells too strong. Did you use garlic?"
"A touch, my lady. It's part of the recipe."
Lady Viremont narrowed her eyes. "I don't recall asking for garlic."
Carmine lowered her gaze. "I can bring another—"
"No," Lady Viremont said sharply. "You'll serve this. And you'll learn."
She reached for the bowl, lifted it with exaggerated grace, and then — as if by accident — tipped it toward her hand.
The liquid splashed, hot and sudden.
Lady Viremont gasped, pulling back. "You burned me!"
Carmine stepped forward. "I'm so sorry—"
"You incompetent girl!" Lady Viremont snapped. "Do you know how delicate my skin is?"
"I didn't mean—"
"You never mean anything," she said, voice rising. "You ruin dresses, you ruin meals, and now you ruin my engagement week."
Carmine stood still, the tray trembling in her hands.
Francis entered just in time to see the aftermath. His eyes flicked to the soup, then to Lady Viremont's reddened hand.
"My lady," he said calmly, "perhaps you should rest. I'll see to Carmine."
Lady Viremont huffed. "See that she doesn't touch anything else."
Francis nodded, then gently took Carmine by the arm and led her out of the room.
They walked in silence down the servant's corridor, past tapestries and polished floors, until they reached the quiet wing where the staff quarters lay.
Francis opened the door to Carmine's room and gestured for her to sit.
She did, slowly, her hands still shaking.
He knelt beside her, pulled a small tin from his coat, and began to bandage the burn.
"You didn't deserve that," he said quietly.
Carmine didn't respond.
"She's cruel," he added. "But you're stronger than she knows."
Carmine looked at him, eyes glassy but dry. "Why does she hate me?"
Francis paused. "Because you remind her of everything she isn't."
Carmine blinked. "I'm just a maid."
"You're kind," he said. "You're patient. You're good. That terrifies her."
Carmine looked down at her bandaged hand. "Do you think Colden knows?"
Francis hesitated. "I don't know where Colden is."
Carmine's voice was quiet. "He visits the inn sometimes. Room Seven."
Francis's eyes narrowed. "I'll look into it."
He stood, adjusted his coat, and left the room without another word.
Carmine sat in silence, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, casting golden light across the stone floor.
At the inn, the light was softer.
Colden stirred beneath the sheets, the warmth of the room wrapping around him like a memory. The scent of dandelions lingered faintly, and the sound of rain had long since faded.
He turned slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim light.
Marco lay beside him, one arm draped across the pillow, his hair tousled, his breath steady.
He looked peaceful. Aloof. Like someone who had finally stopped running.
Colden watched him for a long moment, his heart full and quiet.
He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from Marco's forehead.
Outside, the sun set in hues of amber and rose.
Inside, Colden smiled.
He didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
But tonight, he knew where he belonged.