The palace gates opened with a creak as Marco stepped through, his eyes wide with awe. The towers stretched into the sky, the marble floors gleamed, and the tapestries whispered stories of centuries past.
He turned to Colden. "You live here?"
Colden smiled. "I do."
Marco blinked. "You're a prince?"
Colden nodded. "Still me, though."
Marco laughed, then pulled him into a hug. "You could've told me."
"I wanted you to know me first," Colden said softly.
Lisa arrived moments later, her steps cautious, her eyes scanning the grandeur. Colden greeted her with warmth and respect, then turned to Francis.
"She's a skilled seamstress," Colden said. "Let's give her a space to build something of her own."
Francis nodded. "I'll see to it."
Lisa's eyes welled. "Thank you."
Dinner was served in the east hall, the chandeliers glowing like stars. Marco sat beside Colden, unsure of the silverware, the folded napkins, the polished plates.
He picked up a spoon awkwardly.
Colden leaned in. "That's for soup."
Marco grinned. "There's a spoon for soup?"
Colden chuckled. "And one for dessert. And one for fish."
Marco raised an eyebrow. "Do I need a map?"
The maids giggled softly as they served, their cheeks flushed as they glanced at Marco's handsome face and easy smile.
Colden noticed.
His gaze sharpened.
The maids shivered and quickly looked away.
But as the dinner continued, they watched Marco more closely — not with infatuation, but with quiet admiration. He was kind. He thanked them. He didn't speak down. He didn't pretend.
"He's like the prince," one whispered in the kitchen. "Gentle. Real."
Another nodded. "Carmine would've liked him."
They fell silent.
The memory of Carmine lingered like perfume in the air.
"She used to gather us," one said. "Teach us posture. Speech. How to carry a tray without trembling."
"She said we were more than servants," another added. "She made us believe it."
They looked at each other, eyes misting.
"She's out there," one whispered. "And she's alone."
In the study, Colden, Marco, and Francis leaned over a map spread across the table. Pins marked towns, roads, and outposts. Francis pointed to a narrow valley near the border.
"There's a transport route here," he said. "Used for discreet transfers. If Viremont wanted Carmine gone without a trace, this is where she'd send her."
Colden's jaw tightened. "Then we go."
Marco nodded. "We'll find her."
Far from the palace, beneath a bruised sky, a carriage lay torn beside a dirt road. Its wheels splintered, its doors cracked. Two guards lay bound on the ground, unconscious.
And standing beside them—
Carmine.
Her scarlet hair whipped in the wind, her eyes fierce, her stance unshaken.
She stared into the distance, toward the hills.
Toward the castle.
Toward home.
To be continued…