The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains of the modest inn room. Francis sat at the edge of the bed, still dressed in his butler's uniform from the night before. His gloves lay folded beside him, untouched.
He stared at the floor.
His hands trembled.
And then, without warning, tears slipped down his cheeks.
He didn't sob. He didn't make a sound. He simply sat there, the weight of years pressing down on his shoulders — the secrets, the sacrifices, the ache of watching history repeat itself.
He wiped his face quickly, as if ashamed of the softness.
There was no time for softness now.
Elsewhere in the city, Carmine moved like a shadow through the market square. Her merchant's cloak fluttered behind her as she spoke to vendors, stable boys, and flower girls.
She pieced together the whispers.
The engagement had already begun.
Two days remained until the final ceremony — a grand feast, a public vow, and the sealing of alliances.
Every night was a celebration. Every corner of the city was lit with lanterns and laughter.
Carmine stood beneath a silk-draped archway, watching the nobles pass.
She sighed.
"Colden must be suffocating."
In the palace's lower quarters, Colden stirred from his cot, the scent of yeast and sweat clinging to the air. He slipped on his borrowed tunic and stepped outside, hoping for a moment of quiet.
He barely made it to the courtyard when a voice barked behind him.
"We've got no time to waste! Why are you here? Go to the kitchen!"
Colden flinched, then turned and jogged back inside.
For five hours, he kneaded dough, stirred batter, and carried trays of pastries up and down the stone corridors. His arms ached. His back screamed. His princely posture wilted under the weight of flour sacks.
When someone finally shouted, "Break time!" he nearly collapsed with relief.
But instead of rest, they were handed stacks of paper and ribbon.
"Fold the packets," the head baker said. "Neatly."
Colden sat down, blinking at the pile.
Across the table, he noticed the hands of the workers — cracked, red, raw from heat and soap. Their nails were chipped, their skin roughened. The glamour of the palace had long since faded from their fingers.
He folded in silence, humbled.
Then the door creaked open.
A wave of overpowering perfume swept in first — thick, floral, cloying.
A man entered, tall and slender, with a vivid, angular face that seemed to stretch forward unnaturally, like a painting pulled too tight. His robes shimmered with gold thread, and his eyes scanned the room with theatrical flair.
"Ah," he said, voice like velvet dipped in wine. "So this is where the magic happens."
The kitchen fell silent.
Colden looked up, his instincts prickling.
The man's gaze landed on him.
And lingered.
To be continued…