The great dining hall of Valoria was quiet that morning, too quiet.
The clink of silver on porcelain echoed against the marble walls, and sunlight streamed through tall windows, touching everything in pale gold.
Prince Reginald sat alone at the head of the long table.
The servants kept their distance, moving like ghosts along the edges of the room.
Only one figure hovered near him without fear; Mrs. Stella, the palace's head maid and the woman who had once rocked the young prince to sleep when storms frightened him.
She was gray-haired now, but her eyes still sharp and kind.
She placed a fresh pot of tea beside him, her hands steady.
"Your breakfast, Your Highness. The royal kitchens were instructed to serve the new selections from the city vendors," she said softly.
Reginald gave a brief nod. "Thank you, Stella."
He didn't eat immediately.
His gaze drifted to the city beyond the windows, rooftops and smoke, the sprawl of a world that breathed without him.
He had not slept well in days.
Every night, when he closed his eyes, he saw her again: the veiled girl in the sunlight.
He told himself it was nothing. Yet it followed him still.
Finally, he reached for a piece of bread from the platter.
It was simple, golden crust, soft center, glazed faintly with honey.
He tore it absently and took a bite.
And then he stilled.
The taste… it was warm, comforting, faintly sweet but not the cloying sweetness of court pastries.
It was delicate, humble, real.
He froze, staring down at it, his heart giving an unfamiliar, unwelcome jolt.
It was the same.
The same scent that had drifted from the bakery that day.
He swallowed slowly, setting the bread down with care, as though it were something fragile.
"Stella," he said quietly, "who prepared this?"
The old woman blinked, surprised by the sudden question.
"Your Highness. It was delivered from one of the new vendors the palace approved last week. The cooks said it came from a family bakery in the eastern quarter."
Reginald's voice deepened. "The name."
"I can have it sent to you," she said at once.
He nodded once, his expression unreadable. But his gloved hands clenched faintly against the table.
Stella hesitated.
She had seen him angry before, but this wasn't anger.
It was something far quieter, and far more dangerous.
"Is something amiss, my prince?" she asked softly.
Reginald's gaze lifted to hers, and for a moment, the mask faltered.
His eyes, cold as ice on most days held the faintest flicker of confusion, of something almost human.
"No," he said finally. "Only… curious."
She inclined her head respectfully. "Shall I have more brought, sire?"
"No," he said too quickly. Then, softening, "No, that will be all."
She bowed and withdrew, her steps silent on the marble floor.
Reginald sat back, staring at the piece of bread left untouched on his plate.
The scent lingered, honey, warmth. It filled the air, haunting him.
What is this? he thought.
A knock came at the door.
Captain Rowan stepped in, bowing.
His face was lined with years of loyalty and battles fought at the prince's side. Plain clothes suited him poorly; even in uniform, he carried the quiet gravity of a man who had seen too much.
"Your Highness." He bowed.
"The royal kitchens have been using new vendors, one of them supplied this bread."
Rowan raised an eyebrow. "You find it unsatisfactory?"
Reginald's lips pressed thin. "Quite the opposite."
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I want you to find out who made it. The name of the bakery. The owners. Everything."
Rowan studied him for a moment.
He was too seasoned to pry, but he knew when something carried weight.
"As you command, my prince."
"Discreetly," Reginald added.
"Of course."
Rowan rose, bowing slightly. "I'll have an answer before dusk."
When he was gone, silence reclaimed the room.
Reginald leaned back, exhaling slowly.
The taste still lingered on his tongue, maddeningly gentle, like a whisper he could not quite hear.
He hated the feeling it left behind.
He was a man of control.
His thoughts obeyed him, his heart was a weapon he had long since locked away.
Yet one bite of bread, one taste of honey and memory, had undone that stillness completely.
Somewhere down there, in that maze of streets and markets, she lived and baked and smiled behind her scarf, unaware that she had already broken the calm of a prince who thought himself unbreakable.
.
.
.
The morning rush had come and gone.
Eliora wiped her hands on her apron and set another tray of honey rolls to cool.
Her curls had come loose from her scarf, brushing her cheeks as she worked.
A few children lingered outside the shop window, noses pressed to the glass, watching the golden pastries with round, hopeful eyes.
She smiled and handed them each a small bun when no one was looking.
From the back room came the familiar sound of her father's voice, Justin teasing her mother about burning the next batch.
Rhea's laugh followed. "You think you can do better, baker?"
"Of course," Justin said. "I raised the best one."
Eliora rolled her eyes with a smile. "You're both hopeless."
The bell over the door chimed.
She turned, wiping her hands again, and her smile softened.
"Master Gideon," she greeted warmly.
He filled the doorway, good-looking, with the roughness of a man who worked the land but carried himself with confidence.
His hands were calloused, his brown hair sun-streaked, and his smile, as always, was gentle.
"Good morning, Eliora," he said, his voice steady, familiar. "Your father around?"
"In the back," she said, moving behind the counter. "Would you like your usual?"
"If it's from your hands, always."
She flushed faintly but busied herself with wrapping his bread.
He watched her for a moment, the warmth in his eyes edged with something hopeful and patient.
He'd been coming for months now.
Always polite, always kind, never pushing too hard.
He spoke of small things, weather, harvest, his workers and sometimes, if her father lingered, of marriage.
Eliora liked him. Truly.
He was good. Good in the steady, dependable way that most women dreamed of.
Her family adored him, especially her father, who said often that Gideon's character was worth more than all his acres.
And yet.
There was a small, unspoken ache inside her, one she could not name.
Gideon was everything a woman should want. But her heart waited for something she did not yet understand, something that felt like love before promise, not promise before love.
A passionate love.
"Busy morning?" he asked as she tied the paper string around the loaf.
"As always," she said, handing it to him with a smile. "The palace order helped. We've had to bake twice as much."
His brows lifted. "Palace order?"
She nodded. "A messenger came from the palace three days ago. They requested our loaves. Father was so nervous he nearly forgot to breathe."
Gideon laughed. "I can imagine. You should be proud, Eliora. That's no small thing, to have your bread reach royal tables."
She smiled softly. "Maybe. I just hope they like it for the coronation."
"I'm sure they will," he said. "How could they not?"
Behind them, Justin emerged from the back, wiping his hands.
"Ah, Gideon! Just in time. Come, try our new batch of rolls before you go. Rhea insists she's improved the honey."
Gideon chuckled, following him toward the oven, though his gaze flicked once more to Eliora.
"You'll save me one, won't you?"
"Always," she said, her smile faint.
When he was gone, the door's bell gave a soft chime, and she stood there a moment, fingers resting absently on the counter.