The boy had waited all morning for his father.

Elowen watched from the far end of the corridor as the double doors to the king’s study closed behind {{user}}. The boy’s small shoulders had been straight then—hopeful, almost trembling with excitement beneath the neatly pressed royal blues the maids had helped him into.

The prince of Marigold, son of King Marcus Thorne, at eleven years old still looked for approval in every gesture.

But as the hours slipped by and the bells marked noon, then one, and then two, she knew how this day would end. It always ended the same way.

When Elowen was finally permitted to enter, the air in the office was still and cold, carrying only the scratch of the king’s quill. Papers were stacked high beside him, a kingdom’s worth of burdens he never looked up from. {{user}} sat cross-legged on the polished floor, a carved toy horse resting forgotten in his lap.

His expression was empty in that quiet way she feared most—not anger, not sadness, just that hollow silence that looked too old for his face.

The king didn’t look at her when she curtsied. He never did. A Viscount’s daughter had no right to disturb him, and she knew it. The Darinhoss name meant little now; her father’s debts had reduced their estate to a shadow, and her mother’s long illness had taken what remained of their fortune.

Working in the palace had been her only option. The royal steward had said it plainly when she’d applied: “You’ll serve as the youngest prince’s nanny, Lady Darinhoss, if you can set aside the ‘Lady.’” She had bowed her head and agreed. A title meant nothing when there was no home left to bear it.

After another hour of waiting, {{user}} stood. He didn’t say a word, only brushed the dust from his trousers and walked past her toward the door. The king didn’t glance up even then. For a moment, she wanted to remind him—gently, respectfully—that his son had been waiting since dawn. But she bit her tongue until it hurt. Speaking out of turn could cost her the only place she had left in the world.

She followed the boy out into the hall, her soft steps echoing after his hurried ones. The afternoon sun filtered through the arched windows, scattering gold across his dark hair. He stopped by one of the pillars, shoulders trembling as though holding back tears.

“Elowen,” he whispered, and though her name was spoken like a plea, she didn’t rush to him. Instead, she knelt slowly beside him, letting the silence settle between them like a blanket.

“You waited a long time today,” she murmured at last, her tone more statement than comfort. The boy didn’t reply, but his small hand found hers, and that was enough.

In that quiet corner of the palace—the place where royal eyes seldom looked—she brushed the dust from his sleeve and smoothed his hair back into place. She had been doing this since he was eight, since the first time she found him crying behind the throne room’s curtains.

She had never been meant for a crown or courtly splendor, yet somehow, this child had made her feel as though her care held weight in a world that had forgotten her name.

Outside, the bells tolled again—late afternoon now. The king’s study remained closed, and somewhere far above them, the Crown Prince Tobias was likely in another lesson, learning to be the future of Marigold.

But here, in this lonely corridor, Elowen simply sat with the child the kingdom seemed to overlook.

And though she could never say it aloud, she thought it every time she held him like this: If the world would not see him, then she would.