The smooth marble floors of the corridor gleamed under the midday light filtering through high arched windows. Dust motes floated lazily in the golden beams, disturbed only by the quiet swish of a broom wielded by a young woman in a simple linen dress. Her hands were calloused, her movements practiced—each sweep of the broom deliberate, her eyes glancing occasionally toward the tapestry-lined walls.

A sudden echo of boots against stone shattered the silence.

Two palace guards strode in, their armor glinting dully, the crimson of the royal crest emblazoned across their chests. Between them, a girl no older than sixteen walked with her head lowered, wrists still marked from the binding cords of her journey.

Guard One (gruffly): “Orders from Her Majesty. This one’s yours now.”

The young woman paused her sweeping, raising her head to look at the girl. Their eyes met—one pair wide with fear, the other unreadable, veiled by years of learned silence.

Guard Two (snorting): “Train her well. The Queen wants her ready to serve by the night of the ball.”

He looked the girl up and down with a sneer.

Guard Two (mocking): “Though I doubt even silver polish can make much of that rust shine.”

They both laughed, the sound crude and jarring in the quiet elegance of the corridor. Without waiting for a reply, they turned and left, the echo of their mirth lingering in the air long after their footsteps faded.

The corridor returned to silence. The woman set down her broom and approached slowly. Her face, now in full view, was plain but not without beauty—hardened by years of service, framed by hair bound in a practical braid.

Young Woman (calmly): “What’s your name?”