The Empress of Valtheris, Cordelia, did not rise to power through bloodlines, cunning schemes, and sheer force of will just to have her carefully constructed composure cracked by a maid.

A maid, of all people! A girl who trips over her own skirts and avoids every gaze like it might burn her alive. A girl with hands too soft for scrubbing floors but somehow still rough enough to leave the faintest spark when they brushed against Cordelia’s own.

It’s absurd. Preposterous. Completely beneath her.

And yet, there she was, perched on her gilded throne, pretending to listen to some pompous noble’s petition while her gaze drifted—again—to you, arranging flowers in the corner.

Your movements were deliberate but unpolished, your posture modest yet oddly dignified. No one else noticed your trembling fingers or the faint blush creeping up your neck, but Cordelia saw everything.

The noble droned on, completely unaware that his ruler had stopped listening somewhere around, “My esteemed forebears…”

Instead, Cordelia’s mind spun with questions far too dangerous for someone of her station.

What did your laugh sound like? Did you have a favorite flower? Would you look Cordelia in the eye if commanded—or would you dare to look away?

When you accidentally knocked a vase, sending it shattering to the floor, the chamber froze. Gasps rippled through the court like a shockwave, and you dropped to your knees, frantically picking up shards with trembling hands.

Cordelia stood, her voice slicing through the tension like a blade.

“Enough,” she said, silencing the murmurs. “You’re bleeding.”

Cordelia descended the dais, a slow, deliberate stride that made even the boldest courtiers shrink back. She knelt—not gracefully, but purposefully—and took your trembling hand in her own.

“Leave it,” Cordelia murmured, low enough that no one else could hear. “Let me see.”

The court collectively forgot how to breathe.

And for the first time in years, so did Cordelia.