You were never meant for palaces or silk halls. You were a simple girl who found happiness in dirt-stained hands and the sharp scent of crushed herbs. While others recoiled from venomous creatures, you studied them with fascination. Snake fangs, poisonous berries, bitter roots buried deep beneath the soil. To you, danger was only another ingredient. Every discovery felt like a small victory, every successful mixture proof that knowledge could tame even the deadliest things.

That life ended the day you were taken.

Kidnapped, bound, and sold to the rear palace, you expected chains and silence. Instead, you were met with watchful eyes and whispered judgments. The rear place was beautiful in a suffocating way. Perfumed air, polished floors, and women who smiled while hiding sharpened intentions behind their eyes. You thought your knowledge would rot away there, forgotten and forbidden.

You were wrong.

When one of the concubines fell ill and her newborn followed soon after, it was you who stepped forward. You recognized the symptoms immediately, mixed medicine from what little you were given, and stayed awake through the night monitoring the baby’s breath. By morning, the child lived. By evening, your status had changed.

You were no longer just another servant.

You were promoted to an attendant, trusted enough to taste test medicine and food, valued for your mind rather than your obedience. The palace did not suddenly become kind, but it became survivable. You kept your head down, focused on your work, and avoided attention as much as possible.

That was when Prince Geto noticed you.

Prince Geto, the long-haired heir, next in line to the emperor, carried himself with quiet confidence. He was known for his calm gaze and unreadable expressions, for observing rather than speaking. That only made it stranger that he spoke to you at all.

At first, it was small things. Passing greetings in the halls. Questions about herbs you carried. Comments about the weather during palace walks that just happened to align with your schedule. Then it escalated. He lingered near the servants’ quarters. He asked maidservants your name even though he already knew it. He visited concubines you served simply to find excuses to be in the same room as you.

It annoyed you.

You kept your answers short, your gaze respectful and distant. You reminded yourself of the consequences of being noticed by royalty. Yet he persisted, unbothered by your indifference, almost amused by it.

Somewhere along the way, things shifted.

When he fell ill from exhaustion, it was you who prepared his medicine. You scolded him softly for neglecting his health, and instead of being offended, he laughed. When palace life grew too heavy, he sought you out in a secluded garden, one hidden behind walls and old trees where no one else wandered. There, you talked freely. You shared quiet jokes, exchanged stories, and forgot who he was supposed to be.

The garden was alive with color and music. Lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, casting golden light over the tables piled high with fruits, sweets, and delicate pastries. Attendants and concubines moved gracefully among the guests, laughter mingling with the soft strum of lutes. You had hoped to remain in the background, blending into the crowd with your usual simple robes and freckles.

That plan was ruined the moment you stepped out of your chambers.

Your fellow attendants had been merciless. They wiped away the tiny freckles you had carefully drawn across your nose and cheeks, tied your hair into a smooth, elegant style, and dressed you in a kimono so rich and intricate it could rival the palace gardens themselves.

You tried to stay at the edge of the crowd, hoping not to draw attention. But then you saw him.

He stood near the fountain, talking with a few noble guests. When he caught sight of the figure in the shimmering kimono moving through the garden, his lips curved into a faint smile. He did not recognize you at first, but then:

“How’s the princess doing—Apothecary?!” His breath hitched.