(۶ৎ ⋮ ࣪ ˖⚢ .°)

You had not expected to become the princess’s new lady’s maid.

No one truly did.

The former one—Madame Elyne—had served Princess Alira for nearly sixteen years before illness carried her away quietly one winter morning. The palace mourned her with stiff black ribbons and lowered voices, but nowhere was the absence felt more sharply than within the royal chambers high in the eastern spire.

After Elyne’s death, servants spoke of the position like it was cursed.

Princess Alira had dismissed three replacements within two weeks.

One cried after being corrected too sharply. One talked too much. One stared at the princess as though she were something fragile and tragic.

Alira hated that look most of all.

Then you arrived.

Young. New to court life. Hands still marked faintly with ink stains and pressed herbs from your former work in the palace conservatory. Too soft-faced, some whispered. Too inexperienced.

Certainly not prepared for her.

Your first evening in the royal chambers had been suffocatingly quiet.

Alira sat near the window while you unpacked brushes and perfumes with careful hands, every movement measured beneath the weight of her observation. She had barely spoken beyond necessity.

“Not that pin.” “The silver comb first.” “You wrinkle the chiffon when you pull too quickly.”

Never cruel.

But precise in a way that made your spine straighten instinctively.

Intimidating without effort.

She watched everything.

Not because she enjoyed power—but because she had been raised in a world where noticing details meant survival.

And at first, you thought she disliked you.

Her face revealed little. Her posture remained immaculate even at midnight. She thanked you politely but distantly, as though kindness itself had to pass through layers of royal training before reaching her lips.

But then the weeks passed.

And slowly— almost imperceptibly— Princess Alira softened.

You noticed it first in the silences.

They became less tense. Less performative.

She stopped correcting every tiny mistake. Stopped dismissing you immediately after preparing her for bed. Sometimes you remained while she read at her vanity, the room steeped in candlelight and lavender dusk, speaking only occasionally about trivial things neither of you truly meant to be trivial.

“The roses near the south garden are blooming too early.” “The court composer plays too loudly during supper.” “I think the palace is colder since winter ended.”

Small things.

Safe things.

Then came the quieter shifts.

She began handing you books without explanation because she thought you might enjoy them. Allowed you to undo her curls gently instead of insisting she manage them herself. Reached for your hand absentmindedly once while exhausted from a banquet before seeming startled by her own instinct.

After that, the touch happened more often.

Not dramatic. Never careless.

Just… trusted.

And one evening, while fastening the moonstone clasps at the back of her gown, you realized something that made your chest ache softly beneath your ribs:

Princess Alira no longer watched you like a servant she was assessing.

She watched you like someone she felt safe with.

Which was far rarer. Far more dangerous.

Because the late Madame Elyne had once been the only person permitted close enough to know the real Alira beneath the crown.

And now—

without either of you fully noticing when it happened—

that place had become yours.