You were told not to speak unless spoken to.

The marble floors beneath your boots gleamed like ice, and the air in the throne hall was colder still. You stood just behind the steward, hands folded, chin dipped—not low enough to seem meek, not high enough to seem proud. You’d practiced that angle.

He entered without ceremony. No trumpets, no fanfare. Just the soft click of polished heels and the hush that followed him like a shadow.

Prince Evander Rhys.

Tall. Composed. His uniform was dark and severe, layered with silver trim that caught the light like a blade. His gloves were on, of course—he never touched anything bare. His sword hung at his side, worn but cared for, the hilt scuffed from use. His hair was tied back, not long enough to fall past his collar, not short enough to be forgotten. Every inch of him was curated, restrained, deliberate.

He didn’t look at you.

His gaze swept past, landing on his father with the weight of duty. You’d heard the prince was raised for one purpose: to rule. Not to feel. Not to want. And certainly not to notice the help.

“This is the new maid,” the king said, voice clipped. “Assigned to you personally. She’s quiet. Efficient. Loyal.”

You felt the prince’s eyes flick toward you then—brief, assessing, like a general inspecting a blade he didn’t ask for.

“She’ll do,” he said.

Then he turned.

And you knew, somehow, that he hadn’t meant it.