The blonde maid steps forward, pcing a hand gently on the small of my back. Her touch is light but firm, and there's no hesitation in her movement—just quiet efficiency. She steers me toward the vanity, and for a brief moment, I allow myself to be led. It's easier this way.

  I gnced over at her, my curiosity piqued. "What's your name?" I ask, almost too softly.

  "I'm Béatrice," she replies with a crisp, controlled tone. She gestures to the red-haired maid, who stands a step behind her. "This is Camille." Her gaze doesn't linger, but she continues, her words calcuted. "However, a word of advice: you shouldn't ask a maid for her name. Maids are meant to exist in the background, unnoticed." She pauses, eyes flicking to Camille, who gives the faintest nod, confirming her words. "But as your new dies' maids, I suppose it's not entirely inappropriate." I blink, caught off guard by her bluntness. Her frankness is unsettling, but I say nothing in reply.

  I turn my attention to the vanity, and I see myself for the first time in what feels like years. Mirrors are a luxury reserved for the upper nobility and royalty. I'm used to seeing my reflection only on somewhat reflective surfaces, like the reflection in a window or the surface of a ke.

  My heart-shaped face stares back at me, framed by waves of light brown hair that cascade over my shoulders. My vivid green eyes, inherited from my mother, look exhausted from everything I've been through. Freckles dot my cheeks and the bridge of my nose—a feature I've never quite liked, though I've learned to live with them.

  I murmur a question under my breath, mostly to myself, "What did he mean by banquet?" My voice feels small, distant even to myself.

  Neither of them answers, their silence so absolute it feels practiced. Instead, Camille moves toward an adjoining door I hadn't noticed earlier, disappearing inside. Moments ter, the sound of rushing water fills the room, echoing softly. She must have turned on the faucet to prepare a bath.

  Béatrice steps forward, her movements precise and measured, and begins undoing the ties of my worn dress. I stiffen instinctively, but she doesn't hesitate. "We don't have much time," she says simply, her tone neither kind nor cruel—just efficient.

  Camille returns from the bathroom, steam trailing her as she reenters the room. "The bath is ready," she announces softly. Her green eyes briefly meet mine, and I catch a flicker of something in her expression—curiosity? Sympathy? I can't be sure.

  Béatrice guides me toward the bathroom without a word, her grip firm but not unkind. The space is small but ornate, with polished marble tiles that shimmer in the candlelight and golden fixtures that gleam against the steam-clouded air. The portable wooden tub is filled nearly to the brim with freshly boiled water. The water was faintly perfumed with rose and vender.

  Camille kneels beside the tub, the soft rustling of her skirts barely audible as she rolls up her sleeves and dips her fingers into the steaming water. She tests its temperature with practiced ease, nodding in satisfaction before turning to Béatrice. "She'll need her hair washed," she says quietly, her voice almost a whisper, as though I'm not even standing there.

  "I can do it myself," I interject before I can stop myself, the words slipping out with more force than I intended.

  "That would be unconventional," Béatrice responds, raising an eyebrow, her gaze cool and unreadable. After a pause, she replies, "But if you insist."

  The water's warmth envelops me as I lower myself into the tub, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly with each passing moment. The soft ripples of the water almost feel like a small comfort, a fleeting sense of peace that I know won't st long.

  I lean back, letting the water soothe me as I close my eyes, the silence in the room weighing heavily on me. The quiet of the room seems to press in on me, the soft bubbling of the water the only sound, a low hum that only serves to heighten the silence in my mind. I let myself linger in the warm embrace of the bath, knowing this was just an illusion of calm before the storm.

  The quiet is interrupted only by the soft rustling of Camille and Béatrice moving about in the bedroom.

  When I step out, the chill of the air pricks my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of the bath. I quickly pull on a soft chemise left on the dressing table, the soft fabric brushing against my damp skin, before wrapping myself in a thick towel. I walk back into the bedroom, shivering slightly, the warmth of the towel offering some comfort against the cold.

  Camille and Béatrice are already at work. Camille is near the vanity, carefully ying out hair supplies she will use for my hair. Her movements are fluid and methodical as if she's done this a hundred times before. Béatrice stands by the window, her eyes scanning the room with a detached, watchful gaze. Her hands are folded neatly in front of her, but there's an edge to her posture, as though she's expecting something to go wrong.

  On the bed, a dress had been carefully id out.

  It's unlike anything I've ever worn—deep emerald green, with intricate gold embroidery along the bodice and sleeves. The silk fabric shimmers faintly, and the design is both elegant and imposing, a clear statement of status.

  My hands feel rough against the delicate fabric, a stark reminder of the years I spent scavenging in alleyways, stitching patches onto rags to keep the cold at bay. Everything about this—the gown, the maids, the opulent room—feels foreign.

  I gnce up at Béatrice, whose gaze flickers between me and the dress. She motions for me to approach the bed. "Stand still," she orders, her voice sharp. She's already cinching a corset around my waist before I can protest, the pressure tight against my ribs, almost suffocating.

  Once the corset is secured, they guide me into the gown, their hands working in tandem to fasten the dozens of tiny buttons along the back. Camille steps forward to style my hair, pulling it into an intricate braid that she coils into a bun and secures with golden pins shaped like leaves.

  When they're done, Béatrice steps back to appraise their work. "It'll do," she says, and I can't tell if the faint smile on her lips is satisfaction or mockery.

  I turn to the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me. The gown hugs my frame perfectly, the emerald fabric making my green eyes seem even brighter. My hair, usually unkempt and wild, is sleek and elegant, adorned with just enough ornamentation to hint at royalty without overstepping.

  Béatrice stiffens and quickly steps forward, her sharp gaze darting to the mark. "Camille, you forgot to conceal it," she says sharply, annoyance creeping into her tone.

  Camille, who had been busy organizing the jewelry at the vanity, freezes mid-motion. "My apologies," she rushed over to retrieve a small jar from the vanity table. Inside is a pale, creamy mixture.

  "What is that?" I ask, watching as Camille dips her fingers into the jar and kneels beside me.

  "It's rice powder mixed with almond oil," she expins. Camile begins dabbing the paste onto my wrist with careful precision. "It's commonly used here to smooth the complexion or hide imperfections. It should cover this mark well enough."

  "Why does it need to be hidden?" Her expnation does little to ease my growing confusion. "That's my royal insignia. My loyalty to my house and districts."

  Béatrice exhales slowly, exchanging a gnce with Camille before responding. "Your district insignia marks you as... Rebrian. Apparently, the Nudandria court isn't exactly known for rolling out the welcome mat for outsiders. We've been asked to conceal it."

  I stare at the creamy yer now obscuring my emblem. My fingers brush over the concealed skin, and a bitter thought surfaces unbidden. Why was I ever so loyal to Rebria? They cast me and my mother out of the pace, stripped us of everything, and left us to rot in the streets like discarded refuse. For years, I clung to some misguided hope that I could earn my way back, that if I proved myself worthy, they'd welcome me home through the nominations.

  A dull ache settles in my chest, an old wound reopening. I sacrificed so much for a house and districts that tossed me aside without hesitation. And now, here I am again, reshaped to fit into a new role, for a new court, in a kingdom that will undoubtedly see me as disposable too.

  Am I being prepared for a role in their court, or am I being dressed up for my long-overdue death? The thought cws at my chest, cold and unforgiving. After everything I've endured—the cold nights on the streets, the hunger, the endless fight to live—will my story end here, in a kingdom that isn't even mine, under a title I don't deserve?

  My fingers tighten around the fabric of my gown. "Why don't we give you a brief tour of the Kingdom?" Béatrice says, breaking the silence.

  I stand there for a moment before releasing the tension of my grip on the skirt of my dress."Can I write a letter?"

  I think back to the man I met on the docks of Skjold when I had first arrived in Netholic. It's a custom to thank someone with a letter in Netholic. I'm not so sure it's a custom here, but I'd assume so with their access to such fine inks.

  This is a perfect opportunity to test how lenient they are with me. I doubt they'd let just any information pass through these kingdom walls. I'll have to keep my letters clipped, with the expectation of someone other than the recipient reading them.

  "A letter?" Béatrice raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "I'm not sure. I'll have to inquire with someone about this request."

  I nod, understanding the hesitation. Trust doesn't ever come that easily, not when I've barely proven myself to anyone. Even though it's a simple question, the fact that they might allow me to write one gives me a little hope—something to look forward to.

  The following silence feels heavier than it should, and I notice Camille fidgeting at the corner of my eye, her gaze unfocused. She bumps into a nightstand, setting a vase off bance. She catches the vase with a fumble before gently pcing it back with a huff of relief.

  "Camille? Why don't you speak much? Not a talker, I presume?"

  Camille looks at Béatrice, her cheeks still a bit pink with embarrassment. Béatrice meets her gaze, then turns to look at me.

  "She's a new maid. This is her fourth day here, so she's undergoing soundless training. Maids are taught not to speak unless spoken to." That seems odd. I wish I knew more about the process of becoming a maid.

  "When can she speak to me?" I ask, curious about this 'soundless training.'

  "There are different types of maids. Maids start out doing trainee work to be dies' maids, which is at the top of the hierarchy for maids. However, she may end up becoming a scullery maid."

  "Well, that hardly seems fair. Scullery maids work tirelessly with little recognition or opportunity for advancement." I've met a few scullery maids in Rebria. They spend most of their days in the scullery room, preparing food, washing dishes, scrubbing tables, organizing pantries, and washing vegetables and fruit.

  "Someone has to do the work. There are plenty of other scullery maids for her to befriend."I couldn't imagine being torn away from my family and friends to become a pace or kingdom maid. They may earn good money for their families, but they can never see their loved ones again. If you're assigned to be a scullery maid, Kitchen maid, parlormaid, footmaid, nursemaid, or undress, you rank lowest among maids. There's no escaping the maid life once you're chosen. It's meant to be considered an honor to work for the royals, but I doubt any of the maids see it that way.

  Chambermaids rank just above all the other maids. They're responsible for cleaning and maintaining the royal bedrooms. Headmaids, on the other hand, manage the budgets for supplies and oversee the entire staff of maids. They monitor the maids' work closely and punish them as they see fit. A head maid isn't above the dies' maids, though.

  "What if I were to request Camille specifically as my dies' maid?"

  "Seriously? That could be seen as a breach of protocol and would likely raise eyebrows among the other staff and higher-ranking members of the court." Béatrice's irritation is clear. "It would be viewed as disregarding tradition, as challenging the css system. Are you trying to challenge the css system?"

  "What if I just wanted to give her a chance to rise in status?" I counter.

  "This isn't the way to do it. You don't live on the streets anymore, Aurelie. As a princess, you don't get to rete to or sympathize with maids or common people."

  I don't understand. Does she want me to see myself as greater than her, above her? Why doesn't she want me to challenge the css system?

  "Do you see us as equals, Béatrice?"

  "Do I have an eldric, Aurelie?" She says, almost daring me to argue with her.

  Why should my Eldric define who I am, or who she is to me? I would never want someone to endure what my mother and I have been through just because they aren't as strong as me.

  For a moment, we just stand there, the room is palpable. I choose not to say anymore. There's no point in pushing this conversation any further—not now, at least. Not when I know she won't listen, and not when I'm unsure I can make her see things differently.

  A sharp knock at the door shatters the tense silence, followed by a muffled voice that echoes through the double doors.

  "The table has been set, Your Highness. The monarchs request your presence."

  The monarchs? My heart stutters, and my breath catches. My eyes widen in sudden fear, and an unsettling wave of dread washes over me, making the room feel smaller and tighter. The thought of facing them—the rulers of this kingdom—fills me with an anxious uncertainty I can't shake.

  Why would they need to speak with me? This honor is only bestowed upon the top ten girls nominated for queen. The monarchs themselves are almost like figments of imagination—rarely seen in person, they only ever appear in paintings or are written about in the daily papers. This is true for both Rebria and Netholic, according to my book on Netholian customs and history. Being summoned by them could only mean one thing. I won't live long enough to tell of it. A cold shiver runs down my spine, and my hands tremble.

  I gnce at Béatrice, who remains unfazed. "Time to go," she says curtly, her voice steady. Her indifferent expression does nothing to calm the rising storm inside me. Her voice holds no trace of the panic gnawing at my insides.

  The feeling of unease settles into my bones as the room spins, and I find myself too far from safety to turn back now.