The castle gates of Viahar loomed ahead like the jaws of a beast, ancient stone and obsidian steel etched with sigils I had only seen in forbidden scrolls. Its towers pierced the sky like spears aimed at the heavens.
I swallowed the rising dread.
I've faced worse than this. I've faced execution. Unfairness. Even gods.
Still, my steps slowed as I neared the line of applicants.
The palace was holding a maid intake—part of their seasonal recruitment. I had tailored my appearance to blend: soot-rubbed cheeks, a patched dress from Kael's contacts, my divine glow dimmed beneath layers of exhaustion and dust. Horace had been left behind in the city, safely hidden. He wasn't happy about it.
I stood in line behind a girl who was chewing her braid nervously and in front of another who was humming to herself like this was some grand picnic.
When my turn came, I stepped into the shaded tent, where a tired official sat at a large desk, quill in hand, surrounded by scrolls and a steaming cup of something bitter.
"Name," he grumbled.
"Ophelia," I replied softly.
He glanced up. His eyes narrowed at my hair—faint platinum still showing beneath the dirt.
"You're not from around here."
"No, sir. I worked for a merchant family in the outer provinces," I lied smoothly, offering a slight bow. "They were… taken by the sickness."
He sighed, waving his hand. "All the same these days. East Wing. You'll be assisted by Lady Rhoswen's staff."
My pulse quickened.
East Wing… That's close to the royal archives.
"Thankyou," I said, bowing again.
He handed me a linen apron, a dull pin bearing the emblem of the royal crest, and a map of the servants' corridors.
"Report by sundown. And try not to make a scene. The last girl who spilled wine on the Crown Regent is still scrubbing marble with her tears."
The servant's entrance smelled of lavender soap, coal smoke, and quiet resentment. Hushed conversations filled the narrow halls. The life of a palace maid was fast, quiet, and invisible—and I had to become exactly that.
By the time the sun dipped beneath the towers of Viahar, I was scrubbing floors beside other girls who shared quiet gossip about noble families, scandalous affairs, and the mysterious illness of the Crown Prince.
They didn't know I wasn't listening for scandal.
I was listening for secrets.
....
The EastWing was beautiful in a way that made my stomach twist.
Tall arched windows let sunlight fall like honey across gleaming floors. Velvet drapes shimmered. Everything smelled faintly of jasmine and lemon oil. You could almost forget that power—and blood—flowed through these halls.
Almost.
I had just finished scrubbing a mosaic tile of a lion mauling a serpent when a girl plopped down beside me with a groan loud enough to summon the dead.
"Ugh, I swear if Lady Rhoswen tells me to iron her sleeves one more time, I'm going to iron herface."
I blinked at her. She had curly chestnut hair tied in loose ribbons, wide hazel eyes, and absolutely no concept of volume.
She held out a hand—still damp from rinsing linen.
"I'm Lira. You're new. I talk too much. It's a curse. Let's be friends."
I took her hand cautiously. "Ophelia."
"Ohhhh. Pretty name. You don't sound local." She squinted at me. "You a noble in hiding? Exiled duchess? Runaway bride?"
I stifled a smile. "None of those. Just… passing through."
Lira leaned closer with a theatrical whisper. "Well, passing through or not, you're gonna need to keep your head down. This palace is crawling with secrets. And not the fun kind."
"Fun kind?" I raised a brow.
"You know—romance, elopements, naked dukes in fountains. Not that I've seen that," she added quickly. "Okay, I've seen it once. But that's a long story."
I chuckled softly, the sound surprising even me. It was the first time I had laughed since the execution.
We moved to the garden for our lunch break—bread, dried fruits, and cold tea under the shade of a flowering arbor. Lira talked through every bite.
"See that tower up there? They say the Crown Prince hasn't left it in months. Some say he's cursed. Some say he died and they replaced him with a lookalike. And some say get this—he's secretly in love with the head healer and writes poetry on his walls."
I pretended to sip my tea, hiding my growing interest.
"And the West Wing?" I asked carefully.
"Ohhh no no. You stay away from the West Wing unless you want your head turned inside out. That's where the real creepy stuff happens. Guards change twice as often, and the servants that go in always come out looking like they've seen ghosts."
I hummed. "And the royal archives?"
Lira went still for a second.
"Why would you ask about that?" she asked, voice quieter now.
I shrugged, keeping my tone light. "Heard someone mention it."
She leaned in, eyes wide. "Listen, I don't know what they keep in there, but Lady Rhoswen says only the Crown and a select few are allowed entry. The rest of us? Not even a peek. I think there's something in there the royal family's hiding."
That's exactly what I thought too.
The bell rang from the courtyard. Break was over.
Lira jumped up, brushing crumbs off her apron. "Come on, mystery girl. If we're late, Rhoswen will make us polish stair banisters with toothbrushes."
I followed, walking just a little closer to her side.
Because sometimes, the best way to reach the truth—
Was through the girl who couldn't stop talking.
The moonlight poured over the Viahar Palace gardens like milk over obsidian. It was well past midnight, and my arms ached from hours of polishing glassware and delivering hot water to nobles who absolutely needed tea at ungodly hours.
I was silently wiping down a marble table in the outer pavilion when Lira popped up beside me, balancing a tray of uncollected wine glasses.
"Still alive?" Lira whispered dramatically. "Because I died four hours ago and my spirit is clinging to this realm out of pure spite."
I gave her a tired smile. "Barely. Who knew nobles could drink this much tea and still be that… loud?"
Lira grinned. "Wait until the spring banquet. I saw a baroness throw a whole tray at a knight just because he looked at her poodle."
We both giggled, muffled by the stillness of the palace night.
As we made our way through the stone corridor leading back to the servants' kitchen, Lira tugged at Ophelia's sleeve.
"Wait. Shortcut. Through the side garden. We'll be back before that demon in heels Rhoswen counts heads again."
They slipped through a narrow passageway and out into the EastGarden, where silvery dew clung to the roses and the world was quiet—
Except it wasn't.
Rustling.
I froze.
There, under the weeping silver willows by the reflecting pond, two figures moved in shadow.
One wore the rich velvet of a noble. The other, unmistakably a maid uniform.
And they were verymuchnot having a polite conversation.
My eyes widened as the noble pulled the maid close, hands tracing her waist like he owned the moonlight. Their mouths collided in a kiss so intense, it made the lily petals curl.
"Oh Hayva," I whispered, turning away,
my cheeks flushing a deep crimson.
Lira, on the other hand, crouched beside a shrub and whispered, "I KNEW IT! I KNEW SOMETHING WAS GOING ON BETWEEN THOSE TWO!"
I tried not to scream. "Lira—get up—what are you doing—"
"I'm confirming a theory!" she hissed, eyes locked in on the couple like a hawk. "She kept sneaking off every third rotation, and he always requested tea with three spoonfuls of honey—who does that?!"
"Lira, we need to go!"
But Lira just grinned wider. "This is better than the banquet."
I yanked her back by the sleeve, both of us stumbling away, stifling our laughter behind trembling hands.
As we slipped back into the hallway, I whispered, "We are never speaking of this again."
Lira shrugged. "Until I need blackmail material.
I shot her a look.
"…Kidding! Mostly."
We shared a quiet laugh before hurrying down the corridor again, the tension of the day slowly dissolving into the comfort of unexpected friendship.