Chapter 4:
A Name and a Risk
The note burned in Alaric's pocket as he navigated the palace's labyrinthine halls, its warning—Beware Lord Cassian. Trust no one—echoing in his mind. By midmorning, the court was abuzz with preparations for a banquet to honor the Valorian envoys, but Alaric's thoughts were elsewhere. Who had dared to warn him? And why mention Cassian, whose oily charm had always masked ambition? The script, neat and deliberate, suggested someone educated, someone who didn't belong among the palace's usual scribes or spies. His mind kept circling back to Elara, the maid whose quiet words in the courtyard had lingered like a melody.
He needed answers. Slipping away from a tedious meeting about grain tariffs, Alaric headed toward the servants' quarters, a place he rarely visited. The air grew cooler, the opulence of the upper halls giving way to plain stone and flickering oil lamps. Servants paused as he passed, their eyes wide with surprise, but he waved off their bows. He found her in a small pantry, arranging jars of preserves, her auburn hair tucked under a cap, her apron dusted with flour.
"Elara," he said, his voice softer than he intended.
She startled, nearly dropping a jar, then curtsied quickly. "Your Highness," she said, her hazel eyes wary but steady. "Is something wrong?"
He hesitated, suddenly aware of how reckless this was—a prince seeking out a maid, alone, with treasonous whispers swirling. "I wanted to thank you," he said, choosing his words carefully. "For… your work at the feast. It didn't go unnoticed."
Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. "I was just doing my duty, Your Highness." But there was a sharpness in her gaze, as if she sensed he was probing for more.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "And if someone else's duty led them to warn me of danger—say, a plot against the crown—would you know anything about that?"
Elara's breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the jar. For a moment, he thought she'd deny it, but her eyes held his, searching, as if weighing the risk of truth. "I hear things, working these halls," she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. "Servants talk. Sometimes they overhear what they shouldn't."
It wasn't an admission, but it was close enough. Alaric's pulse quickened. "And if I asked you to tell me what you've heard?"
She set the jar down, her movements deliberate. "I'd say it's dangerous to trust a maid with court secrets, Your Highness. We're invisible until we're not—and then we're expendable."
Her words struck like a blade, not just for their truth but for the quiet strength behind them. She wasn't just a maid, he realized—not with that wit, that poise. "You're not expendable," he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "Not to me."
Her eyes widened, a flush creeping up her neck. "You shouldn't say things like that," she murmured, glancing at the door. "Please, Your Highness. I have work to do."
Before he could reply, she curtsied and slipped past him, her shoulder brushing his as she hurried out. Alaric stood there, the pantry's dim light closing in, her scent—lavender and flour—lingering. He'd come for answers about the note, but now he had more questions, not just about her warning but about the pull he felt toward her, as dangerous as it was undeniable.
Back in the royal quarters, Lysandra was waiting, her arms crossed, her green eyes sharp as cut glass. "You missed the envoy's toast," she said, her tone icy. "They noticed. So did your father."
Alaric ran a hand through his hair, frustration mounting. "I had matters to attend to."
"Matters?" She stepped closer, her voice low but biting. "Like wandering the servants' quarters? Don't think I haven't noticed your distractions, Alaric. We're meant to present a united front, and you're making it difficult."
He met her gaze, guilt warring with defiance. "I'm doing my best, Lysandra. This marriage, this alliance—it's a lot to carry."
Her expression softened, just a fraction. "I know. But we're in this together, whether we like it or not. If you're chasing something—or someone—else, it's not just your reputation at stake. It's mine, and both our kingdoms."
Her words hit harder than he expected, a reminder of the chains binding them. He nodded, forcing a neutral tone. "I'll be at the banquet tonight. We'll play our parts."
As she left, Alaric pulled the note from his pocket, rereading its careful script. Elara hadn't confirmed she wrote it, but her guarded words had told him enough. She was involved, and that made her both a mystery and a risk—one he couldn't stop wanting to unravel, no matter the cost.