The palace was buzzing with preparations. Banners were unfurled and trimmed with gold. Fresh blooms were flown in from every corner of the kingdom. There was to be a banquet for the visiting lords of the southern isles, and every corner of the royal residence was swept, polished, and perfected.
For the lower staff, it meant chaos. Mistress Ilena's voice carried down every hall as she barked orders like a general before war. One wrong linen, and she would summon you with a glare that could strip your soul from your body.
Lysandra, with her perfectly polished smile and venomous tongue, had been given what seemed to be a simple task.
Fetch the ceremonial robes of Prince Caelum Veyron, the Crown Prince of Karethia, from the royal laundromat.
She strutted out like she had been granted the queen's crown. By the time she returned, robes folded in silk wrappings, she gave Caelia a smug glance and dramatically announced she was off to deliver them personally.
But fifteen minutes later, Mistress Ilena shriek echoed down the hall.
"These aren't the royal robes! This has a swan embroidered on the sleeve! A swan!"
Lysandra stared at her confused. "What?"
Mistress Ilena threw the fabric onto the nearest table. "These are Lord Raynor's ceremonial robes for his son. The crest is wrong. The fabric is wrong. Everything is wrong."
Lysandra face drained of color.
Mistress Ilena turned her head slowly to Lysandra. "By now, you should know that the Prince ceremonial robes have his house crest and his house his Veyron. You should know the house of Veyron crest by heart." She said angrily.
She turned to Caelia who was by the silver polishing rack. "Caelia, go now to the laundromat. If His Highness does not have his ceremonial robes before the sixth bell, it will fall on all our heads."
Lysandra hissed under her breath as Caelia took off running.
The royal laundromat was a sprawling marble building tucked behind the west wing, where the silks of nobles were treated with more reverence than most humans. Caelia, breathless and red-faced, burst through the doors and spoke quickly with the workers, scanning every rack until her eyes landed on it.
The Veyron crest.
A silver crescent moon cradled a black wolf beneath a field of midnight blue. Stars shimmered along the arc of the moon, forming the sacred royal constellation. Beneath the wolf rested a downward-pointing silver sword, framed by frost-tipped laurel leaves. At the base, in faded old script, the house motto glowed: By Night, By Right.
She gathered the robe carefully, swaddling it in silk, and took off for the royal chambers with pounding feet and a heart ready to combust.
She knocked gently on the chamber door.
"Enter," came the cool voice from within.
Caelia stepped inside and lowered her head immediately, clutching the silk-wrapped robe tightly to her chest. The air inside the chamber was still. Heavy.
And he was there.
Prince Caelum Arcturus Leontius Veyron, dressed in black trousers and an open midnight-blue robe that hung loosely from his shoulders. He was standing before a tall arched window, bathed in pale morning light. The room around him was dark and severe, lined in books, iron candle holders, cold stone, and deep indigo drapes.
The moment he turned to face her, she froze.
Those eyes.
He regarded her in silence for a moment, then his tone, though calm, bore the edge of command.
"You are late."
She lowered herself to one knee and bowed her head. "Apologies, Your Highness. I was not originally assigned the task. I only came when the error was discovered."
He tilted his head slightly, watching her with a quiet kind of intensity. "An error."
"Yes, Your Highness," she said as she rose slowly. "The wrong robes were collected. I went to the laundromat to retrieve the correct ones."
He nodded once. "Let me see it."
She stepped forward and carefully unraveled the silk wrapping, revealing the ceremonial robe with the Veyron crest gleaming like moonlight across the fabric.
Caelum's gaze lowered to the crest, then back to her face.
"You recognize it?" he asked.
"I do, Your Highness. The moon, the wolf, the constellation, the sword… and the frost laurel. The House motto is faded, but still legible."
A pause. Then, "Your name."
She blinked. "Your Highness?"
"Your name," he repeated, this time with a hint of something gentler. "And where you are from."
She hesitated before speaking. "Caelia, Your Highness. From Wrenford."
Caelum's expression barely changed, but his voice did. Just slightly.
"Wrenford. The forgotten village."
She felt a twist in her chest.
"Yes, Your Highness."
A beat passed.
"You speak clearly. Most from there struggle to do so."
"My mother was a scholar before she fell ill. She taught me to speak well."
He looked at her as if weighing something behind those obsidian eyes.
"You're not like the others," he finally said.
She swallowed. "Your Highness?"
He turned from her and walked to the table beside the window, lifting a black leather belt and running his fingers over the embossed crest there.
"I expected excuses," he said. "Fear. Scrambling apologies. Instead you offered an answer and fixed the problem."
He paused and looked back at her, his gaze sharp but not unkind.
"I listen to those who solve things. Not whine about them."
Caelia couldn't hide the slight lift of her brows. She had heard tales of the Midnight Heir. That he was ruthless. That he never spoke unless giving an order. That he walked through court like a ghost in the flesh of a prince.
But this man in front of her, still cold, still composed, was listening to her.
She could not reconcile the two.
Caelum Veyron stood still and silent, then said, "You may leave."
She bowed again. "Yes, Your Highness."
She turned, but just before her hand reached the door, he spoke again.
"Caelia."
She froze.
"You did well."
Caelia's breath caught, her eyes wide.
She nodded once, and without another word, she stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind her with trembling hands.
And in the stillness of his chambers, Prince Caelum stood alone, eyes fixed on the Veyron crest, his thoughts no longer on the banquet, or the court, or the politics of Karethia.
But on a girl from the forgotten village who looked him in the eye and did not tremble.