The royal palace of Aveloria stood like a divine relic bestowed by the heavens themselves.

White marble walls shimmered under the morning sun, towering spires piercing the clouds as if daring the gods to descend. The scent of blooming winter camellias drifted through the courtyards, masking the sharper smells of polish, wax, and quiet desperation. It was beautiful. Impeccable.

And utterly suffocating.

“Listen carefully. I will not repeat myself.”

The sharp voice sliced through the assembly hall like a blade drawn from its sheath.

Before a line of trembling young women stood the Head Maid of the Inner Palace, Madam Gertrude Vale — a woman rumored to have served three queens, outlived two political purges, and once made a duke’s daughter faint with a single glare. Her iron-gray hair was pulled into a flawless bun, not a strand daring to rebel. Her uniform bore no wrinkles. Neither did her expression.

Thirty new servants stood in formation before her, their freshly issued uniforms still stiff with newness. Some clutched their aprons. Some bit their lips.

And one yawned internally.

Rielle Hart — newly employed palace maid — blinked slowly, standing in the third row, hands folded properly in front of her.

She wasn’t nervous.

She was calculating how many meals a day the palace provided.

“Within these walls,” Madam Vale continued, her voice dangerously calm, “there are rules. There are protocols. And there are taboos.”

A subtle tremor passed through the recruits.

“First. You will not look directly into the eyes of royalty unless addressed.”

“Second. You will never initiate conversation with royal blood.”

“Third. You will never wander the inner palace without assigned duty.”

She paused.

The silence thickened, stretching taut.

“And fourth…”

Madam Vale’s gaze sharpened.

“You will never, under any circumstances, attempt to approach His Highness the Crown Prince with… ulterior motives.”

A quiet ripple stirred among the girls. Barely audible, but unmistakable.

Rielle didn’t react. She was busy wondering if palace meals included dessert.

“There are,” Madam Vale said, her lips curling faintly, “many foolish girls who believe that a single night in His Highness’s favor will transform them into empress candidates.”

Her tone remained measured, but something colder lurked beneath.

“The palace handles such… pests… very efficiently.”

She trailed off deliberately.

The threat hung in the air like a suspended guillotine blade.

A girl near the front visibly swallowed. Another’s cheeks flushed faintly — not in fear, but in imagination.

Rielle noticed.

Not because she cared.

Because they were standing directly in her line of sight.

Madam Vale’s sharp eyes swept across the rows. They paused for the briefest moment on two recruits whose expressions lingered between anxiety and… anticipation.

Click.

The head maid’s tongue struck the roof of her mouth in quiet disapproval.

She said nothing further. After all, there were always flies drawn to honey — or poison disguised as honey.

“Remember,” Madam Vale concluded, “the palace rewards obedience. It destroys ambition.”

“Yes, Madam Vale!” the recruits chorused.

Rielle joined the response half a beat late. Not out of rebellion — she had simply been distracted imagining a steady supply of warm soup.

***

The orientation dispersed shortly after.

Rielle was assigned to the Eastern Residential Wing — one of the less prestigious areas, primarily used by visiting nobles and mid-ranking officials. The work involved cleaning guest chambers, managing linens, and occasionally assisting with meal arrangements.

Perfect.

Low visibility meant low trouble.

Her first task was polishing the silver door handles of Corridor Twelve. The corridor stretched endlessly, sunlight spilling through tall arched windows and pooling across polished floors.

Rielle worked diligently, humming under her breath.

The cloth moved in steady circles. She had always been good with repetitive tasks. The orphanage taught you quickly that being unnoticed meant being safe.

Her memories of the orphanage were… dull. Not painful. Not warm. Just gray.

She had arrived there around the age of six or seven — she wasn’t entirely sure. Her parents had left her outside the gates with a small bag of clothes and half a loaf of bread that molded before the week ended.

No dramatic farewell. No tearful apology.

Just absence.

The caretakers fed her. Sheltered her. Occasionally remembered her name.

That was enough.

Love was a luxury item, like silk curtains or candied fruit.

Rielle never developed expensive tastes.

When she turned eighteen, she was handed a small pouch of coins and escorted politely — but firmly — out the orphanage gates.

And now?

She had a job.

A stable job.

Free room.

Free meals.

And actual wages.

Honestly, it felt suspiciously like winning the lottery.

“This place is heaven,” she murmured to herself, buffing a handle until it gleamed like liquid gold.

By midday, she had completed three assignments and received exactly zero scoldings.

A personal record.

Lunch was served in the servants’ dining hall — long wooden tables, hearty stew, fresh bread, and tea strong enough to resurrect the dead. Rielle ate with sincere devotion, ignoring the hushed gossip around her.

“…They say the Crown Prince has dismissed five engagement proposals this year alone.”

“…My cousin works in the banquet kitchen. She heard he’s devastatingly handsome…”

“…I heard he’s cursed.”

“…I heard he’s cold enough to freeze wine by looking at it.”

Rielle tore another piece of bread and dipped it into her stew.

Handsome or cursed, he sounded extremely unrelated to her daily survival. Which meant he was irrelevant.

Her goal in life was beautifully simple:

Eat well. Sleep indoors. Avoid dying.

Romantic entanglements sounded exhausting.

The afternoon passed in a blur of folded linens, polished mirrors, and memorized hallway routes. Rielle moved with quiet efficiency, her presence fading naturally into the palace rhythm.

By evening, her muscles ached pleasantly — the satisfying ache of honest labor rather than the bone-deep exhaustion of uncertainty.

She changed into her night uniform and began walking toward the servants’ quarters.

The palace corridors transformed after sunset.

Torches flickered along the walls, casting long wavering shadows. The chatter of nobles faded into distant echoes, replaced by the hushed footsteps of night staff. The air cooled, carrying faint notes of jasmine from the courtyard gardens.

Rielle walked steadily, clutching the small lantern assigned to her.

Left turn. Down the marble stairwell. Across the west passage.

She repeated the directions mentally. Getting lost in a royal palace felt like an excellent way to accidentally commit treason.

She turned a corner.

And stopped.

Someone stood at the far end of the corridor.

A man.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Draped in dark formal attire that blended seamlessly with the shadows. His back faced her, one hand resting lightly against a tall window as moonlight spilled around him, outlining his silhouette in silver.

Rielle’s first thought was immediate and practical.

Oh no.

Royalty.

Or at least nobility.

Which meant danger, paperwork, or both.

She lowered her gaze instantly, stepping backward to retreat before being noticed.

Her heel caught against the raised edge of a carpet.

Her balance tipped.

The lantern slipped from her grasp.

Time slowed with cruel precision.

The lantern struck the marble floor with a dull clatter, the flame flickering violently but refusing to die. The sound echoed through the corridor with horrifying clarity.

The man turned.

Rielle froze.

Even without looking directly at his face, she could feel it — that strange shift in the air, like pressure before a storm breaks. His footsteps approached, measured and unhurried.

They stopped directly in front of her.

Up close, she noticed the details she wasn’t supposed to notice.

The fabric of his uniform was embroidered with threads that shimmered like frost. The scent of winter pine clung faintly to him. And beneath the quiet stillness surrounding him lay something… sharp. Controlled. Dangerous.

“…Are you injured?”

His voice was low. Smooth. Calm enough to be unsettling.

Rielle immediately dropped into a deep bow, forehead nearly touching the floor.

“My apologies, my lord! This servant was careless!”

Silence followed.

The kind of silence that made her reconsider every life decision that had led to this moment.

Then—

“Raise your head.”

The command was gentle.

Which somehow made it worse.

Rielle hesitated for exactly half a second before lifting her gaze — just enough to comply without fully meeting his eyes.

And in that fragmented glimpse, she saw silver.

Eyes the color of moonlight reflecting off frozen lakes.

Beautiful.

Terrifying.

Famous.

Ah.

…Oh.

That was not just any noble.

That was the Crown Prince.

Rielle’s mind processed the information with admirable speed.

Her survival instincts screamed.

Her stomach, however, betrayed her by letting out a very small, very audible growl.

The corridor fell silent again.

Rielle considered passing away immediately to preserve her dignity.

The Crown Prince blinked once.

Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his lips lifted — barely perceptible, gone almost before it existed.

“…You have an interesting priority for someone facing royal punishment,” he murmured.

Rielle’s brain, exhausted from a full day of labor and stew digestion, produced her response before her common sense could intervene.

“This servant apologizes, Your Highness. Dinner was several hours ago.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she felt her soul attempt to evacuate her body.

Silence expanded.

Then—

A quiet breath that might have been a laugh brushed the air.

“How honest,” the Crown Prince said softly.

Rielle stared at the floor with the intensity of someone hoping to merge with it permanently.

“Well then,” he continued, stepping past her. “Try not to drop fire in royal corridors again.”

“…Yes, Your Highness.”

His footsteps faded into the darkness.

Rielle remained frozen for a full five seconds before slowly lifting her head.

Her heart pounded.

Her hands trembled.

Her stomach growled again.

“…I really hope I don’t get fired,” she whispered.

Somewhere deep within the palace walls, fate quietly rewrote her life’s peaceful employment contract.