“Yes, y’know, the whole ‘no one leaves, no one enters’ nonsense. The trade routes are slashed. Letters blocked. If you want to meet someone inside Arken, you need high authorisation.”

  “Why?” I blink, caught off guard. The women look at me as if I have two heads.

  “Because of the duke, plainly…” Leia replies, as if that should answer everything.

  I start to become confused, tilting my head. My befuddlement is clear to the women by the bewildered look on their faces. What does he have to do with the trade routes being cut? That’s not a singular punishment…that’s a collective suffering. Why would you starve your own people?

  “That seems…extreme,” I mutter. “Why doesn’t the king just remove him?”

  “A king of new may not undo a blessing of old.” I turn to the additional voice in the room to see Nila there, arms crossed and brows raised.

  “Ten minutes are up.” She glares at me before turning her attention to the women lazing in the tub next to me.

  “I’m sure you two have more business to attend to now that Sir Leiman is back in the castle.” They both shyly smile as they get out of the tub, drying themselves with the linen cloths.

  “Get dressed.” I haven’t even used the soap yetttt. But Nila leaves no room for argument, holding the pile of clothes in her hands, waiting for me to get out. I stand up, clutching myself, in a sorry attempt to cover up as much as I can before retrieving the linen towel.

  “Oh, for the Gods’ sake, I’m a woman too. Now, hurry up.” This is the most. Humiliating. Thing. In my life.

  I dry myself, and Nila helps me put on the garment. It's a green, elegant, Grecian-style gown with fabric that drapes gracefully over the shoulders, creating a cowl neckline. A wide belt, embroidered with flowers and metal accents, cinches my waist, adding structure to the ethereal gown. The gown features long strips of fabric that flow down my back, but the train is short enough to still be practical

  I shift uncomfortably as Nila tightens the belt at my waist, securing it with firm, practiced hands. Nila then steps back, her eyes narrowing as she assesses me, checking for imperfections, misalignments, anything out of place. This doesn’t look the same as the other maids I’ve seen.

  I shift under her scrutinising eye. “Is this really what Arken maids wear?” I look back over to Leia and Amaline, who, now dressed, are wearing tight-fitted soft green dresses with an embroidered cream hangeroc over them.

  “No.” She brushes a speck of dust from the hem. “You’ll be serving the duke, not scrubbing floors. Thus, you’ll need to look the part.” I’d rather scrub floors.

  She ignores me, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a pair of silver cuffs. They’re simple and polished but gleam in her hands. For a cut-off county, they're doing quite well for themselves…

  She goes to put them on me, but I pull back. I’ve seen this in films. They put expensive jewelry on the ‘new girl’ and then accuse her of stealing. Nila grabs my wrist before I can fully retreat. Her grip is tight and doesn’t leave any room for me to get out. She fastens one of the cuffs in a very practiced speed, which tells me that this isn’t the first time she’s had to do this. She glares at me before I can say anything, her face dripping with ‘arguing won’t change this.’

  “It’s jewelry, not shackles. Hold still.”

  I glare at her, but I don’t move.

  “Anyways,” she mutters as she slides the other one on, “it’ll hide those scratches and stop you from looking like you’ve crawled in from the woods.”

  The weight of the cuffs settle on my wrists, they’re not heavy, but they’re noticeable. Ironically looking like handcuffs, it is a quiet reminder of how I’m trapped in this world.

  Nila steps back, satisfied with her work. “Hair next.”

  Before I can protest, she turns me towards the nearest stool and pushes me onto it. I grasp the rim of the chair as I lose balance from the sudden forced movement.

  My annoyance begins to flare when I see Nila pull a comb out of her pocket. I lean away, eyeing it with disgust.

  “Is that used?”

  Nila lifts a brow. “You expect me to have a new one?” She grabs a section of my hair without permission. “Purchase one with your wages.”

  I scoff. “But this is my first day?”

  “Ashame.” She yanks the comb through my hair, and I snap my mouth shut, biting back a curse.

  Her hands work quickly, braiding and twisting strands with efficiency. The occasional tug makes my scalp sting, but I refuse to react.

  The weight of the cuffs, the elegant dress, the way she’s styling my hair. It’s all to make me fit in, fit into this world.

  A familiar sensation washes over me. I’m losing myself all over again…

  “There.” Nila puts the last pin in my hair. “This’ll do.”

  I feel my hair. Two braids are wrapped around my head, loose strands at the front shaping my face, and a large fishtail braid is plaited into a ribbon halfway down.

  She steps back, inspecting me once more before giving me a final nod.

  “Now, you listen carefully.” Her tone shifts sharply, making it clear that I'm to listen and obey.

  “When you serve the duke tonight,” she gets closer. “Pour his wine and make sure his plate is never empty. Most importantly, you don’t speak unless spoken to.” Can I not catch a break?

  “I’m not-” “You are.” Nila cut me off with a sharp glare. “You don’t have a choice in this, girl. He wants you under watch, this is how it is.”

  “Why aren’t I a gues-”

  “Don’t argue with me, or I’ll put you on latrine duty.” I scowl, knowing there’s nothing to be done. I don’t have the power to fight back, and I most definitely won’t have the same opportunity as last time to escape.

  “Now, come. We have a feast to serve.”

  We leave the room and trail down the cool, quiet hallways. The distant sound of humming voices and movements gradually starts to fill the air. The castle is coming alive for the night ahead.

  I hesitate momentarily, my feet rooted to the stone floor. I’m really going to accept this, aren’t I? An idea pops in my head, hope bubbling in my stomach. Perhaps…I can earn Caspian’s trust.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Betrayal.

  The ultimate escape plan.

  I hold back a smirk as we continue to walk further towards the great hall. The scent of roasting meats and spiced wine drifts through the corridor, mixing with the faint smoke of the candle-lit sconces flickering against the stone walls.

  I walk stiffly behind Nila, my legs still aching from the horse ride. The hum of voices grows louder, laughter becoming clearer with every step. The feast has already begun.

  My anxiety builds, my stomach knotting. I don’t belong here…Okay, Genevieve, all you need is for Caspian to trust you. Then you can leave, get home and…

  And…Go back to my life? To my unfufilling life?

  The hope in my heart dies, unease replacing its spot. This isn’t my world. I might as well try to go back to where I belong, right? Where I belong…My movements become sluggish, my head spinning with existential dread. I unconsciously follow Nila as she cuts through the castle’s back halls. Passing the grand staircase meant for nobility, we take the narrow servant corridor behind the great hall, the only thing separating us from the wealth and power on the other side.

  Nila pulls open a side door. The heat of the room hits me as we step in. The ceiling stretches high, draped in banners and intricate Celtic markings, like the ones that litter Caspian’s body. Long tables sit in rows in the hall. Plates of roasted meats, fruit, and steaming bread sit untouched in front of the soldiers.

  There’s a surprising lack of nobility in the room.

  At the end of the hall, a raised platform with another long table sits facing the room, and Caspian sits in the centre

  Walking in with me, Nila stands against the wall, her hands clasped on top of one another. She nudges me with her arm to walk over to the raised platform with the table of high nobles on it. Caspian sits in the middle, his presence overpowering the room. My eyes naturally drag over to him. He sits straight-backed and composed as if entirely unaffected by the noise around him. I hesitate, a little shy to join the table facing the room filled with people.

  Nila, still watching me, aggressively nods for me to join the women standing behind the nobles, discreetly pointing to a side table of jugs for me to collect on my way. I force myself to move. Walking over to the side table, my fingers brush against the carved silver handle of one of the wine jugs. Keeping my head low and steps unsteady, I walk towards the platform, avoiding any attention on me.

  I join the line of women standing behind the power-holding high command and their wives.

  Pour his wine.

  Keep his plate full.

  Don’t speak unless spoken to.

  This is a bunch of bullshit, but I need to get out of here. I need to act the part to gain trust. I need trust to attain my distance from Caspian.

  Caspian slightly tilts his head as he notices my presence. His fingers tap once against the table in a silent command. I shift closer to him, pulling his goblet to the edge of the table to fill. Carefully gripping the jug, I focus myself. I can’t make a mess. Pour his wine, don’t draw attention. Let’s try to become invisible, it’ll make life here easier.

  The moment I begin to pour into it, his voice cuts me off.

  “You’re late.” His words aren’t harsh. There’s no irritation or malice. Just a quiet observation. Still, his voice punches straight through my chest, feeling like criticism.

  Out of my comfort zone, in an unfamiliar attire, and in front of a room people who have a different social structure and culture from mine, I have to be careful. To fit in. I need that trust, and as an outsider, that’ll be hard to earn.

  My hands still for a moment before I continue, pouring the wine smoothly, focused, as if he hadn’t even spoken to me.

  As I bring the jug up and push the goblet back to its place, his fingers brush against the base to help in brining it back to place.

  The touch is brief. Barely noticeable. A mere graze of contact.

  But enough.

  Enough to remind me just how close I am.

  I step back immediately, fingers curling at my sides. Don’t draw attention. Be invisible, Genevieve.

  Caspian doesn’t say anything else.

  He simply lifts the goblet to his lips, taking a slow sip. Offering me a polite nod in appreciation.

  “Thank you.”

  The words are unexpected. A quiet courtesy to my now humble position.

  I don’t respond. My mind is blank. Yet my emotions are toiling. Rage and annoyance of being put into this position begin to fight with the swirling bubble of confusion for adapting to this world. For not fighting the role I was put in. For planning myself into this world. Become invisible? It’ll be easier? This is not my home. These people will never be my friends.

  I simply lower my head and retreat, moving back to the side table, forcing my pulse to steady. I am here to serve him. Gain his trust. Nothing more.

  And yet—

  For one unbearable moment…

  I almost forgot.

  The men cheer on, laughing and chattering. The dynamic, starkly different from the grim looks they were glued with previously. But a hush soon falls over the room; not all a once, but in ripples. The scraping of knives and clatter of mugs begins to slow. Conversations simmer. Even the music, which was softly playing from the side, turns into stillness.

  A soldier near the hearth stands. He’s older, his beard patchy with grey, he stands with a hand raised. Not to call attention, but to invite a full silence.

  Then, he sings.

  “Faeh aalar teal alarnaiante,

  Teal hertaisma anma teal virseaeh,

  Waeh ehfa, tahey faeh ehfa, teal faa-fatehi alarfa.”

  I freeze. His voice is strong and deep. His face is focused, his brain obviously elsewhere. A few join, their voices low, their faces dark with gloom.

  “Faeh eineyte itate teh nutaisma, iteh tafai, iteh anaeh,

  herseate teh alaywae’sa eiehismasa anma herisalay isanaeh’sa ianaeh.”

  Men slowly stand in the room and join in, their voices harmonising. Not in skill, but in conviction, memories, as if it were a prayer. The words are heavy, settiling in the air like a dense cloud of smoke. This isn’t some propaganda chant. No, this is something…old. Something that has been sung for generations.

  “Tasea tafa eisa safatehi, tasea hertama eisa teeineyte,

  hertavarsa ere anasa, faeh eiator anma eineyte.

  veheilayeh seasa matafai, herseate faeh saheyan’te eiehisma—

  faeh’' herisehehè anma a', herseate ier layiis.”

  And silence follows.

  There is no clapping, no cheering. Just a quietness of movement, solemness. I don’t understand the words, but the message is clear. This is a song of war, of tragedy and hardship. Caspian doesn’t speak, nor does he rise. He doesn’t need to. His people have spoken for him.

  I find myself standing straighter than before, the cuffs on my wrists as cold as ice.

  This isn’t just a county. It’s a place where people have been forged by survival. A kingdom within a kingdom. A quiet rebellion hiding in plain sight.

  A soldier raises his cup. Another follows. Then more.

  “To the fallen!”

  “To the flame!”

  And just like that, the feast resumes. Not louder, but lighter, like an invisible weight has been lifted.

  I glance toward Caspian. He hasn’t moved, but his gaze lingers on the soldier who first sang.

  There’s something in his expression that I can’t quite place. It’s not pride, nor sadness. It's something greater than that...

  Duty?

  Or grief?