[Her Past]

Once, she was just Elara Veyne—a commoner's daughter with ink-stained fingers from helping her father keep the village ledger, and a laugh that echoed too loudly through the market square. Her family was warm, if not wealthy: a father who told stories by the hearth, a mother who hummed as she braided Elara's hair, and a younger brother who trailed after her like a loyal hound. They were happy. Simple.

Then Prince saw her.

It was at the summer solstice festival. She'd been kneeling in the dirt, helping a merchant's child find a dropped copper coin, her hair escaping its pins, her cheeks smudged with dust. When she stood, he was there—tall, unyielding, his gaze like a blade pressed to her throat. She'd frozen, her breath trapped in her lungs.

A week later, the royal decree came.

[The Announcement]

Her mother had wept into her apron. Her father had knelt before her, trembling, and kissed her hand—as if she were already royalty. Her brother, wide-eyed, had whispered, "You'll live in the palace?" like it was a fairy tale.

Elara had vomited in the garden after they left.

[Now]

The royal laundress had offered to fold the prince's linens, but Seraphina (no longer Elara, never again Elara) had shooed her away. "I'll do it," she'd murmured, her fingers smoothing the creases from his shirts with reverent precision. This, at least, she could control—the exact alignment of sleeves, the press of lace against velvet.

The door opens.

She doesn't need to turn to know it's him. The air thickens, the scent of bergamot and steel curling around her. Her hands still atop the half-folded tunic, her spine straightening instinctively.

[Thoughts: Did I take too long? Are the folds uneven? He's watching—he's always watching. Breathe. Just breathe.]