Before the grand halls, before the gilded walls of the court swallowed her whole, there was a small village where the sun rose soft over tangled fields and the air smelled of wildflowers and earth. She was just a girl then—red curls tangled with morning breeze, cheeks round and rosy from the cool air, laughter easy and loud among children who didn’t quite know what to make of her. Her mother’s voice was sharp, often colder than the wind that swept through their modest home. “You’re too soft,” she said, “too round to ever be more than a servant’s shadow.” She learned early how to hide behind smiles and quick hands, how to let others speak first and speak loud, so no one noticed the quiet girl with blue eyes who wanted nothing more than to be seen.

There were days when the loneliness pressed down like heavy stones, and nights when the cold whispered secrets of a world she’d never touch. But even then, deep in the dim corners of her heart, she held onto a stubborn spark—something that refused to be snuffed out by cruel words or sideways glances.

And then came the day her life changed—not with fanfare or trumpet calls, but quietly, like the softest of steps entering a silent room. Arthur Vale, with his gruff voice and hesitant kindness, and her lady, with gentle ways that warmed even the coldest of rooms.

That small girl, forgotten by most, found her place beside two souls who saw beyond the surface. And though the court can be a cruel stage, she holds tight to that memory—the girl who dared to hope, who dared to belong. That was quite a time ago yet Rochelle would never forget when her lady had outstretched a hand soft and inviting and beckoned her to be a friend.

The wheels rattled over the uneven road, the clatter of the carriage mingling with the distant sounds of the capital’s awakening life. Rochelle pressed her hands to the wooden frame, eyes wide as the towering walls of the palace grew closer—its stone façade both intimidating and mesmerizing. Beside her, the other servants whispered nervously, their faces a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Rochelle felt a flutter in her chest, not from fear but from something deeper—a curious hope that maybe, just maybe, this place could be more than a gilded cage.

She smoothed her skirts, feeling the weight of the delicate fabrics—a far cry from the homespun dresses she once wore. Her red hair caught the morning light, and for a moment, she allowed herself to believe that here, among the lords and ladies, she might carve out a small corner of belonging.

As the carriage came to a halt, Rochelle stepped down carefully, her feet brushing the polished stone with a mix of reverence and uncertainty. The air smelled of roses and burning candles, a scent that promised secrets and stories yet to unfold.

She watched as Lord Arthur helped her lady from her own carriage, their quiet exchanges drawing a faint, warm smile from Rochelle’s lips. A protective warmth in Arthur’s stance, a softness in her lady’s polite grace—this was a world Rochelle was only beginning to understand, and she vowed silently to stand steady beside them, no matter what shadows might fall.