CHAPTER SEVEN

For a brief moment, Flynn drifted away from me. He muttered something about fetching what we might need, and from the way his eyes had swept over me earlier—half critical, half calculating—I guessed he meant clothes. The thought of him disliking what I wore left a dull sting, though I knew it wasn’t vanity that drove him but survival. Still, the sting remained.

I waited. Against my better judgment, I stayed rooted in the shadows at the edge of the forest, the ache from my earlier fall still settling deep in my bones. The night around me was thick, heavy, as if the dark had weight, swallowing breath and thought alike. I hated being alone in strange places, where the air felt foreign and the trees seemed to whisper in dialects I didn’t understand. I should have followed him, but my body refused, demanding stillness instead of another reckless chase.

The town beyond the tree line glittered faintly—lanterns strung like fireflies, windows pulsing with life. From here, the world sounded deceptively familiar, echoes of laughter and clatter reminding me of home. Yet I could already sense what Flynn had meant when he insisted Cromwell was nothing like Canmore. Even from a distance, I could feel the difference in rhythm, in pulse. I hated how quickly I was beginning to see it.

A sudden rustle snapped me upright, muscles braced despite knowing I had no strength to fight. The shadows shifted, and when the moon caught silver on hair, I nearly exhaled in relief. Flynn. Of course. He stepped out, his face brushed pale by moonlight, striking in a way I had never bothered to notice before. But what held my gaze was what dangled from his hand: a bundle of fabric, familiar and crumpled.

“Here.” He extended it to me, almost casually.

I took it, my brow furrowed as my fingers smoothed across the material. Recognition sank fast—it was a servant’s livery, the very kind I’d seen a thousand times in my own palace halls.

“Where did you get this?” My voice edged sharp, though the question was genuine.

He shrugged, lips quirking. “I have a friend here. She used to serve in the palace. I borrowed it.”

“Used to?” My eyes narrowed. “Now she doesn’t?”

“Yes. She left to raise her child.”

“That’s permitted?” I asked, incredulous. “Servants can withdraw just like that?”

He gave me a look both amused and pitying. “In Cromwell, yes. That rule of bondage—” he tilted his head “—is yours, not ours.”

Heat pricked my face. His words struck deeper than they should have. I wanted to argue, to deny it, but silence was all I managed. I despised that in so short a time this kingdom had already begun to erode the certainty I carried from my own. I didn’t want Cromwell to seem fairer. I didn’t want to believe it might be better.

He must have sensed my retreat, because his tone softened. “I told you. Things are different here.”

I folded the cloth in my arms. “And what do you expect me to do with this?”

“Wear it.”

“What? Now?”

He arched a brow, impatient. “Servants are invisible in palaces. You put this on, keep your head low, and you’ll vanish among them. No one will look twice. Unless you insist on standing out.”

The shadows mercifully hid the flush spreading across my cheeks. The thought of changing unsettled me, though his reasoning was sound. He was right—palaces rarely glanced at the faces of their servants. As long as hands were ready when called, that was all that mattered. At least that much seemed the same between our courts.

“I shouldn’t have to explain this to you,” he said, smirking faintly. “You are a servant yourself.”

The reminder bit. I swallowed the instinct to protest, forcing composure. He didn’t know the truth. He couldn’t know. If I wanted my mask to hold, I needed to stop bristling at every slight.

“Yes,” I murmured, steadying myself. “But your kingdom is different from mine. I’d rather know the details.”

He nodded once, satisfied. “Then listen well. Wear this, and no one will question you. They’ll be too busy to notice. Keep your head bowed, follow the rhythm, and you’ll pass. The only risk is if you falter.”

I nodded, feigning calm though my insides twisted.

“The ball begins soon,” he added, his gaze sliding toward the palace, where the lights glowed brighter now. “I’ll take you as far as the gates. But beyond that, you’re on your own.”

The air left my lungs. “You won’t come with me?”

“I can’t.” His voice was steady, but his eyes carried weight. “Guards know one another here. I’d be recognized in a heartbeat. You, they’ll overlook. I’ll find my own way inside, but it won’t be through the servants’ hall.”

I bit down panic, then released a slow breath. “Alright.”

Unexpectedly, he reached forward and tapped my head with his hand, a gesture so simple, so unguarded, that heat rose instantly to my cheeks. “Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ll see you inside.”

I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at me. “You’d better.”

***

Flynn kept his word and left me alone in front of the Palace. The moment he vanished into the shadows, the weight of my solitude pressed in harder than the night itself. I had only just arrived, yet I found myself unable to move forward. My feet were rooted, not by indecision, but by the sheer magnitude of what loomed before me.

The Palace of Cromwells.

It rose like a crown of stone against the velvet sky, its towers reaching upward as though they intended to skewer the stars. Four slim, square towers stood in seemingly haphazard formation, but it was a deception—each was positioned for perfect defense, connected by walls the color of honeyed earth. The battlements bristled with crenelations for archers and cannons, small apertures piercing the stone like the narrowed eyes of sentinels. The gate alone—broad wooden doors, iron-banded and flanked by the ominous promise of heated oil—was enough to remind anyone of where power resided.

And yet, despite its menacing strength, the palace did not look ancient. The stone glowed faintly in the moonlight, clean and unmarred. If I had not known better, I would have sworn it was newly raised, though perhaps its condition only spoke to relentless upkeep. Waterfalls spilled gracefully into carved channels, feeding the lush lands that ringed the fortress. Even its defenses looked beautiful.

I was staring so intently I barely noticed the movement at the side gate until the shouts reached me.

“Hurry! Hurry!”

My gaze snapped toward the procession—a line of servants, clothed in the same rough-spun uniform I wore. They shuffled forward, heads bowed, disappearing one by one through a narrow passage. My chance.

I slipped through the crowd, heart hammering, and slid into their ranks. No one questioned me. Relief stung the backs of my eyes as the gate swallowed me whole.

Inside, the air changed. The din of the crowd outside dulled to a hum, smothered by the enormous walls. Shadows stretched long across the dim corridor as we filed deeper, each step echoing softly on stone. The servants around me moved with practiced precision, carrying trays, linens, and instruments of service. They seemed to know where they belonged, while I… drifted, following blindly, hoping no one would notice the uncertainty in my steps.

“Where is the cupbearer?!”

The bark of a woman’s voice cut through the murmur of activity. My head whipped around instinctively, and before thought could stop me, my hand shot up.

“Here!”

A pair of sharp eyes found mine. “Come over here, you peasant!”

The weight of a tray was shoved against my chest, the silver cool and biting against my palms. I stumbled back but held on.

“Deliver these upstairs, at once! The other Courts are arriving soon. We cannot fail His Highness—not tonight, and certainly not before the Charlemagnes!”

I bowed quickly. “I understand.”

“Hurry!”

I spun, tray balanced, weaving through the river of servants. The passages grew narrower, darker, torches sputtering as I strained to keep my balance. My arms burned from holding the cups steady. Just as I began to believe I might actually make it through, a majordomo swept into my path.

She plucked the tray from my hands as though I were a child caught playing pretend. “Get another one!”

The dismissal stung sharper than a slap. My lips parted, but I forced myself silent. Bowing, I turned back the way I’d come. My throat ached with frustration. I wasn’t closer to the ball than when I had arrived, and every wrong step could unravel my disguise.

So distracted was I by my own spiraling thoughts that I walked straight into someone. My shoulder collided with what felt like a wall of muscle wrapped in silk.

“I’m sorry—”

The words froze in my mouth.

The figure before me was no servant. His attire made that clear—slacks and leggings layered beneath a tunic threaded with gold embroidery, a cloak clasped by a sigil I did not recognize. No commoner could wear such wealth. Nobility radiated from him like cold fire.

Instinct forced me into a bow. My stomach dropped. “Oh, hell. Forgive me, Your Highness—no, that’s wrong—I mean, spare me my blasphemy, Your Highness.”

The man regarded me with eyes like shards of turquoise ice, his expression unreadable. His voice, when it came, was as chilling as a draft in midwinter.

“It is by no means worrisome.”

The sound of him sent a shiver down my spine. I knew that voice—or rather, I knew what it belonged to. Winter Court.

I dared a glance upward. White hair fell in tousled strands about his face, his sharp jawline shadowed by moonlight. His lips, finely shaped, pressed into something between boredom and restraint. He was beautiful—frighteningly so. Too beautiful to look at for long.

“How may I help you, Your Highness?” I managed, though my knees wanted to give.

“I am merely looking for the palace’s garden.”

“The garden?” I blinked. “But the ball will begin shortly. Surely your presence is required—”

“My father is there. They will not notice my absence.” The words were laced with something bitter, something unwilling.

I hesitated. “Isn’t this the night you are to choose your consort among the ladies?”

His jaw tightened, the muscles shifting beneath skin like marble. I cursed myself silently. Fool. I should not pry. Yet I could not stop watching him, wondering what sort of man would turn from a hall of admirers to chase shadows in the garden.

He must have seen it in my eyes. His gaze hardened. “Are Cromwell’s servants always this intrusive?”

Heat flushed my face. I bowed lower. “Forgive me. I only meant to see you safe, Your Highness. It would be a shame if anything befell you within these walls.”

“I can handle myself just fine.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Perhaps I could use him. If I could not bluff my way inside the ball, perhaps following him might serve.

“Then allow me to guide you,” I offered carefully. “You need only tell me which way.”

He tilted his head. “I was under the impression you worked here. Should you not know the way?”

I stiffened. “O-Of course.”

“Then lead.”

I walked ahead, each step heavy with dread. I had no idea where I was going. The corridors blurred, every archway and passage the same. His presence at my back was unbearable—I could feel his stare prickling between my shoulder blades.

“Are you certain we’re going the right way?”

“Certainly, Your Highness.”

I was not. We were walking in circles. My palms slicked with sweat against the folds of my borrowed uniform.

“What will you do in the garden, if I may ask?” I tried to redirect.

“I need fresh air,” he said flatly. “I wish to see the darkness.”

I frowned. “The darkness?”

“It soothes me.”

Of course. Winter Court. Land of frost and endless night. What else could comfort them but shadow?

“Winter Court is… odd,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

“You think so?”

I froze, mortified. “I didn’t mean—”

His lips twitched, though it was not quite a smile. “You know nothing of Winter Court.”

“I know enough,” I said quickly, though I doubted it.

And then, by some miracle, the hallway opened into a wrought-iron gate. Beyond it lay the garden. Fate had spared me humiliation.

“There,” I gestured, forcing confidence into my voice. “I told you I knew the way.”

“It only took forever,” he murmured.

I ignored him, stepping into the night air. The garden unfolded like a dream—petals arranged in perfect circles, colors blending from gold to violet to blue, as though the rainbow itself had melted into the earth. The air was sweet, heavy with perfume. And above it all, the moon spilled silver light, making the blooms shimmer.

The Prince’s gaze was fixed upward, his face softened by the glow.

So this was the darkness he craved. Not shadow, but moonlight—the one thing denied to Winter Court skies.

“I didn’t know Cromwell Palace had such beauty,” he murmured.

I looked away, uneasy. “Summer Court possesses such things in abundance, Your Highness.”

He studied me. “Canmore Palace, too?”

The name struck me like a lash. My throat tightened. “I… I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been.”

He chuckled faintly. “Why did I ask? Servants are rarely permitted to wander beyond their halls.”

“Certainly, Your Highness.”

The silence that followed was dangerous. I reminded myself why I was here.

“Your Highness…” My voice faltered. “Do you have a consort in mind? Among the ladies?”

His answer was slow. “I have someone in mind.”

“Oh.”

It shouldn’t have stung. Yet it did.

“My father chose her. I am here for appearances, nothing more.”

My brow furrowed. “Why allow him to choose your future? Isn’t it yours alone?”

His eyes snapped to mine, icy and sharp. “Perhaps you know nothing of duty. You are a servant, after all.”

I met his stare, heat rising in my chest. “And you are a servant, too—of your father, of your crown. The only difference is that you have a title, and I do not. At least I have dignity.”

His jaw clenched. “You test my patience.”

“Then perhaps you should test your own courage before you lecture me on mine.”

His cold mask cracked, only slightly. “Are you truly a servant?”

“Why would you think otherwise?”

“Because you speak to me as though I were not a prince. I am the heir of Turquoise, son of the Charlemagnes.”

The breath caught in my throat. Charlemagnes. The name rang through me like a bell.

“You—” My voice trembled. “You are to marry Tremaine of Canmore?”

He blinked. “How did you—”

“Are you insane?” The words burst from me. “She’s your father’s choice?”

“Yes—”

“She already had a husband!”

“The King of Ruby is dead.”

“Recently!” My voice shook. “And you’ll marry her now? Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

His face darkened. “You speak treason.”

“She is a threat.”

“You have no proof.”

“Proof?” I wanted to scream. “Look at her! Listen to her! How is it not enough?”

But he turned from me, disappointment heavy in every movement. “I’ve wasted enough time. Better the ball than your foolishness.”

And just like that, he was gone.

My chest heaved, anger and dread coiling together. If he would not listen, I would have to stop this myself. Somehow.

I barely noticed Flynn until he appeared, portmanteau in hand, grin wide and reckless.

“Where have you been?” I hissed. “What is that?”

He shrugged, boyish and unrepentant. “Something.”

I glared. “You’re stealing?”

“Of course. What else do I do best?”

I nearly laughed, but the sight of the ballroom below swallowed the sound. Tremaine. The Prince. Dancing. The air electric with anticipation.

“No,” I whispered, panic rising. “No, no, no…”

Flynn tilted his head. “What?”

“We have to stop them.”

“The engagement?”

“Yes! Make a scene—anything—”

He sighed, but his eyes gleamed. “Then trust me.”

And before I could ask how, he returned with a rope.

“Where did you—”

“Stop asking.” He tied it quickly, tested it, then fashioned a loop. “Step here. Hold the portmanteau.”

My pulse roared in my ears. “Flynn, what are you doing?”

“Making a scene.” His grin widened. “When we swing past, kick the window. Hard. Or we die.”

I swallowed hard. “I understand.”

Below, Tremaine spun beneath the Prince’s hand, the crowd enraptured. He looked at her as though she belonged there.

Flynn leaned close. “Close your eyes, Princess. Hold on to me.”

And then the world dropped away.

The rope hissed. The air tore at my face. My blanket whipped free, golden hair streaming like fire in the wind. Gasps rose from the hall as we arced across the ballroom’s height. I glimpsed the Prince’s face below, shock carved in every line. Tremaine’s laughter died on her lips.

And then—my boot slipped, falling soundlessly into the crowd.

We were falling toward destiny, and I was no longer certain if the world would catch us.