What Was Never Mine

There was a rhythm to Hawthorne Castle that revealed itself only to those who served it.

I did not understand it at first — only felt it in my bones. The bells rang for the nobility, but the stone woke us earlier, and more harshly. My days began before the sun had decided whether it would show its face at all: cold floors beneath bare soles, sleeves rolled before prayers were finished, the quiet understanding that slowness was not forgiven kindly here.

I was a general maid, which meant I belonged nowhere and everywhere all at once. I scrubbed where I was told. I carried what was handed to me. I moved through halls built to forget me, through passages designed so that servants might pass unseen, unheard, and unremembered.

At the time, I believed that was safety.

The morning began as most mornings did — with work that left its mark. Buckets hauled from the well until my shoulders burned. Ash swept from the hearths before the cook’s temper could rise with the smoke. Trays carried, spills cleaned, hands washed raw and then put back to use all the same.

By the time the light crept properly through the high windows, my back ached and my thoughts had narrowed to the simple arithmetic of survival: task to task, breath to breath.

That was when I was given the water.

“Take it to the yard,” Mistress Hale said, pressing the pail into my hands without looking at me. “They’ve been at drills since dawn.”

I did not ask who they were. I never did. Questions invited notice, and notice invited trouble.

The weight of the pail bit into my palms as I crossed the inner courtyard, the sound of steel striking steel growing louder with every step. The training yard lay open beneath the morning sky, wide and exposed, ringed by stone and banners that snapped lazily in the breeze.

Men filled the space — soldiers, guards, officers — their movements sharp and practiced. The air smelled of sweat and iron and trampled earth. I kept my head down, as I had been taught, eyes fixed on the ground a few steps ahead as I made my way along the edge of the yard.

That was when the rhythm broke.

It was not a shout. Not a command. Nothing so obvious.

It was the sensation of being seen.

I lifted my gaze without meaning to, drawn by instinct rather than intention — and there he was.

Roman Davenport stood among them, taller than most, posture unmistakable even at a distance. He wore no crown, no ceremonial finery, yet the space around him bent subtly, as though authority clung to him whether he asked it to or not. Men watched him between strikes, adjusting without realizing why.

The Crown Prince.

I had known his face since childhood — from banners and coinage, from whispered talk and careful warnings. There was nothing remarkable in recognizing him.

What unsettled me was that he looked back.

His attention shifted — briefly, precisely — and found me.

The moment stretched, thin as a blade’s edge.

I felt it then: a tightening low in my chest, sharp and unfamiliar, as though the air itself had changed weight. I had crossed that yard a hundred times before. Never like this. Never with the sense that something unseen had reached out and marked the passing.

He did not stop the drills. Did not speak. Did not move toward me.

He only looked — and then, just as easily, looked away.

At the time, I told myself that was mercy.

The world resumed its proper order at once. Shouts rang out. Steel clashed. Boots struck earth. I lowered my gaze and continued on, hands steady despite the strange awareness that lingered beneath my skin.

I set the water where it was meant to go. I turned. I left the yard.

I believed that should have been the end of it.

The rest of the day unfolded as it always did — errands and labor strung together without pause. I scrubbed steps worn smooth by centuries of use. I carried linen from one end of the castle to the other. I answered calls that did not use my name and ignored those that did not belong to me.

Yet something had shifted, though I did not yet have the words for it.

I moved through the halls with the same quiet efficiency as always, but the castle felt subtly altered, as though a thread had been pulled loose beneath the stone. I became more aware of open spaces. Of lines of sight. Of how easily a glance might linger where it should not.

By evening, my body ached with the familiar exhaustion of honest work. I welcomed it, clung to it, hoping it might dull the restlessness that had settled into my bones.

It did not.

That night, when I lay on my pallet in the servants’ quarters with my hands throbbing and my limbs heavy with the day’s labor, I told myself what I had always told myself.

It was nothing.

A passing moment. A nobleman’s glance. A foolish stirring born of fatigue and too much imagination.

I would later learn how wrong I was.

For when I closed my eyes, it was not the yard I saw, nor the men, nor the blades flashing in the sun.

It was the feeling — brief, uninvited, impossible to unlearn — of being noticed in a world that survived by forgetting girls like me.

And though I did not yet understand what that recognition would cost us both, I know now that this was the moment my ordinary days ended.