Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Rules Elena's first night in the servants' quarters was more restful than expected. The girl in the next bed tossed and turned, whimpering in the small hours—"Don't come... the dark thing... don't come..."—fragments of nightmare leaking through clenched teeth. Elena opened her eyes, glanced at the candle shadows swaying on the ceiling, then rolled over to face the wall and closed her eyes. No dreams at all. Before dawn, the brass bell rang. The women in the servants' quarters rose in unison, their movements as mechanical as puppets on a single string. Some splashed cold water on their faces; others were already tying their apron strings. Nobody spoke. Elena mimicked them, pulling on her gray uniform as fast as she could, braiding her hair flat against her scalp—that was the rule. Servants were forbidden from wearing their hair loose, from wearing jewelry, from lingering in the corridors longer than necessary. Rules. She had heard that word at least twenty times in the twelve hours since she'd entered the palace. The middle-aged woman from yesterday—the one in charge of new servants—was back. Her name was Hebden; the others called her Madam Hebden. She stood in the center of the courtyard holding a worn ledger, reading out the Inner Court regulations item by item. "...Rule Seven: Servants shall not initiate conversation with masters outside their direct charge. Rule Eight: No private messages may be conveyed. Rule Nine: No blades or enchanted articles may be brought into the palace..." Elena listened while her eyes swept the courtyard. Most were newcomers like her—dodging eye contact, shoulders hunched inward, a flock of sheep herded into a pen. But a few looked seasoned, standing in corners, speaking in low voices, occasionally glancing her way. One gaze lingered longer than the rest. A girl about her age, reddish-brown hair, round face, wearing a deliberately sweet smile. She had the same gray uniform, but a small silver button at her collar—the mark only senior servants were permitted to wear. When their eyes met, the red-haired girl tilted her head, like a cat sizing up prey. Elena looked away. "...Rule Twelve: Special regulations concerning the Prince's chambers." Madam Hebden's voice dropped. "I will say this only once. Listen carefully." The courtyard went silent. "The Prince's chambers, beginning from the iron door at the end of the corridor, are a restricted zone. Within the restricted zone, you and you alone may enter and exit. You may not bring anyone inside. You may not converse with anyone near the restricted zone. And above all—" her gaze swept across them, "you may not tell anyone outside the restricted zone anything you see, hear, or smell inside." "What if someone asks?" the red-haired girl raised her hand, her tone innocent. Madam Hebden stared at her for three seconds. "Then you say: His Highness is in poor health and requires rest. That is the official explanation. It is also the only explanation." "But—" "No buts." Madam Hebden snapped the ledger shut. "Asking the wrong question and saying the wrong thing carry the same penalty." She scanned the group, her gaze lingering on Elena's face for half a second longer, then turned and walked away. Elena noticed that half-second. Her expression didn't change, but she filed it away—Madam Hebden knew who she was, where she'd come from, and possibly even the real reason she'd been placed here. There were no secrets in this palace. Or more precisely, there were many secrets, but knowing which people held which ones was what truly mattered. The morning was training—how to carry a tray without spilling, how to walk without making a sound, how to light a lamp without burning yourself, how to breathe evenly when your master spoke but never, ever make a sound yourself. All rules. All details. All designed to teach them how to become useful implements. Elena learned quickly. Not because she was clever, but because her stepmother's household hadn't been much easier—an illegitimate daughter learned to read a room faster than she learned to read words. The afternoon brought task assignments. Most new servants were sent to the laundry, the kitchen, or the gardens. Only three names were called with Madam Hebden stepping forward to lead them personally. Elena was one of them. The second was the red-haired girl—Daisy. The third was a lanky, taciturn young man whose surname she didn't catch. Madam Hebden led them through three corridors, two staircases, and an iron door that required a key. Beyond the door, the air changed—not colder, but quieter. As if the sound of the entire world had been sealed behind an invisible barrier. "Your work area is deep within the Inner Court." Madam Hebden spoke as she walked, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. "The Inner Court has three zones: the Outer Zone houses the King and courtiers; the Middle Zone holds the council chambers and archives; and the Inner Zone—that's where you're going." "Who lives in the Inner Zone?" Daisy asked. Madam Hebden didn't answer. At the end of the corridor stood a pair of wooden doors—no carvings, no crests, just plain dark wood with an ordinary iron lock. But the scent seeping through the gap made Daisy step back involuntarily. That pre-storm smell—heavy, dense, as if something on the other side was breathing. "Daisy, you're responsible for the corridor lamps and the greenhouse on the east side of the Inner Zone." Madam Hebden's voice was flat. "Sixth hour to the fifth hour of the next morning. Do not leave your post." Daisy nodded, but her face had gone pale. "Pete, you handle the storage rooms and meal handoffs on the west side." The lanky young man grunted acknowledgment. Madam Hebden turned to Elena. "You. The Prince's chambers. Same as last night—enter at the sixth hour, leave before the fifth hour of morning." "Just me?" "Just you." Madam Hebden paused. "The last batch had three people rotating. One fled on the second day. One was removed from the palace after six nights of nightmares. And the last one..." She didn't finish. "What happened to the last one?" "Slit her own wrists inside the chamber." Madam Hebden's voice was as calm as a weather report. "She said she'd rather die than spend another night in those dreams." Daisy clapped a hand over her mouth. Elena just nodded. "Understood." Madam Hebden regarded her for a moment. That tired pity surfaced again in her eyes. "You're calm." She said. "The last person this calm was three years ago." "What happened to her?" "She left too. But she lasted the longest—an entire month." Madam Hebden turned away. "If you can last that long, perhaps... never mind. Go to work." The unfinished sentence hung in the corridor for a heartbeat before her footsteps swallowed it. At the sixth hour, Elena entered the Prince's chambers for the second time. Unlike last night, the Prince wasn't in the chair by the window. She stood in the darkness until her eyes adjusted, then saw him—at the desk, an open book before him, though he wasn't reading. The oil lamp cast flickering light across his face, making his features waver between clarity and shadow, like a half-finished painting. She carried the tray forward, arranged the dishes according to protocol. When she reached his right side, he spoke. "You didn't have nightmares last night." Not a question. Elena's hands paused for a fraction of a second, then continued laying out the spoon. "No, Your Highness." "Why not?" "I don't know, Your Highness." He tilted his head toward her. Those pale eyes were even paler in the lamplight—like a frozen lake in winter, something moving beneath the ice. "The one before you said walking into this room was like stepping into a pool of ice water. Cold climbing from her feet to her skull, and then the visions—faces in the shadows, walls that breathed, eyes in the ceiling watching her." His tone was detached, as though recounting someone else's story. "You felt none of that?" Elena considered. "It was a bit cold, Your Highness. But not like ice water. More like..." "Like what?" "Like standing in a very large, very empty place." She said. "Wind from every direction, but not cold. Just... empty." The Prince's fingers stilled on the book's page. He seemed to be parsing her answer, as if identifying a language he'd never heard before. "What's your name?" "Elena, Your Highness." "Elena." He repeated it, testing its weight on his tongue. "Of House Wald?" "Yes." "The border baron's bastard daughter." Not a question—a statement. "Sold into service." Elena didn't correct the word "sold." "Who arranged for you to come here?" "The Inner Court assigned me, Your Highness." "I'm not asking about the Inner Court." His voice dropped half a register, the way a blade sounds when it bites into wood. "Who placed you beside me? Aldous? The Silver Serpents? Someone else?" The air in the chamber tightened a degree. Those unseen things—the shadows the Prince held at bay during daylight—began to seep from his edges. The candle flame on the desk listed sideways. The pages of his book rustled without wind. The drapes stirred. Elena saw all of it. She didn't step back. "Your Highness," she said, her voice still level, "if I'd been placed here to spy on you, the correct answer would be 'no one sent me.' But what I said was—the Inner Court assigned me. Those two statements sound the same. They don't mean the same thing." The candle flame steadied. The Prince stared at her for a long time. "You're playing word games with me." "I'm telling you the truth, Your Highness. It's just that sometimes the truth needs to be stated precisely." Silence. Then he did something she hadn't expected—he laughed. Not a warm laugh, nor a mocking one. More like a short exhale of surprise—the kind that says I can't believe someone just said that to my face. "Interesting." He said. "The last person who dared speak to me like that ran away." "I'm still here, Your Highness." "You're still here." He repeated. Something shifted in his voice that she couldn't quite name. Then he lowered his head and began to eat the supper she'd brought. Elena stood to one side, eyes downcast, as silent as any well-trained servant. But her heart beat half a tempo faster than usual—not from fear, but from realization: He had been testing her. And her answer had landed precisely on the line he'd drawn—not crossing it, not retreating from it, but standing on it, letting him know she could see where it was. It was a game. He'd made the first move. She'd caught it. But this was only the first move. She still had to deliver her first "report" to Count Aldous. That would be the real test. Past midnight, the Prince fell asleep in his chair. Not peacefully—his brow was furrowed, fingers clenching and unclenching on his knees, lips moving as if conversing with something invisible. The shadows in the chamber grew thicker than when he was awake, coalescing in the corners into vague patches of gray. Elena sat on a low stool by the door, knees together, hands resting on her lap, watching him. She should have left by now—the rule was to go before the fifth hour, but she could leave earlier. No one checked the exact time, as long as she wasn't in the chamber after dawn. But she didn't leave. Not out of pity. Not out of curiosity. Because she was confirming something—how the shadows responded to her presence. The answer surprised her. The shadows didn't surge toward her. They recoiled—slightly, subtly, as if an invisible barrier surrounded her body, impenetrable to the darkness, which could only hover at the edges. She sat quietly, like a stone dropped into a dark lake—the stone neither sinks nor floats, it simply exists there, changing the shape of the water by its presence. The Prince's brow, creased in sleep, slowly smoothed. He slept quietly for an hour. It had been a long time since he'd done that. Elena didn't know this. She only knew that when she rose to leave, she heard him shift—a soft sound, like a sigh. At the door, she glanced back. Through the gap in the drapes, moonlight fell across his curled body like a thin silver blanket. She remembered her own words—"Do the duty well enough, and I survive." Duty. Yes. Just a duty. She closed the door gently and stepped into the corridor. The wall sconces didn't flicker. The pre-storm scent had faded, replaced by the clean chill of rain-washed earth. Elena retraced her steps toward the servants' quarters, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridor—steady, measured, quiet. She needed to write a report for Count Aldous. What should it say? The Prince's condition tonight—she could include that. The fact that he'd tested her—she'd leave that out. The shadows retreating from her—never. She sat on her narrow bed and scratched a few lines on a rough slip of paper with a charcoal stick: "His Highness's condition as usual today. Mood stable. Ate normally. No abnormal behavior observed." She looked at the words, folded the paper, and tucked it into the hidden pocket of her apron. Her first report. Half true, half false. Exactly right.