Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Clash On the twelfth day, Vincent obtained a pass to enter the Inner Zone. Elena heard the news at the kitchen entrance—two scullery maids whispering that the Chief Physician had personally signed the order, that Madam Hebden had blocked it twice, and that the second time the King's Secretariat had overridden her. "The apprentice is going in this afternoon." Maid One kept her voice low. "A full examination, they say. Full! Think about it—when was the last time anyone examined His Highness?" "Three years ago, maybe." Maid Two sighed. "Back when he could still attend banquets. Now—" They saw Elena approaching and fell silent. She didn't pause, walking straight through the kitchen, her mind racing. Vincent getting a pass meant the Holy Choir was pushing from behind—the Chief Physician wouldn't sign without pressure, and the Secretariat's involvement meant that pressure had reached at least the royal administrative level. If Vincent entered the chambers this afternoon and saw evidence of the curse, Archbishop Aldric would know within three days. And then— A parliamentary vote. She had to reach Cassian before Vincent got in. But the problem was more complicated than she'd anticipated. When she tried to enter the Inner Zone ahead of schedule, the corridor's iron door was already reinforced with guards. Not Madam Hebden's people—these wore the Royal Guard uniforms, Iron Hawk crests embroidered on their chests. Iron Hawks guarding the Inner Zone entrance. What did this mean? Were the Iron Hawks trying to stop Vincent from entering? No—more likely they were ensuring no one could interfere once he was inside. The Iron Hawks and the Holy Choir shared the same objective here: one wanted evidence of the curse to depose the Prince, the other wanted it to push for a "purification ritual." Two enemies, one goal. She retreated to the servants' quarters and found Pete. "Vincent is entering the chambers this afternoon." She cut straight to it. Pete's face changed. "Does His Highness know?" "I don't know if he knows. I can't get in—Iron Hawks have sealed the Inner Zone." "Then I definitely can't." Pete's hand instinctively gripped his sleeve—where he hid his crack location map. "Is there any way to—" "There is." Elena said. "But I need you to do something dangerous." Pete looked at her. He didn't ask what the dangerous thing was. He asked: "If I do it, can I live?" "Yes. But you might be expelled from the palace." "Being expelled beats dying in the corridors." He said. "Go ahead." "Go to the kitchen and get some ground pepper—the finest powder they have. Then, when Vincent enters the Inner Zone, bump into him 'accidentally' and get the pepper on his clothes." Pete blinked. "Pepper?" "Yes. Not on his face—on his clothes, especially the cuffs and hem. Make him smell like he just came from the kitchen." "Why?" "Because Cassian has an extraordinary nose." Elena said. "The curse amplified his sense of smell. He can detect Northern bitter-root tea from fifty paces. If Vincent reeks of pepper and cooking grease—" Pete's eyes lit up. "His Highness will send him out. Say the smell gives him a headache." "At minimum, it buys us a day. A day is enough time to figure out something else." Pete nodded and turned to leave. At the door, he paused. "Elena—" "Mm?" "You do all this for His Highness, and he doesn't even pay you." "He lets me call him by his name." She said. "That's worth more than wages." Something twitched at the corner of Pete's mouth. Then he left. In the afternoon, Elena waited by the window in the servants' quarters. She couldn't see the Inner Zone entrance, but she could see the direction of the kitchen. About half an hour later, she spotted Vincent emerging from the corridor—walking faster than usual, white powder dusting his clothes, wrinkling his nose and brushing at his cuffs as he went. Pete's craftsmanship was solid. The pepper had been distributed evenly. Another quarter hour passed before Vincent reappeared from the Inner Zone direction. His expression had shifted from composure to frustration, a sheaf of blank forms in his hand—the examination clearly hadn't been completed. As he passed the corridor outside the servants' quarters, his gaze caught Elena's. He stopped, seemed about to speak, then simply shook his head and walked on. She read that shake clearly: the Prince had refused him. Not because of who he was, but because of what he smelled like. Step one: successful. But one day wasn't enough. She needed a more fundamental solution. That evening, Elena entered the chambers as usual. Cassian sat by the window, moonlight on his profile. His expression was more relaxed than recent days, but a faint vertical crease lingered between his brows—the mark of years of furrowing, never fully disappearing even at rest. "The pepper was your idea?" He got straight to the point. "Pete executed it." "I know. I could smell his nervousness—stronger than the pepper." A rare hint of humor entered Cassian's voice. "But your tactic only works once. Next time Vincent will change clothes beforehand." "I know. So I need to think of something else." "What?" She stood before him, meeting his eyes directly. "The simplest solution—you refuse him yourself." "I did refuse. Today. But the pass was signed by the Chief Physician, above him is the King's Secretariat, above them—" "Above them is your father." Elena said. "He's the King. He can revoke the pass." Cassian fell silent. The moonlight shifted half an inch, illuminating his hands—fingertips paler than normal, a faint dark line lurking beneath the skin. "You think my father would help me?" The weight of the question made her hesitate for a second. "I don't know. But I know this—you've never had anyone speak for you." "Because no one dares." "Then I dare." She said. He turned to look at her. That light beneath the ice appeared again—but this time, it was suppressed by something deeper. Not fear, but habitual despair. A person who's been refused too many times begins to experience even hope as a kind of pain that must be endured. "You're a servant." He said, without mockery, only exhaustion. "You can't see the King." "I don't need to see the King." She said. "I can see the Princess." "Rosalyn?" His expression shifted—not surprise, but a complicated wariness. "You know her?" "No. But she spent half an hour talking to Daisy in the garden yesterday." "How do you know that?" "Pete told me. He delivers flower pots to the greenhouse every afternoon, passes the back garden. He said the Princess and Daisy talked for a long time, and at the end, the Princess gave Daisy something—a small box. Daisy opened it, glanced inside, and closed it immediately. Her expression was strange." "What kind of strange?" "Pete said it looked like—'finally got it.'" Cassian's finger tapped the windowsill once. Just once, but with more force than any previous time. "Daisy is Iron Hawk. If Rosalyn is giving her things—" "It means the Princess has connections to the Iron Hawks." Elena picked up his thread. "But that's not necessarily bad." "How is it not bad?" "Because if the Princess has ties to the Iron Hawks, it means she has her own leverage. A person with leverage won't accept being treated as a pawn." Cassian stared at her, the crease between his brows deepening. "What are you saying?" "I'm saying—the Princess doesn't want to be used as a political marriage tool. That's her only vulnerability in this court, and her only motivation." Elena said. "If we help her solve the marriage problem, she owes us a favor. One favor, in exchange for her speaking to the King on your behalf—to revoke Vincent's pass." "You think one favor is enough?" "No. But it's enough to open a door." He looked at her for a long time. That gaze wasn't scrutiny—it was more like watching something he'd never seen before. A bastard daughter, a servant, someone who'd been sold into this place, now discussing court politics with a cursed prince. "Where did you learn all this?" He asked. "My stepmother's house." She said. "A bastard daughter who wants to survive has to learn to read people. Read people long enough, you learn to use them." "You're good at it." "I just don't want to die." She paused. "And I don't want you to die, either." He couldn't speak. After a long moment, he rose, walked to the desk, opened a drawer, and took something out. Not the memory crystal. A seal—silver, the base engraved with a crossed crown and sword crest. "The Prince's private seal." He said. "There are only three. One is in the King's treasury, one is in my private study—controlled by Aldous. This is the third. I've kept it hidden in the chambers." He placed it in her hand. The cold silver pressed into her palm. "With this seal, you can send documents under the Inner Court's authority." He said. "No need to go through Aldous, no need to go through Madam Hebden. Direct to anyone you choose." "You're giving this to me?" "I told you, I'm giving you choices." He looked at her. "But this isn't just a choice. It's trust. If you use this seal against me—" "I won't." "I know." He said. A faint curve appeared at the corner of his mouth—barely there, but real. "That's why I dare to give it to you." She closed her fingers around the seal. The silver warmed in her palm. "I'll find the Princess." She said. "But before that, you need to do one thing." "What?" "Tomorrow, when Vincent comes again—let him in." Cassian's expression froze. "What did you say?" "Let him in. But only let him see what you want him to see." She said. "A frail, pale, emaciated prince with no trace of a curse." "How?" "Shadows only appear when your emotions spike." She said. "You need to control your emotions—and when I'm nearby, the shadows retreat. If you let Vincent in while I'm also present—" "The shadows won't appear." He finished her thought, a glint in his eyes. "But Vincent isn't stupid. He'll notice your presence. He'll wonder why you're allowed in the room." "So you can't make me seem important." She said. "In front of him, I'm just a tray-carrier. You don't even need to look at me—no, you absolutely must not look at me. You look at him. Only him. As if he's treating you, completely normal." "You're asking me to act." "I'm asking you to live." She said. "Acting is just one of the tools for staying alive." He was silent for ten seconds. Then he nodded. "Alright." The next afternoon, Vincent arrived at the Inner Zone for the second time. This time, he'd changed into fresh clothes, washed his hands three times, and carried only the clean scent of herbal soap—standard issue for a physician's apprentice. He'd even worn soft-soled shoes that made no sound. Madam Hebden escorted him to the chamber door personally. "His Highness is slightly improved today and has consented to a brief examination." Her voice was all business. "However, the examination may not exceed one quarter hour. You may not touch His Highness anywhere except his wrist. You may not ask questions unrelated to the examination." Vincent nodded and pushed the door open. The lighting in the chamber had been deliberately dimmed. Cassian sat in the chair by the window, a thin blanket draped over his shoulders, his complexion pale to just the right degree. A half-finished bowl of soup sat on the table; a book lay open beside it. Everything suggested the routine of a chronic invalid. Elena stood in the corner, holding an empty tray, head lowered—indistinguishable from the furniture. Vincent approached Cassian and bowed slightly. "Your Highness, I am Vincent, physician's apprentice, here by order of the Chief Physician for a routine examination." "Mm." Cassian's voice was weak and detached, his gaze settling on Vincent—not seeing him, really, but seeing the system he represented. Vincent produced a silver diagnostic rod and placed it gently against Cassian's wrist. His movements were professional—steady fingers, even breath. "Pulse slightly elevated but regular." He recorded softly. "Complexion pale, nail beds lacking color. Has Your Highness experienced dizziness recently?" "Frequently." "Any night sweats?" "Occasionally." "Appetite?" "Poor." Each answer was brief, uninformative. A template—the standard medical record of a frail prince, identical to every physician's report filed over the past three years. Vincent finished his notes, tucked away the diagnostic rod, but didn't leave immediately. He stood where he was, hesitated, then asked a question that wasn't on any examination checklist: "Your Highness—four years ago, when I came with the Chief Physician—were you well?" The air in the chamber tightened for an instant. Elena's fingers gripped the edge of the tray, but she didn't look up, didn't move, didn't even change her breathing rhythm. Cassian's gaze shifted from Vincent's face to the window. There was no moonlight; the afternoon sun was blocked by heavy drapes. All he could see was his own模糊 reflection. "I don't remember anything from four years ago." He said, his voice flat. Vincent looked at his profile. His lips moved as if to speak, then closed. "Understood, Your Highness." He bowed. "Examination complete. I will report the results to the Chief Physician." He turned toward the door. As he passed Elena, his step faltered—barely perceptible, almost invisible. He glanced at her. Just one glance. His gaze lingered on her face for less than a second before shifting away. Then he pushed the door open and left. What was in that look? Curiosity? Suspicion? Or— Elena wasn't sure. But she was certain of one thing: Vincent hadn't detected anything unusual about her. She'd made a point of using the same laundry soap as every other servant. No distinguishing traces. After the door closed, Cassian exhaled slowly. His hand was trembling faintly beneath the blanket—not from cold, but from the ten minutes he'd spent suppressing the shadows with every ounce of willpower. The moment Vincent mentioned "four years ago," the shadows had nearly broken through. "You did well." Elena said softly. He didn't answer. But his hand emerged from under the blanket and rested on the windowsill. Beneath the pale skin of his fingertips, the dark veins had retreated to invisibility. She stepped forward, positioning herself between him and the window—blocking any line of sight from outside. "Breathe." She said. "I'm breathing." "Breathe again." He inhaled—long, slow, as if squeezing every last shadow from his lungs. "He looked at you." He said. "When he was leaving." "I know." "What was he thinking?" "I don't know." She said. "But I know he wasn't thinking about you." Cassian looked up at her. "The way he looked at me wasn't how you look at a servant." She said. "He was wondering who I am." "That's dangerous." "Yes." She said. "But at least the report he takes back today has no curse in it." Late that night, Elena used the Prince's private seal to write a letter. It was short, unsigned, containing only a coded phrase that only royal family members could decipher—a cipher Cassian had taught her, one that Princess Rosalyn had invented with her brother in childhood. It meant: "I need to see you." She folded the letter into the shape of a bird and slipped it through the ventilation shaft connecting the Inner Zone to the Middle Zone. The shaft led to the garden's drainage channel. If all went well, a gardener would find the letter tomorrow morning and, following protocol, deliver it to the Princess's handmaid. If things went poorly— She chose not to think about "if things went poorly." She wiped the seal clean and returned it to her hidden pocket. The pocket now held three items: the Silver Serpent ring, the pouch of soul-stabilizing stone dust, and the Prince's private seal. Three items. Three directions. Three keys. She stood in the corridor outside the servants' quarters, leaning against the cold stone wall, looking up through the narrow window at the night sky. No stars. Thick clouds had swallowed the moon. But above the clouds, the stars were still there.