"Your breakfast, miss."
She waited, listening to the tray set down and the quiet retreating footsteps before she cracked the door open. A covered platter and a pot of tea waited on a side table.
She hadn't eaten a thing since the night before, but her stomach felt hollow and sick. Where were Lioren and the other girls? Had they already gone?
Nysa forced herself to eat a small piece of bread and a few grapes. She tried to wash her face and smooth her tangled hair, but nothing could hide how swollen her eyes were from crying.
She couldn't bear to stay here any longer.
She had no choice but to put the torn dress back on—she hadn't brought any other clothes. Carefully, she slipped into Lioren's coat, wrapping it tight to cover the rip down her back.
"Just get to the carriage," she whispered to herself. "Then you can go home and forget this ever happened."
She eased her door open and peered into the corridor. Empty. Good.
She slipped out and turned towards a corner, hoping to avoid the main halls where more guests might be gathering. Every step made her heart pound. If anyone stopped her—if anyone asked questions—she thought she might dissolve from shame.
Almost there.
Just a little farther...
Tap.
A hand touched her shoulder.
Nysa spun around too fast, her balance giving way. She flailed, nearly falling...
...and landed against a solid chest.
Strong hands steadied her.
She gasped and looked up, her breath catching in her throat.
It was him.
Midnight-black hair. Pale, perfectly carved features. Dark, fathomless eyes that made her heart stop cold.
The white-masked man!
Oh no.
She tried to step back, but her legs turned to water.
"Your Highness," came a woman's smooth voice.
Nysa's stomach dropped. Your Highness?
She had forgotten about him being royalty— being the prince.
Her gaze snapped back to the man in front of her— the man who she heard draining blood out of a maid last night.
No. No, no, no.
This wasn't just the a rich noble man.
This was the crown prince.
Her cheeks burned with mortification.
"My apologies," the prince—Auren—said coolly. He let her go, and she stumbled backward, her thoughts scattering.
Her knees buckled, and she dropped into a deep curtsy, heart thudding so hard it hurt.
"Your Highness, please forgive me," she blurted. "I—I didn't see you—I wasn't looking—"
She pressed her forehead to the polished floor, wishing it would swallow her whole.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar hem of a soft lavender gown. Murda.
Murda's voice trembled as she bowed, her own hands clutching her skirts.
"Your Highness."
Auren didn't respond.
Nysa dared to lift her gaze. His face was unreadable, his eyes fixed on her for a moment longer. Her mouth felt dry. She could still remember the feel of those eyes on her across the ballroom—and the sound of his voice mocking her in the dark.
Then he turned without a word.
The woman beside him cast Nysa a scornful look before she pivoted to follow.
The moment they vanished around the corner, Nysa let out a shaky exhale and tried to stand. Her legs barely held her up.
Murda rushed to her side, her brows drawn with worry.
"Nysa...are you alright? Sorry I startled you, I saw you leaving and wanted to follow."
"I..." Nysa swallowed hard, her voice thin. "Yes. I'm fine."
"You're shaking," Murda insisted. "Did he say something to you? Did he..."
"I said I'm fine," Nysa cut her off too quickly.
Murda's eyes softened. She reached out as if to touch Nysa's shoulder but stopped herself.
"…Alright," she said quietly. "If you don't want to talk, I understand."
Nysa turned her face away. What would she even say? That she saw the prince drink a maid's blood last night? That he looked straight into her eyes and didn't speak? That her heartbeat nearly betrayed her life?
If she told Murda—if she told anyone—who would believe her?
She smoothed Lioren's coat around her shoulders and focused on steadying her breath.
"Let's just…go wait for the carriage," she whispered.
Murda nodded silently.
As they started walking, Nysa's thoughts churned in dizzying circles.
How could someone so cold and cruel have also been the same boy she once splashed in the fountain with?
And why—despite everything—did her heart still feel that same, impossible pull?
Murda gave her a curious glance, folding her arms. "Why are you shaking like that? You look like you just saw a ghost."
Nysa blinked rapidly, her lips parting as if to speak, but no explanation came.
"I didn't sleep well," she mumbled, turning her face away. "Sorry for snapping earlier."
Murda's expression softened. "It's fine. But you really do look pale—paler than usual."
Nysa forced a small smile. Guilt began to gnaw at her, not just because of the secret she was hiding, but because Murda, despite all her teasing, had been kind from the start.
To change the subject—and maybe balance the guilt—she asked, "So... how was your evening? Did you enjoy the celebration?"
Murda's eyes lit up immediately. "You have no idea," she said, laughing. "The wine? Incredible. I had at least five glasses—I think. Might've been six. I kind of lost count after the fourth one. And the food? I stuffed myself. My dress felt tight by the time I was done."
Nysa smiled faintly. "You didn't spend the whole night alone, did you?"
Murda waved her hand dismissively. "Some nobles tried to chat me up, all those 'you look exquisite tonight' lines," she mimicked with a dramatic swoon. "But I ditched them for Sera."
"Sera?" Nysa arched a brow.
"Yeah," Murda grinned. "She was a riot. Chased off every man that approached her with her sharp tongue. She called one of them a 'drunken squirrel' because he tripped while trying to bow. I nearly choked on my wine."
Nysa giggled despite herself. That sounded like something Sera would do. "And then what? Did you two just wander the halls scaring off noblemen?"
"Basically," Murda shrugged. "We found a balcony and just stared at the stars for a while. Sera swore the moon looked shinier from the palace roof."
"That sounds... nice," Nysa murmured.
.
.