The Market and the Prince's Arrival
Liv twisted from left to right, her limbs aching for rest even as her mind refused to settle. The compartment was stifling—walls too close, air too still. She curled into a ball, then stretched out again, her body restless, her thoughts louder than the silence around her.
She hated idleness. It gnawed at her like hunger. She scanned the cramped space again, hoping for something—anything—to distract her. A book lay nearby, its pages worn and familiar. She picked it up, then set it down. Reading felt hollow. Her mind was already elsewhere.
"You look heavenly. When the prince sees you, he will definitely fall to his knees."
The Duchess's voice echoed in her memory, vivid and sharp. Liv rubbed her face, her pulse quickening. He's coming. She hadn't imagined it.
Suddenly, a memory surged—so vivid it felt like stepping into another life.
The sun blazed overhead, painting the cobblestones in molten gold. The air was thick with the scent of crushed herbs, ripe fruit, and sweat. Voices rose and fell like waves—vendors shouting prices, children laughing, carts creaking under the weight of goods.
Liv walked among the other servants from Duke Oscar's household, her arms burdened with baskets brimming with oranges and root vegetables. Her blue dress clung to her back, damp with heat. She shifted the weight, trying not to wince.
"If there's one thing I hate about shopping," Barbra muttered, lifting a heavy basket with both hands, "it's that it's very tiring."
Barbra—modest, weathered, with gentle eyes and a voice like warm broth—was the eldest among them. Her presence soothed rather than commanded. Liv glanced at her, smiling.
"Do you need help?" she offered, adjusting her own baskets.
Barbra paused, her gaze softening. "You're too kind. Your hands are full already."
Liv shrugged. "Contrary to the opposite. I enjoy it the most."
Barbra chuckled, her breath catching. "Easy for you. You're young, full of energy. I'm getting older."
Her eyes lingered on Liv's dress. "Bright blue suits you. Makes you look like you belong somewhere else."
Liv's smile faltered. "Well, it's the only time I get to be free. Off the eyes of those two witches."
Barbra halted, her expression tightening. "Hold your tongue, miss. Someone might hear you."
Liv looked down, chastened. Barbra knew everything—her frustrations, her dreams, her defiance.
"One day," Barbra said gently, "you'll gain your freedom. You'll have a husband of your own. All you need is time and patience."
Liv blinked hard. "You think marriage is the answer?"
Barbra studied her. "Marriage is a necessity for security. If you're going to break out of that shell, you'll need someone who sees you—not just your station."
They stopped at a vegetable stand. Liv picked up a bunch of carrots, her fingers brushing dirt from their roots.
"Why should marriage be a necessity for security?" she asked, voice low.
Barbra opened her mouth to reply—but the market shifted.
A ripple passed through the crowd. Voices hushed. Movement ceased. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then—hoofbeats.
Palace guards swept through, their armor gleaming, their faces stern. People stepped aside instinctively, heads bowed, baskets clutched to chests. Dust rose in soft clouds beneath the horses' feet.
Liv's heart thudded. She turned, and there he was.
The prince.
He rode at the center of the procession, his posture regal, his cloak trailing like smoke. His horse was obsidian-black, muscles rippling beneath its polished tack. Sunlight caught the prince's hair—dark, thick, and tousled just enough to seem effortless. His jaw was sharp, his eyes unreadable.
He looked like he'd stepped out of a legend.
Liv's breath caught. My God, he's real.
The rumors hadn't lied. He was flawless. Athletic. Commanding. And yet—there was something quiet in his gaze, something that didn't match the grandeur around him.
"Hail Mary, the prince is so handsome," a marketeer gasped, her voice loud and unfiltered.
Liv flinched, suddenly aware of herself—her dress, her baskets, her sweat-slicked skin. She tapped her fingers against the wicker, trying to ground herself.
Don't even think about it. He's out of your reach. You're a servant. You're invisible.
She watched him pass, her eyes locked on his profile. He didn't glance her way. Why would he?
Do you know how many noble women throw themselves at him? You're nothing. Just a shadow in the crowd.
And yet—her heart betrayed her. It beat faster, louder, as if trying to break free.
Barbra's voice broke through. "See how the world bends for him? That's power. But it's not always kindness."
Liv turned to her, startled.
"Don't let your heart chase what your station can't hold," Barbra said softly. "Freedom isn't found in a prince's gaze. It's found in knowing your worth, even when no one else sees it."
Liv swallowed hard. The prince disappeared down the road, the crowd slowly returning to life.
But something in her had shifted.
Liv blinked, the memory dissolving like mist. The market, the prince, Barbra's voice—all gone. She was back in the cramped compartment, the stale air pressing against her skin. The walls felt closer now, as if they'd crept inward while she daydreamed.
She exhaled sharply, rubbing her arms. Her skin tingled, not from cold, but from the echo of possibility.
I would love to get a close look at the prince.
The thought came unbidden, bold. Reckless.
She sat up, her pulse quickening. Today is my birthday. The realization struck with a strange mix of melancholy and defiance. No one had mentioned it. No one would. Not in this house. Not under the Duchess's rule.
How about a surprise party for myself? Her lips curled into a half-smile. How about crashing the banquet and stirring up some trouble?
The idea was absurd. Dangerous. Electrifying.
She imagined it: slipping past the guard, sneaking into the grand hall, her dress wrinkled and plain among silk and velvet. The chandeliers blazing overhead. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. Nobles laughing, gossiping, dancing. And there—at the center—the prince.
Would he notice her? Would he see past the servant's garb, the calloused hands, the defiant eyes?
Her heart thudded. The fantasy was intoxicating.
But reality snapped back like a whip.
A guard sat just outside her door, unmoving. His presence was a wall she couldn't climb. And beyond him—Duchess Oscar. Cold. Calculating. Her wrath was legendary.
Liv had never dared disobey her. Not truly. Not in ways that mattered.
She pressed her palms to her face, trying to smother the heat rising in her cheeks. What am I thinking?
Crashing a banquet? On my birthday?
She laughed quietly, bitterly. The sound echoed in the small room.
You're not brave enough. Not yet.
But the thought lingered. It pulsed beneath her skin like a secret rhythm. Not brave enough today—but maybe tomorrow. Maybe someday.
She stood, pacing the narrow space. Her limbs still ached, but her mind was alight. The prince's face haunted her. Barbra's words echoed: Freedom isn't found in a prince's gaze. It's found in knowing your worth.
Liv didn't know her worth yet. But she was starting to ask.
And that, perhaps, was the beginning.
Liv paused at the table, her fingers grazing the chipped wood. "Wait. The tailor could help."
The words slipped out like a secret. Her breath caught.
She hadn't thought of him in weeks—not since the Duchess had reassigned him to the lower quarters. But he'd always been kind. Quiet. Observant. And more importantly, he knew how to make things disappear. Or appear.
A dress. A mask. A servant's pass forged from scraps and charm.
She turned, pacing again. The idea was wild. Risky. But it had shape now. It wasn't just a dream—it was a plan.
If I could get to him… if he still remembers me…
She imagined the tailor's cramped workshop, the scent of fabric glue and lavender oil. His hands, always moving, always measuring. He'd once told her, "Clothes don't just hide you—they tell stories. What story do you want to tell?"
Liv hadn't known then. But now? I want to tell the story of someone who dares.
She glanced at the door. The guard was still there. Still silent. But the world beyond him had shifted. The banquet wasn't just a forbidden place—it was a stage.
And the tailor might just be her ticket in.
Liv pressed her ear to the door. The guard hadn't moved in hours. The hallway beyond was quiet, save for the distant hum of laughter and music—muffled notes from the banquet drifting through stone and silence.
She turned back to the table, grabbed the worn shawl from the chair, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her heart thudded like a drum in a parade.
Just one hallway. One corner. One whisper to the tailor.
She stepped toward the door, her fingers trembling as they reached for the latch.
Then— A knock.
Sharp. Unexpectedly. Not from the outside.
From beneath the floorboards.
Liv froze.
Another knock. Slower this time. Deliberate.
She stepped back, breath caught in her throat.
The sound came again.
Three knocks. Then silence.