Inside the servant wing, chaos had long since replaced dignity.
Cinderella was trying to keep the peace. The steward was trying to keep a ledger. Drizella was trying to keep herself from drowning into the pile of linen. Stepmother-Lady Beatrice-was loudly trying to keep her soul intact.
No one was succeeding.
Drizella sat cross-legged on the floor with a mountain of linens towering beside her. She was attempting to fold them into perfect rectangles, muttering complex ratios under her breath like a mathematician trapped in a laundry cult.
"Two parts corner to one part edge-no, that's not right-why are sheets so enormous? What did people do before bedframes? Sleep in fields??"
Cinderella suppressed a laugh, working beside her with brisk efficiency. Lady Beatrice loomed nearby, micromanaging the airflow and complaining that punishment was "barbarically dusty."
The door creaked open.
A guard stepped inside.
Not just any guard-that guard. The one who danced with Drizella without looking at his feet. Rowan scanned the room with the calm detachment of someone checking battlefield terrain rather than laundry.
Drizella froze, sheet half-rolled like a defeated scroll.
"Oh," she said, eloquence abandoning her, "linen. Laundry. Hello."
Rowan nodded as if this were a conversationally valid greeting.
"Afternoon."
He stepped closer, eyeing the linen pile. "This seems... extensive."
Drizella sighed, captured by the raw tragedy. "The kingdom has an unreasonable dedication to tablecloths. Apparently nobles fear being forced to dine on bare wood or-worse-patterned wood."
"I'll take your word on the horror," Rowan said gravely.
Without asking, he picked up a sheet and inspected it like a soldier assessing foreign weaponry. Lady Beatrice's mouth opened-no doubt to chastise interference-but then Rowan flicked his gaze her direction and she reconsidered for the sake of her own sanity.
Rowan folded the sheet with military precision-straight edges, crisp corners, no wrinkles, no hesitation. Cinderella blinked, impressed. Drizella stared as if witnessing forbidden magic.
"How-how did you do that?"
"Barracks training," Rowan said, stacking the sheet. "If you can fold a king-sized blanket in wind, you can fold anything under a roof."
He took another sheet. Drizella mirrored his movements, clumsily at first, then with surprising improvement.
"That's better," Rowan observed.
Drizella's face lit up-a small, pleased spark that made Cinderella smile from the other pile.
Lady Beatrice reappeared at the corner, sniffing criticism into the air. "Drizella, the edges!"
Rowan didn't even look up. "The edges are fine, madam."
Lady Beatrice shut her mouth.
For a moment-just a moment-Drizella looked like someone unused to being defended so casually.
They folded in surprisingly efficient silence. Well, efficient for Rowan. Drizella attempted a second sheet, got swallowed by it entirely, and fought her way out with the dignity of a cat exiting a curtain.
Rowan cleared his throat, eyes suspiciously bright as if trying not to laugh. "Sheets are formidable adversaries."
"They're aggressive," Drizella said, smoothing her hair. "Like flags. But larger. And more judgmental."
"True," Rowan said solemnly, as though discussing warfare.
When the stack reached a respectable height, Rowan stood and brushed dust from his trousers. "That should lighten your work."
Drizella blinked. "You didn't have to help."
"Yes," he agreed, "which made it more appealing."
Before she could decide whether that was flirting or alternative logic, Rowan nodded a farewell. "Till next time."
"Next-?" Drizella began.
But Rowan was already out the door, posture elegant, stride unconcernedly princely for a man in borrowed armor.
Drizella watched him go, clutching a folded sheet to her chest.
"...Who folds linen like they're negotiating a treaty," she whispered to herself, mildly dazed.
Cinderella hid a grin behind her stack. "Someone who noticed more than linens, I think."
Drizella nearly unfolded the entire pile.
* * *
Prince Adrian shut the door to his private chambers and exhaled, long and uncomfortable. He had not expected guilt to follow him home like an unpaid servant...and yet here it was, sitting on his chest and refusing to budge.
He shrugged off the disguise coat and set it over a chair. His reflection caught him in the mirror-hair disheveled, eyes narrowed in thought, expression more boyish than princely.
Anastasia had looked tired.
Not fragile-never that. She didn't do fragility. But tired in the way someone becomes when the world makes up its mind about you first and never bothers to ask if it was right.
He loosened his collar.
Everything she said stuck like a thorn, elegant and accurate and annoyingly true. He had never heard criticism delivered so academically in the middle of a servant courtyard.
Adrian sank into the chair by the window, staring at the courtyard below where lanterns swayed in the evening wind.
Villain, heroine, victim, justice- stories made it all so tidy. Real life was decidedly less symmetrical.
A knock sounded.
"Enter."
Rowan slipped inside, closing the door behind him. He didn't bother saluting-Adrian hated that sort of formality when they were alone.
"You disappeared into the laundry punishment," Adrian said.
Rowan shrugged. "I fold more efficiently than I dance. It seemed useful."
Adrian snorted. "You enjoyed yourself."
Rowan didn't deny it. Instead he eyed Adrian with that frustratingly perceptive look he'd honed over years of watching nobles lie to themselves.
"You're brooding."
"I don't brood," Adrian lied.
Rowan sat opposite him anyway. "What happened?"
Adrian drummed his fingers on the armrest. "I spoke with the elder sister. Anastasia."
Rowan's brows rose. "And?"
Adrian hesitated. Words were trickier without a ballroom orchestra to distract from them.
"She accused me," he said eventually, "of judging too quickly."
Rowan tilted his head. "Did she sound wrong?"
"...No."
Rowan waited. Rowan was very good at waiting; he could wait a confession out of a stone.
Adrian rubbed his forehead. "She said the kingdom prefers stories to truth. That people want heroines and villains, not complications."
Rowan smiled faintly. "Smart girl."
"Yes. And angry." Adrian paused. "With reason."
A beat of silence.
Rowan leaned back, arms crossed. "Her anger isn't really at you."
"Yes," Adrian sighed, "but my decisions charged interest."
He replayed the ball again-Cinderella radiant, trembling, hopeful. He had seen her fear and assumed cruelty. Assumed villains. Assumed a narrative that matched the story in his head.
"How did she look?" Rowan asked, voice gentler than expected.
"...Sad," Adrian admitted. "Angry first. Then sad. I don't enjoy making people sad."
Rowan blinked. "That is, arguably, a terrible trait for a monarch."
Adrian gave him a flat look. "Thank you, Rowan. Astounding comfort as always."
Rowan smirked. "My pleasure."
Adrian shook his head and stood. "I need to speak to Cinderella."
Rowan didn't question the decision, only arched a brow. "To explain? Or to verify?"
"To understand," Adrian said, surprising even himself with the honesty of it. "I know how she felt that night. I know what I saw. But I don't know what happened before that."
Rowan nodded. "That is a better order than most men choose."
Adrian met his friend's gaze. "I don't like being wrong."
"You don't like realizing you were wrong," Rowan corrected. "There's a difference."
Adrian didn't deny that either.
He crossed to the door and paused with his hand on the latch.
"If I judged the sisters unfairly..." His voice dipped. "I cannot un-judge the kingdom. But I can listen. And I can correct myself."
Rowan rose, straightening his coat. "Then let's go find Cinderella before your mother schedules another diplomatic dinner and ruins the evening."
Adrian grimaced. "Too late for that. She scheduled three."
Rowan considered this. "We must hurry then."
They exited together-two men headed toward clarity, through the least dignified hallway route in the palace.
--------------------------------------------
SIDE NOTE: oooh! Next chapter will be the last of the drama then romance will start after that. I still don't know how I'm gonna write it. But let's hope for better.
If you like my story then give it a star and share it with your friends, this will help me to keep motivated and write new stories.