Page 3 of Maid For The Dark Elf

"No one questions our loyalty." Father's tone carries absolute certainty. "Whatever awaits you, it's not suspicion."

The zagfer clears his throat delicately. "My lord, His Majesty emphasized the urgency⁠—"

"Of course." I stand from my chair, already calculating the fastest route to the palace.

Mother stands as well, her fingers briefly touching my shoulder. "Go. Don't keep him waiting."

As I move toward the door, Father follows. In the corridor beyond the dining hall, away from curious ears, he speaks quietly.

"Whatever awaits you in that throne room, remember this—you face it as a Vaerith."

2

ROSALIE

The door to my chambers crashes open with enough force to rattle the simple wooden frame. Dawn hasn't yet touched the narrow window, but Lady Sylvareth Ardyn sweeps into my private space as though she owns it—which, technically, she does.

Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders instead of arranged in its usual elaborate style, and her lavender eyes blaze with something between fury and desperation. The silk nightrobe she wears costs more than most servants see in a year.

"Where is he?"

I sit up in bed, instinctively pulling the thin blanket higher. Years of service have trained me to wake instantly when summoned, but this feels different. Dangerous.

"My lady?"

"Don't play innocent with me." Her voice carries the sharp edge that appears whenever she suspects I've overstepped some invisible boundary. "My husband didn't come to bed last night. So tell me—where is Lord Aethan?"

The accusation hangs between us like smoke from a dying fire. I've heard this tone before, seen this expression countless times over the years. The assumption that follows me through every corridor of this estate, whispered behind fans at noble gatherings, muttered by servants who resent the privileges Lord Aethan has granted me.

"I don't know, my lady."

"Liar." She steps closer, and I catch the scent of expensive perfume mixed with something sharper—fear, perhaps, or sleepless anxiety. "He tells you everything. Don't pretend otherwise."

"Lord Aethan left for his meeting yesterday afternoon. I haven't seen him since."

Her laugh carries no warmth. "His meeting. Of course. And I suppose you don't know who he was meeting with either?"

"He didn't share those details with me."

"How convenient." She moves to my small window, her fingers drumming against the stone sill. "The favored little human who somehow knows nothing when it matters."

The familiar sting of her words settles in my chest. I've grown accustomed to the jealousy that colors every interaction between us, but understanding it doesn't make it easier to bear.

"Perhaps he returned late and chose not to disturb your rest?"

"I would have heard him." She whirls to face me, her nightrobe billowing dramatically. "And the servants would have noticed. Don't insult my intelligence."

The implication in her words—that I would know because I share his bed—sits unspoken but obvious. After all these years, she still believes I'm her husband's lover rather than his trusted assistant.

If only she knew how wrong she is.

Lord Aethan has never touched me with anything but respectful kindness. Never looked at me with desire or treated me as property to be used. When he elevated me from common servant to personal attendant, he made it clear that my value lay in my intelligence and discretion, not my body.

But explaining that to Lady Ardyn would be pointless. Her jealousy runs too deep, fed by years of whispered speculation and her own insecurities about their childless marriage.

"Check his study," I suggest carefully. "Perhaps he fell asleep at his desk."

"I've already searched everywhere." Her composure cracks slightly, revealing genuine worry beneath the anger. "His bed wasn't slept in. His formal robes are missing. Even his traveling cloak."