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Her caregiver was a girl of sixteen when she first stepped within the castle walls. Her duty was to manage the wardrobe and replace the linens, but she brought a rare tenderness into the nursery. Elara grew to cherish her like a sanctuary. Her heart remained in its intense devotion toward her mother. Queen Aline was a grand figure whom Elara worshipped from afar, a light she constantly sought to please, while Walker remained the maternal anchor who dried her tears in the dark.

Walker rises every morning before dawn, entering the quarters with a care that refuses to disturb the early morning peace. There was a gentle patience in how she styled hair according to youthful whims, arrayed the young princess in chosen gowns, and adorned her with admired jewels. Quiet listening and a smile made Elara feel seen. That devotion endures even now. Over time, such care deepened into something far beyond custom. Through every sorrow, a maternal embrace offered sanctuary, and whispered words of gentleness lingered before comfort returned.

When Elara attained her thirteenth year, the King commanded that all motherly affection cease. Her caregiver’s sole purpose was to attire the princess, presenting her before the royal court with perfection. Every discovered infraction or embrace met with immediate castigation from the palace guards, and each brutal penalty forced a guarded silence between them. The memory forces her fingers to tighten their grip on the edges of her damp towel.

Past arguments prove that standing up to the King only brings further punishment, leaving her helpless. To question his choices means being locked in her quarters for days, where the guards are forbidden to enter even to light the candles, leaving her alone in the dark. Much as she loves her caregiver, distance remains her only shield. She cannot bear to cause more suffering for the woman who has protected her.

She stands by the bedside, her knuckles turning white against the wet cloth as she looks at the dark shadows of exhaustion beneath Walker’s eyes. The sight of that weariness finally overcomes her fear of the rules. Stepping forward, Elara reaches out and presses her fingers against her caregiver’s shoulder, giving a soft shake to wake her.

Walker draws a quick breath, her eyes opening at once. All remnants of sleep vanish, and she gives Elara her familiar smile. “Elara?”

To Walker, addressing the princess by her name whenever they are alone is a small defiance against the distance their positions demand. It remains one of the few boundaries the King never explicitly forbade, and to Elara, the simple gesture means far more than her caregiver could ever know. Within these walls, she does not have to be Her Highness, or the flawless ornament expected by the royal court. She can simply be Elara.

“I apologize,” Walker says, smoothing the fabric of her long dress as she stands. “I have not slept well these past few nights. It feels as though something is keeping me awake.”

Concern pulls at Elara’s features. “Why? Did something happen? What were you dreaming?”

Walker chuckles, shaking her head. “Nothing you need to worry about, dear. You know how difficult sleep has become for me lately.”

Elara’s brows furrow further. This has never been a habit with Walker, but she waves it aside with a smile. “Do not apologize. I would have let you rest here, had you wished.”

“Now then, shall we prepare for the morning?” Walker asks, reaching out to give Elara’s hand a gentle squeeze before stepping toward the vanity.

With a nod, Elara crosses to the vanity and claims the velvet chair before the mirror. Her reflection stares back at her, her complexion pale and drained of its former warmth. A strain on her neck pierces as she prepares for the custom of being adorned simply because she is a woman.

She has grown so accustomed to the restriction that she no longer voices her complaints. In years past, protests would have flown from her lips without fear, but now, silence is the only response she gives.

Sitting before the glass, she considers the origin of these oppressive decrees. The older palace servants frequently whispers about the change in her father after the funeral, recalling how gentle he had seemed while the Queen lived. Elara now understands that her mother had been the solitary force holding back his true nature, a boundary that made him conceal hostility toward women.

The moment Queen Aline died, that hidden mindset was unleashed upon Veyrenn, turning his grief into a campaign to humiliate and suppress every woman in the realm, beginning with his own daughter. Only two weeks ago, her father had cornered her against the wall of the corridor for the simple act of preparing tea for herself while he conversed with his knights.

He had stepped directly into her space, his voice rising as he yelled about a princess performing the labor of a servant, his hand slamming against the masonry to pin her in place. The penalty had extended far beyond his immediate rage. The kitchen maidservant who had inadvertently permitted Elara near the hearth was subjected to ten public lashes before the gates the following morning.

She swallows, her fingers pressing tightly against the armrests of the chair.

Walker’s brush moves through her damp strands, careful with each stroke as the morning air dries her hair. A sudden wince catches Elara as the bristles snag on a persistent tangle. Long hair has never been her preference. A layered cut resting just above her shoulders is preferable, revealing more of her face, but her father forbade it, claiming it was unladylike.

As the ritual continues, Walker’s movements slow until the brush slips from her fingers. Concern pulls at Elara’s features as she looks up into the reflection of the glass, noticing the deep fatigue completely overtaking her face. Realizing that the older woman is on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion right behind her chair, Elara reaches up to steady her hand.

Rising from her seat, Elara removes the hairbrush from Walker’s loose grip. Grasping her by both arms, she guides her to the chair and settles her onto the cushion.

“Rest, Mistress Walker,” she says, pressing a hand firmly on her shoulder when the older woman tries to protest. “That is an order. I can brush my own hair for once. Just rest.”

Walker relaxes into the chair with a defeated sigh, her cheek resting against her palm as her eyes flicker with gratitude. She brushes down her dress, worried it might get crumpled, visible guilt spreading across her expression. “I apologize deeply, Elara.”

Elara offers a reassuring smile. “Again, do not apologize. You are tired. How about you take the day to rest? I will let Father know that you need it.”

Walker stiffens at the mention of the King, the softness vanishing from her posture. She immediately stands, shaking her head as she forces a tired smile. “There is no need, dear. I am fine.” Stepping forward, she reaches for the hairbrush once more, though a tremor shakes her hands as her fingers move through the strands. “What hairstyle would you like? How about we go with braids?”

The familiar scent of her clove perfume envelops Elara, offering a temporary sense of security. She blinks at the sudden change in subject, realizing that Walker is avoiding the topic of her exhaustion.

“I would rather not,” Elara says, taking the tool into her own hands before offering it back. “Do you remember the style where you pinned the top half like a crown?” She requests the simple choice, selecting an easy arrangement that will not require her caregiver to tire herself further.

A warm expression softens Walker’s face. “Of course.” She moves toward the bed and sits along its side.

Elara settles before her, folding her legs beneath herself as she sinks into the soft mattress. Walker gathers the upper section of hair, twisting it carefully before securing the strands into a crown at the back of her head with the golden pins taken from the vanity casket.

Walker’s hands pause on Elara’s hair again. Turning toward her, Elara finds her caregiver massaging her own temples, as if attempting to dissolve a deep-seated ache. Walker catches her staring and purses her lips, dropping her hands to Elara's shoulders with a gentle pressure to remind her to fix her posture.