The dinner dragged on in stifled silence, broken only by the clink of silverware and the occasional forced remark. Anna pushed her plate away, the once-savory meat now tasteless, her appetite soured by the undercurrent of unease. "I'm done," she said, her voice flat, rising from her chair with deliberate calm. "I'm going to bed."Her mother looked up, her knife pausing mid-cut, the blade hovering like a held breath. "Goodnight, dear," she said, her tone warm but laced with a tremor, her dark eyes searching Anna's face for a moment too long, as if pleading for understanding.

Her father nodded slowly, his frown deepening, the candlelight casting harsh shadows across his worried features. "Sleep well, Anna," he added, his voice gruff but tinged with concern, his fork idle in his hand as if the meal had lost all appeal. He held her gaze briefly, a silent storm of unspoken words brewing behind his eyes, before looking back down at his untouched plate.

Anna turned and left the dining hall, the red carpet muffling her footsteps, the chandelier's glow fading behind her as she ascended the wide, spiral staircase, its polished wooden banister cool under her fingers. The upper hallway was dimly lit by wall sconces, their flames flickering in brass holders, casting long, wavering shadows on the tapestried walls.

She stepped around the corner into the narrow hallway, the lantern's soft glow casting long, flickering shadows on the stone walls, illuminating the maid who was wiping the glass covering the portrait of her mother near the door to her room.

The maid had black hair tied back in a neat bun, wearing a black and white maid outfit with a crisp white apron. The apron bore the crest of her family on its back, a design of an icicle standing like a tower, wide at the base and tapering to a sharp point at the top, all in stark white. The air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of beeswax from the polished frame.

Anna frowned as she saw her, her dark eyes narrowing. She knew this servant was new, but that didn't excuse such carelessness at this hour, the hallway should have been spotless long before nightfall. "Hey, servant," she said, her voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the quiet like a whip.

The maid turned around, her eyes widening in shock, her cloth dropping slightly from her hand as she bowed suddenly. "Mistress Anna, sorry, I wasn't aware," she stammered, her voice trembling, suddenly bowing even lower, her head nearly touching her knees in submission.

Anna looked at her, her eyes narrowing further, staring at the back of her bowed head, the maid's black hair catching the lantern's light in glossy strands. "Why are you still cleaning at this time?" she demanded, her tone cold, the words echoing slightly in the confined space.

The maid swallowed hard, her throat bobbing visibly, and said, "I'm sorry," her eyes wide and trembling as she looked down, her hands clutching the cloth like a lifeline.

Anna felt her annoyance intensify, a hot coil tightening in her chest as she said, "You're sorry? That's your excuse? Do I need to ask you again? Why are you cleaning at this hour?"

The maid's face paled, her voice quavering as she replied, "Oh, I was in charge of cleaning the upper floors today, and I became careless and forgot to clean the portraits on the walls, my lady. So I came back to finish the job."

Anna stepped a little closer, her shadow falling over the maid like a looming storm, her voice dropping to a icy whisper. "At this hour? How careless can you be?" She paused, letting the words hang, the silence heavy with threat. "You do realize you could easily get executed for this, right?"

The maid's eyes widened further, pooling with terror as she dropped to her knees, her forehead pressing against the cold stone floor in a desperate prostration. Her voice emerged as a ragged whisper, barely audible over the hallway's hush. "I'm sorry, I-I..."

Anna's brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing her face like a shadow. "What are you doing? Don't do that," she snapped, her tone laced with exasperation, though a hint of unease tugged at her, such groveling only amplified the awkwardness of the moment.

The maid scrambled to her feet, her hands trembling as she clasped them before her, her gaze fixed on the floor once more, black hair slipping from its bun to veil her flushed cheeks. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice quivering like a leaf in the wind, barely meeting Anna's eyes before dipping her head in a shallow bow.

Anna crossed her arms, her dark eyes narrowing as the lantern's flame danced erratically, casting jagged shadows across the maid's bowed form. "You should never clean at this time," she said, her voice dropping to a steely edge, cold as the hallway's draft. "The last servant was executed for suspicious activity in this mansion and that was only two weeks ago. Do you want to be next?"

The maid's breath hitched, her shoulders hunching as if struck, her apron wrinkling under her clenched fists. "No, mistress," she whispered, her words tumbling out in a rush, laced with raw fear. "It will never happen again."

"Yes, mistress," the maid replied, her voice steadier now but still laced with deference. She hesitated for a heartbeat, her eyes darting up briefly before dropping again, then turned on her heel and hurried away, her footsteps fading into the dim corridor.

Anna watched her go, her lips pressing into a thin line as a swirl of disdain churned in her chest. *Honestly, how stupid can she be? she thought, the words bitter in her mind. Sometimes commoners act so foolishly.* She shook her head, pushing the door to her room open with a soft creak.

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The chamber unfolded before her, vast and enveloping, dominated by a massive bed at its center. Violet sheets draped across it like twilight silk, piled with plump pillows that invited sinking into their depths. The headboard rose in a sweep of dark, almost black purple wood, intricately carved with subtle swirls that caught the faint glow from the bedside lantern. The walls mirrored that hue, painted in the same deep, shadowy purple her favorite color since childhood, a constant that wrapped around her like a familiar embrace.

To one side stood a tall cupboard, its shelves lined with well-worn books: tales her mother had once read aloud in hushed, melodic tones during long evenings, their spines cracked from years of love. Mingled among them were volumes that sparked Anna's own curiosity, chronicles of distant lands, strategies of courtly intrigue, and accounts of historical figures who defied expectations, each one a quiet escape from the pressures that bound her.

To her right stood an ornate folding screen, its panels carved with delicate floral motifs that caught the lantern's soft glow in subtle highlights and shadows. Anna moved toward it with purposeful strides, her footsteps hushed on the thick carpet, and slipped behind its shelter. She shed her dinner attire layer by layer, the stiff fabric of her gown whispering as it pooled at her feet, replacing it with a soft, flowing nightdress that draped loosely over her skin, cool and comforting against the lingering tension of the evening.

She emerged, her bare feet sinking into the plush rug, and approached the bed. Climbing beneath the violet blanket, she settled onto the mattress, her black hair spilling across the pillows like ink on parchment, fanning out in loose waves. She stared up at the ceiling, its dark purple expanse lost in the dim light, her eyes unblinking as thoughts churned relentlessly in her mind.

*They're trying to hide it from me, but I already know,*she mused, a faint crease forming between her brows, her fingers twisting the edge of the blanket in restless knots. *I'm old enough to understand. I know there are nobles higher than us, then the heroes, then the king. Or at least that's what they want me to think. The truth is, heroes stand above the king. Everyone pretends these heroes can be ordered around by him, that they obey without question. But heroes can do whatever they want. We don't even call them humans; they're supreme beings.*

Her breath came in slow, measured sighs, her chest rising and falling as the weight of her realizations pressed down, though she remained oblivious to how deeply she'd sunk into reverie, her gaze fixed but unfocused on the shadowed ceiling above.

*I read that some heroes, around my age, have enough power to take down standard dragons,* she continued inwardly, a shiver rippling through her despite the blanket's warmth, her hands clenching subtly at her sides. *That's terrifying power to wield. Even the most gifted normal humans could never manage that at such an age, they can't even face a regular dragon, let alone a standard one.*

"The truth is, we nobles see commoners as beneath us. The royal family views all of us the same way, commoners or not. But to the heroes? We all fit into the same lowly category beneath them.*

A knot of caution tightened in her throat, her lips pressing together in silent resolve. *If I ever voiced such thoughts to anyone, if the rumor spread that I'd said something like this, I'd put my whole family in jeopardy.*

Her thoughts spiraled onward, a relentless eddy pulling her deeper, her unblinking stare fixed on the ceiling.

But as their faces flickered into her mind's eye, Bethany's poised smile, Carlos's easy grin, the word oblivious surfaced first, a kinder veil over the sharper truth gnawing at her: dumb. Utterly, willfully blind to the fractures in their gilded world.

if she breathed even a whisper of her heretical views to her friends, the whispers could unravel everything. Her family's name, tarnished. The manor, besieged by royal scrutiny. And she, the foolish spark that ignited it all.

Bethany embodied the archetype of their kind, a noble girl with porcelain skin and gowns that rustled like secrets, her laughter light but edged with ambition.

She and Anna had bonded over shared fascinations, whispers of courtly scandals in hidden alcoves, the thrill of forbidden novels slipped between lessons, but beneath it, Bethany was carved from expectation: dreaming of alliances sealed in opulent halls, a marriage to some loftier house that would drape her in jewels and duties, elevating her status like a ladder rung by rung. Power, to her, meant titles etched in stone, not the raw, untamed force Anna craved.

And Carlos... oh, Carlos mirrored the hidden shape of Anna's own heart, the one she'd buried under layers of propriety. He yearned to be a noble knight, armored not in silk but steel, charging across battlefields where honor was forged in blood and sweat. It was what she wanted, too, a life unbound by salons and suitors, her hands callused from hilt and shield rather than quill and embroidery.

Bethany's path was the one etched for Anna, the invisible script of teas and betrothals her parents had always favored, but Carlos had glimpsed the rebel beneath.

She could still summon the memory with crystalline sharpness: her tenth birthday, the grand hall awash in golden torchlight and the trill of lutes, air thick with the sweetness of honeyed cakes and the murmur of well-wishers. Carlos had been there, a lanky boy of eleven with tousled brown hair and eyes bright as polished bronze, son of a lesser house invited for the alliances such events demanded.

There, amid the periphery, they'd spoken, words unfolding like a shared breath, revelations knitting them close. Carlos had teased her in light, boyish ways, his laughter a spark that coaxed her own rare smiles, easing the stiffness of the day.

As seasons turned and years accumulated, their connection deepened into quiet action. He began training with her in fleeting intervals, simple drills in secluded corners of the grounds, the thud of practice blades and the rasp of exertion bridging their silences. She'd confessed it outright then, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest: her dream of becoming a knight. But her parents had recoiled, their faces hardening like frost on glass.

Suddenly two weeks ago, excitement. The word hung in her memory like a poorly tied knot, unraveling at the edges. They hadn't wanted her to do that, it was obvious, a truth carved in the stiffness of their postures, the way their encouragement rang hollow against the room's heavy silence.

No, they wanted her to be like Bethany, the normal noble girl, all polished edges and ambitions. Sure, there were some noble women who lifted the sword as well, fierce exceptions who gripped hilts with callused hands and charged into the fray, but they were rare, outliers flickering like distant stars in a sky of conformity.

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