Elaine sat on the edge of her bed, the lantern flickering beside her, laughter bubbling up from her chest. It had been a long, exhausting day — but the memory of Rudolf scolding Prince King was too good to let go.
She could still hear it.
"Your Highness," Rudolf had said, voice like thunder, "if you ever grab her again, I'll personally teach you what a sword handle tastes like."
Prince King had sputtered, clutching his bruised jaw. "You can't speak to me like that!"
"Oh, I can," Rudolf replied. "And I just did. You want a second helping?"
Elaine had nearly choked trying not to laugh.
"Also," Rudolf added, "your sleeves look like they were stolen from a theater curtain. In winter."
Elaine giggled again, wiping tears from her eyes. For the first time in days, she felt light.
Meanwhile, in the palace kitchen, chaos reigned.
Pots clanged, trays clattered, and the head chef shouted over the din. "Where's the pastry chef? We need the mint glaze now!"
Colden, sleeves rolled up and flour on his cheek, nodded. "He's coming. I promised a baker would arrive. Just hold the line."
At the bakery, Marco was tying his apron, preparing the final batch of pastries for the evening dinner. He had just finished dusting the almond tarts when the bell above the door chimed.
He turned.
It was August.
Dressed in a tailored coat, holding a velvet envelope.
"I brought you an invitation," August said, smiling. "To the dinner. I thought… maybe you'd want to come."
Marco hesitated, heart fluttering.
"That's sweet," he said softly. "But I can't. I have work."
August's smile faltered. "You always have work."
Marco looked down. "I'm sorry."
Something shifted.
August stepped forward, suddenly grabbing Marco's wrist. "Just come with me. You'll be fine."
Marco froze.
His breath caught.
His body locked.
The trauma surged — memories he couldn't name, fear he couldn't voice. He couldn't speak. Couldn't shout.
Then—
"Let go of him."
Carmine.
She stepped through the doorway like a storm wrapped in silk.
August turned, startled. "Who are you?"
"Someone you don't want to mess with," she said, eyes sharp. "Let go. Now."
August hesitated.
Carmine moved — fast, precise, trained. She twisted his wrist just enough to make him flinch, then stepped between him and Marco.
"If you try anything funny again," she said, "I'll make sure you leave with fewer fingers."
August backed away, stunned.
Marco collapsed into a chair, trembling.
Carmine knelt beside him. "You're safe."
He nodded, eyes glassy.
She stood and turned to the door. "Now let's deliver those pastries."
The evening dinner began.
The palace shimmered with candlelight, nobles gathered in their finest silks, and the scent of mint and honey filled the air.
But beneath the surface, the plan was in motion.
And the storm was coming.
To be continued…