"Do you have any idea how expensive this is?" the man bellowed at the trembling page.
"I-I'm sorry, sir... I didn't mean to," the page stammered, his eyes wide with fear.
"You didn't mean to?" the man scoffed, glaring at the stain. "You've ruined my clothes!"
His anger vanished the instant a chill crept down his spine. A tall, imposing figure had come to a silent stop behind him.
He turned, already knowing who he would find. Sweat beaded at his temples.
"Y-Your Majesty," he stammered, his confidence faltering.
"King... Corvin," she said, her tone devoid of warmth, her steady gaze never leaving him.
"You've... ah... grown quite tall," he managed with a strained smile.
"Well, I'm five foot eleven, so unless the ceiling shrunk, yes," Grace said, her face still unreadable, as though his nervousness hadn't even registered.
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{ Corvin Vorn, King of Dorneth, was the sort of ruler no kingdom wished for. He cared little for his people or his realm; to him, the crown existed only to indulge his own pride and privilege.
Among those beneath him, he carried himself with arrogant grandeur, speaking as though his every word were law. But before the Elenharts—the continent's most powerful house—that bravado crumbled, leaving him timid as a rat beneath a hawk's gaze.
Three jagged scars slashed across the right side of his face, the deepest nearly reaching his nose. He wore them like trophies, boasting at every banquet of how he had slain a massive wolf alone. Whether the tale was true remained doubtful, though he repeated it so often it seemed he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.
For reasons he never spoke of, Corvin was particularly uneasy around Grace. A single glance from her was enough to make his voice falter and his carefully crafted confidence crack. Though he hid it behind bluster and theatrics, her mere presence unsettled him in a way no rival or noble ever had. }
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Without sparing Corvin another glance, Grace turned to the trembling page.
"Tell me," she said evenly. "What happened?"
She addressed the servant as though Corvin weren't even there. Whether she had already judged where the blame lay or simply knew he would never speak truthfully, she gave him no chance to answer. Her attention remained fixed solely on the page.
The boy's hair was short and dark copper, catching the light with a soft, burnished sheen. His fair skin was dusted with freckles, most noticeable across his nose and cheeks, where a natural flush lingered. Deep cognac-brown eyes lent his gaze a quiet warmth.
For someone so young, his features were remarkably refined—a slim face, high cheekbones, and a pointed chin that hinted at the handsome man he would one day become.
At Grace's request, the boy slowly lifted his eyes to meet hers. For a heartbeat, he hesitated before stealing a glance at Corvin.
His stare was sharp as a drawn blade—a silent warning.
Fear clenched the boy's chest. Swallowing hard, he lowered his head and stammered, "I-It... it was my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going."
"You see?" Corvin said quickly, his voice carrying an almost eager note. "I'm not at fault here."
Corvin drew a breath to continue, but a sharp voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd.
"That's not true!"
Grace turned toward the sound.
A young servant stood among the onlookers, older than the page Corvin had berated moments before. Though fear was written plainly across his face, his gaze never wavered. Whatever the consequences, he had chosen to speak the truth.
He bore a striking resemblance to the younger boy, sharing the same refined features, though his dark hair and freckle-free complexion set him apart.
Grace gestured for him to step forward. "Don't be afraid," she said calmly. "Tell me what you know."
The young page stepped forward, stopping beside the frightened boy. The younger page quickly caught his sleeve, whispering in panic, "Arno, please... don't do this. We'll only get ourselves into trouble."
Arno gave him a reassuring glance. "It's alright," he said softly, his voice calm but resolute. "Leave it to me."
Though fear still lingered in the younger boy's eyes, the tension in his shoulders eased. Whether it was Arno's reassuring presence or the trust he placed in him, he found the courage to remain still.
Arno lifted his gaze to Corvin, who answered with the same menacing glare he had given the younger page moments before. The warning was unmistakable, but Arno refused to be intimidated. Drawing a steady breath, he straightened his back, turned away from Corvin, and lowered his eyes respectfully toward Grace.
"Your Highness," Arno began with a respectful bow, "the fault does not lie with him. He was merely carrying a tray and minding his path. It was Lord Corvin who failed to watch where he was going. He walked directly into the boy... and then placed the blame upon him."
His words rang with quiet conviction. Though his hands trembled at his sides, he found the courage to place the blame where it truly belonged.
The crowd fell silent, stunned by the boy's boldness. Every eye turned toward him in disbelief—every eye but Corvin's. His burned with fury. His jaw locked so tightly it seemed fit to crack stone, every muscle drawn taut with barely restrained rage. He had been defied, and the insult cut deep.
In contrast, Grace's expression softened into a faint, approving smile. Quiet pride shone in her eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the courage it had taken to speak the truth.
Seeing her reaction, relief washed over the boy. The tension left his shoulders, and he lowered his head in a small, grateful bow.
Grace slowly lifted her gaze, her patience wearing thin. She turned to Corvin, her eyes cold and unwavering.
"Do not blame others for your own carelessness," she said, each word measured and firm.
After a brief but pointed reprimand, she gave her final order.
"Apologize to the boy."
Corvin reluctantly parted his lips, the apology seeming to stick in his throat, when a voice suddenly rang through the hall, cutting through the tense silence.
"So, Grace," it said with a teasing lilt, "you're using your title to bully other nobles now?"
Behind Grace stood a man in his early fifties, only marginally taller than her.
His chestnut-brown hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was deliberately tousled, while a neatly groomed moustache framed his sharp features and strong jaw.
He wore an immaculate ivory-and-emerald ceremonial uniform adorned with gold embroidery, polished brass buttons, braided aiguillettes, and fringed epaulettes that marked his lofty rank. A black ceremonial cape completed the ensemble. Yet it was his poised bearing, more than his attire, that commanded attention.
The familiar voice brightened Grace's expression at once. She turned, a warm smile already gracing her lips.
"Uncle Dasmon."