The next morning brought the usual routine. Kieran rose before dawn, helped prepare breakfast for the royal family, then took his position outside the prince’s chambers. Other servants came and went, but Kieran had somehow become the one Prince Aldric tolerated most—perhaps because he knew when to be invisible.

The Council Hall was buzzing when Kieran arrived to serve tea during the morning assembly. Prince Aldric sat at the long table surrounded by advisors and ministers, his posture impeccable, his expression attentive. He spoke with measured confidence, offering solutions to problems that had the older men nodding in approval.

“The prince grows more capable each day,” one minister murmured as Kieran poured his tea.

“A true credit to the throne,” another agreed.

Kieran said nothing, only continued his rounds. But he noticed what they didn’t—the tightness around Aldric’s mouth, the way his fingers pressed just slightly too hard against the parchment he held. The brittle quality to his smile.

The meeting dragged on for hours. Policy debates, trade agreements, succession matters. Prince Aldric responded to each topic with the same steady competence, never faltering, never showing weakness.

When it finally ended, the ministers filed out praising the prince’s wisdom. Aldric remained seated, still wearing that perfect smile, until the last footsteps faded down the corridor.

Only then did his shoulders sag.

Kieran moved quietly to collect the tea cups, trying not to intrude on the moment. But he couldn’t help glancing at the prince’s face—the exhaustion that suddenly showed, the way Aldric’s hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Three more meetings this afternoon,” Aldric said quietly, more to himself than to Kieran. “Then the banquet tonight. And tomorrow, the ceremony.”

“Your Highness should rest,” Kieran said before he could stop himself.

Aldric looked up, seeming surprised that Kieran was still there. For a moment, something unguarded crossed his face. Then the mask slipped back into place.

“Rest is a luxury I don’t have.” He stood, straightening his robes. “The kingdom needs a strong prince, not a tired one.”

“The kingdom needs a prince who is well,” Kieran countered softly, then immediately regretted his boldness. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I spoke out of turn.”

But Aldric didn’t reprimand him. Instead, he studied Kieran with those storm-gray eyes, and for a heartbeat, Kieran felt completely exposed.

“You’ve been in my service for three years now,” Aldric said. “Yet I realize I know very little about you, Kieran.”

Hearing his name from the prince’s lips sent an unwanted flutter through Kieran’s chest. “There’s nothing to know, Your Highness. I’m simply a servant.”

“Simply a servant,” Aldric echoed, a ghost of something—amusement? sadness?—crossing his features. “Is that truly all you are?”

The question felt dangerous, like standing at the edge of a precipice. Kieran bowed his head.

“It’s all I need to be, Your Highness.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Aldric moved toward the door, pausing just as he passed Kieran.

“You’re different from the others,” he said quietly. “You see things they don’t. I’m not certain if that makes your service easier or harder.”

Before Kieran could respond, the prince was gone, leaving only the faint scent of ink and sandalwood behind.

Kieran stood alone in the empty Council Hall, his heart racing. He pressed a hand to his chest, willing it to calm, willing the warmth spreading through him to dissipate.

This was dangerous. More dangerous than he’d allowed himself to acknowledge.

Prince Aldric wasn’t just the untouchable jade he served—he was a person who carried burdens, who noticed the people around him, who somehow saw Kieran when he was supposed to remain invisible.

And that made everything so much worse.

Because duty meant maintaining distance. Loyalty meant knowing his place. But how could he remain invisible when the prince had already seen him?

Kieran gathered the tea service with shaking hands, the cups clinking softly against the tray. Three years of careful control, and one conversation had cracked his carefully built walls.

He would need to be more careful. More distant. More perfectly, appropriately invisible.

Even if it meant extinguishing the small, foolish hope that had suddenly kindled in his chest.