Beneath a velvet mask

The sun had only just begun to rise over Duskmere, casting a golden light across the sleeping village. But Liora Hale had already been awake for hours, her hands deep in the cold stream that cut through the edge of town, scrubbing linens until her knuckles burned. Her fingers were raw, her nails stained, and her breath puffed in the early morning chill. Still, she worked without complaint.

Duskmere was a forgotten place tucked between the edge of the kingdom’s thick forests and the high roads that led to the capital. The stone cottages leaned with age, and smoke rose weakly from crumbling chimneys. Here, life was survival. And survival, for girls like Liora, meant sacrifice.

She wrung out the last sheet, slapping it onto a line strung between two crooked trees. Behind her, the worn path up to her cottage waited along with her mother, who hadn’t walked in months, and her younger brother Bram, who was always hungry, always growing.

Her stomach growled, but there was no breakfast waiting. Just yesterday’s stale bread, if Bram hadn’t already eaten it.

“Liora!” a voice called from up the hill. Maeve.

Liora turned to see her best friend trotting down the muddy slope, lifting her skirts and nearly tripping over her own boots. Maeve was a year younger, all wild curls and wide eyes, and the closest thing Liora had to joy in this world.

“You’re up early,” Liora said, attempting a smile.

Maeve rolled her eyes. “As if you weren’t already up with the stars. There’s a rumor going ‘round. A big one.”

Liora hung the next sheet with a snap. “What now? Another tax increase?”

“No.” Maeve leaned in, whispering, “The prince is coming.”

Liora blinked. “The prince?”

“Alaric Thorne himself. The royal heir. They say he’s coming to Duskmere to ride through the villages and ‘observe the common people.’” Maeve wiggled her fingers dramatically.

Liora snorted, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “Observe us like we’re livestock, you mean?”

“Exactly,” Maeve said, grinning. “They say he’s bringing an entire procession. Horses, banners, soldiers everything.”

“Why here?”

“No idea. Maybe we’re lucky. Or cursed.”

Liora shook her head. “We’ll be expected to bow, I suppose. Pretend we’re grateful while he rides past on a stallion with a gold-threaded cloak.”

Maeve shrugged. “If he’s handsome, maybe I’ll forgive him.”

Liora smiled despite herself.

But inside, she felt a pang one she couldn’t quite explain. The prince. A man who had everything she never would. Why should he come here, to see people he’d never speak to, never truly know?

She glanced up at the pale blue sky. Already the sun was climbing higher, and with it, the day’s work waited. Firewood. Her mother’s medicine. A visit to the baker to beg for scraps.

Another day. Another burden.

She could not have known that everything was about to change.

The sun climbed past the village roofs by midday, and with it came dust. It billowed down the road like a storm cloud, kicked up by the hooves of pristine horses and the boots of armored guards. Every villager could hear them before they saw them the rhythmic thunder of a royal escort.

Liora stood outside the small bakery, holding a woven basket with only a few copper coins at the bottom. She didn’t have enough for bread. Again.

“She can have yesterday’s loaf,” the baker muttered gruffly, not unkindly, but with the same pitying tone he’d used since her father’s death two years ago. “But that’s it, girl.”

Liora offered a grateful nod, took the hardened bread, and turned only to hear a sharp shout echo down the road.

“Make way for His Highness, Prince Alaric of Virelia!”

The villagers scattered to the edges of the street like leaves in the wind. Some bowed. Others stared, wide-eyed, hands shielding the sun as they tried to catch a glimpse.

Liora stood still, arms tightening around the basket, trying not to feel anything at all.

Then she saw him.

At the center of the procession, astride a tall silver-gray stallion, rode a man who looked nothing like she had imagined. He wasn’t draped in ridiculous gold or wearing a crown. His cloak was travel-worn, his boots muddy. His dark hair curled slightly at the ends, wind-swept and messy, and his eyes deep, stormy gray seemed to take in everything at once. His jaw was set, but not in arrogance. In thought.

Prince Alaric was watching the people. Not dismissively, but curiously. As if trying to understand the lines etched into their faces, the silence in their mouths.

He passed Liora without a word, and yet… his eyes lingered.

For the briefest of seconds, they locked. Hers and his. Villager and prince.

It was a heartbeat.

And then it was gone.

________________________________________

A Twist of Fate

That night, the village tavern was louder than usual, full of speculation and gossip.

“Did you see his horse? A pureblood Vaelorian breed, worth more than all our homes combined!”

“He’s not like his father, I heard. Got a soft heart, that one.”

“Soft hearts don’t survive in palaces,” someone else spat.

Liora sat in the corner, arms folded, pretending not to listen. Her mind still reeled with the memory of his gaze. She told herself it meant nothing. He likely hadn’t even truly seen her. Princes didn’t.

And yet…

“Oi, Liora!” The tavern keeper called out. “You forgot your herbs earlier. Still got your mother's tonic on the shelf.”

She stood to retrieve it, and as she stepped out into the cool night air, she felt the wind shift.

Something was coming.

Or perhaps… someone.

________________________________________

The First Encounter

The next morning brought fog and quiet, but Liora’s peace was shattered by the sound of hoofbeats far too close to her cottage.

She rushed out, apron flapping, expecting a messenger or worse a tax collector.

What she found instead was Prince Alaric.