“They say he hasn’t been to his favorite lady’s chambers in nearly a month,” Lorana said, unpacking trunks and sharing the latest gossip she’d picked up from chatting with the servants.
Her chestnut hair was tucked under a kerchief she never removed, even when alone with Havren. At twenty-five, the maid’s face carried a weight of sorrow and grief. Her father had been a baron, but he fell under the harsh judgment of Lanveria’s former ruler due to drunkenness and theft. Aldren had brought Lorana into their household when Havren was just fifteen.
The Countess remembered a frightened girl, three years her senior, shivering from cold and nearly fainting from hunger. Once they nursed her back to health, Lorana took on household chores, which didn’t sit well with the head of the family. It was then decided she’d become Havren’s personal maid. After all, the former baroness could read, knew court etiquette, and could play a light melody on the harp. Over time, she settled into the der Narat household, taking on lighter duties when Havren was away at school. Over the years, the two had grown close, though Aldren often scolded Lorana for not coming to him sooner after her family’s lands were forcibly taken and handed to another owner. He had, after all, known her late father.
Lorana’s green eyes gazed thoughtfully, a quiet joy mixing with her admiration for the ornate decor of His Majesty’s castle.
“Something wrong?” Lorana tossed a piece of clothing back into the trunk and approached the bed where a gloomy Havren sat. “What’s going on?”
“I’m worried about Uncle,” the healer replied somberly. “I’m scared for him…”
Everything seemed fine on the surface: the spacious room with windows overlooking the garden, the hints that they were invited to stay for a long while as His Majesty was selecting new members for his entourage, and the opportunities opening up in the capital. Yet Havren saw danger in everything and wanted nothing more than to flee the royal court as far as possible.
“He’ll be fine,” the maid said softly. “You’ll see—he’ll walk in here smiling and content.”
Tapestries adorned the walls, displaying Lanveria’s crest in deep golden tones: a proud eagle with a crown on its head, clutching a shield emblazoned with a sun. History said this emblem was born from the merging of ruling dynasties after a war.
“I’d run away to some far-off land, live a simple life, and cherish every sunrise I get to see,” Havren said, lying back and staring at the gray stone ceiling.
“Oh, you’re pining over that herbalist again,” Lorana snorted. “You know full well your paths are diverging. Yours leads to a grand future; his leads to brothels and women, where he loved to spend his time.”
The maid had a knack for speaking the truth bluntly, yet her words stung Havren only minimally. She knew Lorana meant no harm. A mistake from the past, a love that hadn’t quite worked out, still left a mark on the young woman’s dreamy heart. Her father had nearly lost his mind when he found out. Rumor had it some unknown force hounded the poor betrayer for days, and everything the herbalist touched went awry, as if he’d been cursed. Knowing Kaur’s temperament, Havren didn’t doubt he was testing whether his magic still held over the third son of Count de Rantan. He often sought the man’s mental trace, sparing no time to play an improvised hunt. Such was first love, filled with fleeting, beautiful moments.
Havren could have guessed back then how it would end; for her family, the marriage would have been disadvantageous. But at the medical academy, titles didn’t matter—only knowledge did.
“It’s strange that His Majesty still has no heir,” Lorana whispered. “His favorite lady hasn’t pleased him in that regard, even after a year by his side, and the negotiations with the Giiyran princess fell through.”
“Listen, you should work for the secret service. You find out everything…” Havren sat up, narrowing her eyes before stopping herself. “Oh no, don’t even think about it. I know exactly what that look on your face means.”
Lorana grinned as if she’d just stumbled upon a pile of gold, surrounded by rolls of precious silk from warmer lands and wardrobes full of stunning gowns.
“You know how men love something new,” she said slyly, peering at Havren. “You’re at the king’s court now, like a breath of fresh air.”
“And a good handful of poison in my face from their wives and mothers who believe in love potions because some charlatan babbled about them.”
“Well, the court ladies do love to dabble in less-than-traditional medicine…”
“To them, I’m both a healer and a witch in one. I’ve met plenty who can’t grasp that love essences don’t exist in nature—at best, there are aphrodisiacs. But no, they’ve got to attract the attention of a good match, and that’s that! Never mind that the Order of Inquisitors will come knocking afterward; that’s not their problem.”
Havren crossed her arms, looking at her friend. Lorana, in turn, fell into a thoughtful silence.
“Still, it’s odd that the king has no heirs,” Lorana said, returning to the trunks to sort through them. “He’s a widower.”
Havren gazed out the window at the greenery of the trees. Outside, spring was in full bloom, celebrated by birdsong and caressed by warm breezes. It was the perfect time to lock herself in a greenhouse with medicinal herb seedlings, lose herself in tending rare plants, or wander through forests and swamps with guards to gather ingredients for remedies. She could go hunting with Kaur in the mountains, where he’d teach her sword fighting and crossbow shooting. But here she was… in the royal castle, with no joy to be found. Perhaps her problem was that aristocrats grew up with the certainty they’d be presented to His Majesty. Then a new chapter of life would begin, framed by a wild chase for power. Havren, however, never hoped for such a thing and had prepared herself for a different life, as had her loved ones. After her mother’s death, her father renounced the throne, handed it to his brother, and shut himself off from the world, hiding like a hermit in a cave.
“Let them think I’m dead,” he’d often said in conversations. “It’s better that way.”
“Come on now,” Lorana almost whined. “You keep pining over that count’s son, and you’ll end up an old maid, playing with your vials and jars in a lab.”
“I should’ve secretly married that professor,” Havren muttered. “We’d have lived happily, though not for long. My mentor would’ve skinned him alive.”
“Yours?” Lorana clarified with a smile.
The maid knew all too well about the difficult temperament of Volkan, nicknamed Old Owl by the academy students behind his back. At fifty, though some lived to nearly two hundred while others died young, the herbalist mentor knew how to stay healthy and sharp-minded. No one wanted to apprentice under him, but Havren hadn’t been so lucky. As they say, sometimes jealous women decide their men’s fates. That’s what happened with the first mentor Havren had hoped to study under, but in the end, he only took on male apprentices. She had to settle for what seemed like the worst option. Yet Volkan turned out to be the best.
“Was there anyone else you liked?” Lorana asked slyly.
“An inquisitor’s apprentice who inspected us at the last dinner at the medical academy,” Havren said, drifting into memories with a dreamy smile. “But that’s in the past,” she added sharply, sitting up straight. “Now’s not the time to chase its ghosts.”