Beneath the Velvet Sky

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.

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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.

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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.

Alone.

His cloak was dusted with dew, his eyes weary but sharp. He dismounted slowly, guiding his stallion to the side of the path.

"I'm sorry to intrude," he said, voice low and even. "My horse needed water. Your stream was the first I saw."

Liora stared, speechless.

"I remember you," he said softly, "from the village square yesterday."

Her mouth went dry.

"You looked at me," he continued. "Not with awe. Not with fear. Just... honesty. No one looks at me like that."

Liora found her voice. "Maybe you're not used to villagers who don't know how to play noble games."

A corner of his mouth twitched upward. "Perhaps not."

He led the horse to the stream, crouching to run water through his fingers. "Do you live here alone?"

Liora hesitated. "With my mother and brother. My father died two winters ago. Fever."

"I'm sorry."

She nodded stiffly. Kind words didn't fill empty stomachs.

He looked at her for a long moment. "What's your name?"

"...Liora."

He repeated it like a promise. "Liora."

And just like that, a thread pulled taut between them.

Liora crossed her arms as she watched the prince kneel beside her stream like he belonged there. As if he weren't the heir to a throne built on the bones of men like her father.

"You shouldn't be here," she said at last, her voice guarded. "Alone. No guards? No procession?"

Alaric didn't look up. "Sometimes it's easier to see the truth without twenty people watching it for you."

"Truth?" she echoed, suspicious. "You think you'll find it in Duskmere?"

He turned toward her, water dripping from his fingertips. "I think I'll find more of it here than in the palace."

Liora didn't know how to answer that.

She glanced toward the cottage behind her. Bram would be waking soon, asking for food. Her mother's medicine wouldn't last through the week. And here was a man who had never known hunger, who could buy her entire village and call it charity.

And yet... he didn't carry himself like a man who wanted to be worshipped.

"Thank you for the water," he said gently, as if aware she was measuring him with every word. "I should go."

"You're welcome," she said stiffly.

But then, impulsively, she added, "There's a bend in the stream a little further west. The water runs cleaner there. Your horse will prefer it."

Alaric's lips curled into a genuine smile soft and rare.

"And do you always offer such kindness to strangers?"

"Only the ones who look a little lost."

He met her gaze again, and this time she didn't look away.

Then, with a slight bow, he mounted his stallion and turned toward the direction she'd given. Before he rode off, he paused.

"Liora."

"Yes?"

"I hope I see you again."

She watched him disappear into the trees, her heart knocking hard against her ribs.

She told herself not to read into it.

She told herself nothing good ever came from a prince speaking your name like a vow.

And yet...

________________________________________

Later That Day

By evening, the fog had burned away, but the strange heaviness in Liora's chest remained. She moved through her chores like someone moving through a dream. Her mother asked for soup. Bram chased crows through the field. The world hadn't changed but something inside her had.

Maeve visited again after sundown, knocking lightly on the door.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she teased, dropping onto the edge of the small hearth. "Don't tell me he came here?"

Liora hesitated.

Maeve's jaw dropped. "Liora Hale, don't you dare lie to me."

"He needed water," Liora said quickly. "That's all. His horse"

"Oh please, I've seen the royal stables. That horse probably drinks from a fountain carved from diamonds. He came to see you."

"It wasn't like that."

But her voice was breathless. Hopeful. Frighteningly so.

Maeve raised an eyebrow. "You'd better guard your heart, Liora. Princes don't belong in places like Duskmere. And girls like us..." She trailed off.

Liora stared into the fire. "I know."

But did she?

________________________________________