Mila POV
That woman! Ah, Lady Seraphine. The "Great Storyteller." My eyes roll instinctively. Her tales of heroism and light make my skin itch, but I push the thought of her aside. She is a nuisance for another day. She is not my problem. Not yet.
I turn left into the secondary corridors, the ones the architects forgot to make grand. No one watches these veins of the palace. I smirk. Good. No one watches me. Better.
The royal kitchens are a cacophony of steam and steel. Flames crackle beneath massive iron ranges; knives rhythmically thud against wooden blocks; rice wine simmers in delicate porcelain pots, sending a sweet, fermented tang into the air. The head cook, a man whose life is measured in pinches of salt, bows when he sees me.
I ignore him. I am playing the role of a princess-in-waiting; I must carry the cold indifference of the bloodline.
"Your Highness... I mean, Lady Mila. Good morning," he stammers.
