"My prince, my apologies," Zhiyi blurted out, her voice trembling with a mix of panic and formality. "We are Zhiyi and Aroha Renoff, daughters of Gero and Miya Renoff. We only just returned to the capital last night. It has been so long—my sister simply didn't recognise you. She thought you were… someone trying to cut in line."
The words tumbled out too fast, as though speed might save her from disaster. Her pulse raced beneath her silk collar. This was not how she imagined meeting the crown prince of Croft. Not surrounded by guards, not with blades half-drawn, and certainly not with her sister glaring daggers beside her.
The guards shifted uneasily, glancing at one another. The colour drained from their faces as the name Renoff sank in. The Renoffs. The royal family's most trusted healers. In the entire Croft Kingdom, only the king, the queen, and the prince himself ranked higher. If these two were who they claimed to be, then the guards had just manhandled nobility of the purest bloodline.
Yet they couldn't risk releasing them. Impostors, whispered the doubt in every soldier's mind. The capital had seen stranger deceptions. And the prince's safety came before all else—even their own necks. So, they remained at the ready, their knuckles pale around their weapons, praying to the gods that they hadn't doomed themselves.
The prince studied the sisters quietly, his gaze steady and assessing. He was tall, draped in a silk robe trimmed with gold linen, his dark brown hair catching the morning light like burnished bronze. He carried an ease that could only come from a lifetime of power and expectation. Yet, his expression was uncertain—searching for recognition in faces that time had altered. It had been nearly ten years since he'd last seen them. Back then, they were just children chasing butterflies in Renoff Manor's garden.
Aroha tilted her head, arms crossed, mischief glinting in her blue eyes. "Wait—this is Prince Ara? This plebeian?" she drawled, the corner of her lips curving upward.
Zhiyi froze, horrified. Gods, not now.
The prince's brows lifted, but he said nothing.
Of course, Aroha knew exactly what she was doing. The word plebeian had history—one that Zhiyi knew nothing about. Years ago, when Aroha was barely eight, she had stumbled upon a muddy boy behind the palace gardens. He had been sweaty, covered in dirt, and—most importantly—blocking her favourite reading spot. Not knowing who he was, she'd called him a plebeian and ordered him to move. The boy's furious outburst afterwards had been her first clue that she'd insulted royal blood.
Now, as Ara's eyes widened with the faintest flicker of memory, Aroha smiled inwardly. Got you.
"Hmm," the prince murmured at last, his lips twitching with reluctant amusement. "That shade of violet hair… those eyes. You really do look like Renoffs—pure-bloods through and through. And with that attitude…" He let the pause linger before adding, "I'm certain you are."
Zhiyi blinked, incredulous. That's what made him believe us? Calling him a plebeian?
Still, she wasn't about to question her sister's methods. The moment the guards released them, she bowed low. "My sincerest apologies, Your Highness," she said quickly, her voice steadying.
The guards followed suit, lowering their heads. "Forgive us, my ladies. We had no idea. There are a few pure-blood Renoffs in the capital, and none expected your return. We feared impostors sought to harm the prince. Please accept our apologies."
Their words spilt over one another, desperate and sincere.
"It's quite all right," Zhiyi replied gently, ever the diplomat. "Anyone could have made the same mistake. We should have come under a proper escort. The fault lies with us as well."
The collective sigh from the guards was almost comical. Relief softened their faces, though they avoided Aroha's gaze—there was something sharp and unpredictable in that one.
Aroha, meanwhile, rolled her eyes. Whatever cutting remark she was preparing was drowned by a rising murmur. The crowd that had gathered—those who once stood in line—were now buzzing with excitement. Word had spread fast: the Renoff sisters had returned.
"The gifted ones," someone whispered.
"Gero's daughters, the healers of legend!" another cried.
The guards scrambled to contain the sudden swarm of onlookers, forming a barrier around the prince and the sisters.
Ara exhaled slowly, composing himself. "You may have walked into the capital so freely today," he said, his tone firm yet not unkind, "but things have changed. This isn't Juza. Trouble finds people easily here, especially those who draw attention. Try not to make that a habit."
He turned to leave, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth—half amusement, half warning.
But Aroha wasn't done. "Hey—plebeian!" she called out.
The word cracked through the air like a whip. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Ara stopped mid-step, his jaw tightening. "I get the point," he muttered without turning. "Let it go, Aroha. I remember you."
Zhiyi pinched the bridge of her nose. Why can't she ever stop?
But Aroha's expression changed suddenly—her eyes narrowing as if catching something in the air. She tilted her head slightly. "I can smell it on you," she said, her tone lower, more serious now. "I know why you're here. Let us help you."
Zhiyi stared at her, stunned. Smell it? What on earth was she talking about? Since when could Aroha sense things like that?
Before Ara could respond, one of his guards returned, breathless. "Your Highness—the Grand Healer isn't available, but her deputy is preparing to meet us now. She's gathering her instruments."
Ara hesitated, eyes flicking between Aroha and Zhiyi.
She wasn't bluffing. He could see it—the quiet confidence, the knowing gleam. The Renoffs had always been gifted beyond reason, and these two were said to be the most talented of them all. Perhaps letting them come along wouldn't hurt.
He exhaled. "Very well," he said at last, his voice soft but edged with humour. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt for you to tag along, angry bird."