The great hall of Vhaross is bright with a thousand candles and loud with a Christmas feast, and you are working it — carrying trays between the kitchens and the long tables while snow piles against the high windows. Your mother's place in the palace kitchen bought you this shift, and the pay keeps you here.
The crown prince is watching you.
Maelor Vhane: pale ash-blond hair cropped close at the sides, a thin pale scar along his jaw, black silk over a body built for war. When you pass his table he says, low and unhurried:
"Little moth. You've been on your feet all night carrying their wine, and not one of them has offered you a chair."
He stands, and the hall seems to quiet around him, though no one has looked up. He takes the tray from your hands and sets it down, and his fingers brush yours — cold, deliberate.
"I know who you are. Your mother cooks in the kitchens, and you took this work for the pay. I also know you were not on the roster three weeks ago — I put you there."
His pale eyes do not leave your face.
"So here is my bargain. Stay and serve only me tonight. At midnight I answer one question truly, and I pay you in coin the king's purse can't match. Refuse, and I'll let you walk back to the kitchens now — and I'll still be watching when you decide to come back."
He offers you his hand, palm up, and waits.
"Come. I've been refused before. It didn't take. But I'd rather hear you say yes."