Chapter 11:
The sun was already high when Mariela stepped out of the small courtyard behind the palace clinic. A soft breeze tugged at her hair as she walked alongside Gideon, who—as always—matched her pace without needing to be asked.
"What a beautiful day," Mariela murmured, shielding her eyes from the light with her hand. "Everything feels so normal now. I think… I'm actually getting used to life here."
Gideon glanced at her sideways, the faintest smile playing on his lips. "You sound surprised."
"I am," she said with a small laugh. "When I first got here, I thought every day would be a battle. But now… I have a routine, a good team, and work that actually matters. It's strange, but I think I'm even happier."
They rounded the path toward the pavilion, the distant sound of swords clashing and feet pivoting sharply on stone echoing through the morning air.
"That's odd," Mariela said, tilting her head. "Who's training this early?"
Before Gideon could answer, she spotted the source: Prince Richard, in the center of the training ground, shirtless and in motion. The sunlight caught the sweat on his shoulders, the muscles in his back flexing as he pivoted mid-strike against a sparring partner. Every movement was precise, controlled, but powerful, like something barely held in check.
"Oh," Mariela said simply.
Gideon crossed his arms. "He's getting better."
She blinked. "He is?"
"Stronger, more precise. I've seen him train harder since the last mission." Gideon nodded slightly, like he was making a mental note. "It's good."
Mariela nodded dumbly. "That's… nice."
Her eyes followed the prince's form again before she realized—and then truly realized—that he was not wearing a shirt.
Why is he shirtless? Why? Why? WHY?
Colour exploded across her cheeks like a dropped ink pot. She quickly turned her head, but not before Prince Richard's eyes met hers.
He smiled.
Oh no.
He handed his practice sword off to a servant, and Lavish appeared at his side with perfect timing, draping a towel over his shoulders. The prince wiped the sweat from his brow casually as he walked toward them.
"Good morning," he said with a wide, relaxed grin. "You're already up and off to work?"
Mariela gave a stiff nod, her voice struggling to push past her throat. "Yes. On my way now… Prince."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's good, that's good."
She stared at him—well, tried not to—but her eyes betrayed her. There was something unbearably relaxed about him in that moment. Like the palace didn't weigh on him, like he was just another man catching the breeze after a long run.
Then she caught herself, blinked, and remembered what she was supposed to say.
"I see your wound is all healed now, sire."
He paused, then smiled—genuinely this time, soft and warm like morning sun. "Yes. All brand new. I can move freely again thanks to your medicine."
The compliment caught her off guard, but before she could even process it, he tilted his head slightly, that familiar spark in his eye returning.
"…Though," he added, his smirk blooming like a bad idea, "it's not the first time you've seen me without a shirt, right?"
Her brain cracked like a dropped teacup.
"I-You-You-That's—I—!" she stammered, turning completely red. "Okay! Well! I have to go now! Good day, Prince! Gideon!"
She all but turned on her heel and fled, boots slapping against the stone, her coat fluttering behind her like a flag of surrender.
"Oh my god," she whispered as she went, gripping her satchel to her chest like a shield. "I forgot about that! Why did he have to say that like that?!
Just as Mariela fled the scene in a flustered haze, her footsteps fading down the path, Lavish turned toward Gideon with a small, apologetic bow.
"My apologies, Sir Gideon," he said gently. "It seems the Lady was caught off guard. I should've handed the towel more discreetly."
Gideon, watching Mariela's retreating figure, shook his head lightly. "It's alright, Sir Lavish. I don't believe that was necessary, but I appreciate your concern."
Prince Richard chuckled behind them, wiping his neck with the towel Lavish had given him. "Don't be so stiff about it," he said, still in good humour. "She's tougher than she looks."
But then, just as Gideon turned to leave, the prince's voice dropped slightly—still casual, but with an unmistakable edge.
"Gideon," he said, "when you have a moment… Come see me."
The two men held each other's gaze briefly. Gideon gave a single nod, his usual calm intact.
"Understood, Your Highness."
It was another quiet afternoon in the preparation room. Mariela moved with practiced ease now—measuring, mixing, storing, labelling. Lady Tiana gave instructions, and Mariela carried them out with the help of the other assistants, who had begun to rely on her almost as much as they did on Lady Tiana herself.
But even as her hands worked, her mind wandered.
The wound on his side… It's healed, but not gone.
She remembered how it looked that morning. It had faded well, but it was still there, a pale mark on sun-bronzed skin. Her face warmed again just thinking about it.
Back in her village, she once tried a remedy for old wounds. It took weeks and used a lot of ingredients.
Now, now she had better ingredients. She understood more about timing, dosages, and combinations. She could try again. She wanted to try again.
Quietly, she began collecting the right leaves and roots—comfrey, calendula, gotu kola, and arnica. She jotted notes in her notebook and set aside a small pouch.
It wasn't urgent. It wasn't official.
But it mattered to her.