Chapter 63

Lila

I wasn’t supposed to be in the servants’ corridor, not this late, not alone, and definitely not lingering near the warm sliver of light spilling from the kitchen doors.

But I’d heard them. A pastry maid and one of the older chefs, speaking in hushed tones over cooling racks and sugar-glazed parchment.

“He hasn’t requested them in years,” the cook said, pulling something golden from the oven. “Not since his mother died, I’d wager.”

The pastry maid nodded, eyes a little too round. “But he used to ask for them every week. Would sit at the edge of the counter and steal them hot.”

“What were they again?” the cook mused. “Cardamom buns?”

“No. Spiced hazelnut tarts. Honey in the crust. A bit of orange zest. Not too sweet. He liked the ones with the caramel cracked on top—said they reminded him of bonfire nights.”

I stood perfectly still, heart pounding like I’d just run a mile, even though I hadn’t moved. Their words painted a picture too easily—one of a boy with fierce eyes and careful hands, sneaking sweets before they cooled.

Damon. Not the King. Not the tyrant. Just the boy who once loved spiced hazelnut tarts.

I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe it was the memory of the greenhouse, his hand in mine. Or maybe it was the way his letter still slept under my pillow, his words offering a chance I didn’t think I deserved.

I wanted to give him something. Not a favor. Not an answer. Just… a memory. Something soft and simple. A moment that asked for nothing in return.

That night, when the halls had emptied and the moon was high above the frost-laced windows, I slipped out of my room with a cloak thrown over my nightdress and the memory of their recipe burned into my head.

A sleepy kitchen aide named Theo found me near the herb shelves, blinking blearily.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he mumbled, though he didn’t sound particularly concerned.

“I need to use the kitchen,” I said softly, slipping a coin into his palm. “Please. Just an hour.”

He stared at the coin. Then at me. Then shrugged. “If you burn it down, I was never here.”

That made me smile.

The kitchen was warm, the stone walls flickering with leftover heat from the evening’s prep. I rolled up my sleeves and pulled my hair back, trying to remember how my mother used to fold dough for pies when I was small enough to perch beside her on the counter.

The scent of orange zest curled through the air first, bright and sharp. Then the hazelnuts, toasted just enough to darken. I crushed them with the heel of my palm, mixing them into the filling with honey and spice, my fingers sticky and sweet.

There was something meditative in it. Folding, stirring, brushing the tops with cream before sliding them into the oven. I stood barefoot on the cold flagstones, watching as the sugar bubbled into golden glass.

I didn’t realize how much time had passed until the first light of dawn began to peek under the cracks in the shutters.

The tarts cooled on a small tray I found tucked in the pantry. I arranged them carefully. Not perfect—nothing about me was—but good. Honest.

I folded a scrap of parchment in half and wrote a single line. “I thought you might enjoy these.” No signature. No explanation. Just a quiet offering.

I crept through the back corridors like a ghost, the tray wrapped in cloth, my heart beating a little too fast. The council chamber was still locked, but a kitchen steward was wheeling in the breakfast cart.

I waited until he turned the corner, then slipped the tray onto the edge of the table where Damon usually sat—just beside his place, not in it.

And then I left.

I didn’t wait to see if anyone noticed. I didn’t want to be caught. I just wanted… I don’t know. To do something from the heart.

By the time I returned to my room, dawn had fully broken. The palace buzzed with early activity, none of it touching me.

I curled up on the edge of my narrow bed, the scent of caramel still clinging to my fingertips.

After a short nap, I took the long way to the council wing. I told myself it was to avoid Vanessa and her orbit of smug little whispers—but really, I just didn’t want to see too soon.

My steps slowed as I reached the corner corridor that opened into the long table where the early council breakfast was served. The scent of roasted root tea and citrus glaze hung faint in the air. Staff moved briskly between places, laying parchment and polished cutlery.

I lingered behind a decorative pillar, heart thudding. There they were. The pastries I made last night.

Arranged neatly at the edge of Damon’s setting, golden with the faint shimmer of sugar. One had been cracked slightly, like someone considered trying it—but the rest sat untouched. Just begging to be eaten.

I watched for another minute. Damon wasn’t in the room, but his chair had been pulled out, scrolls stacked beside his tray. He had eaten, clearly.

But he hadn’t touched the pastries.

I stepped back before I was noticed, ducking into the nearest side hallway, pulse roaring in my ears. I didn’t know what I’d expected—a note? A look? The tray scraped clean?

Anything but silence.

Maybe he didn’t know they were from you, Ruby offered gently.

I didn’t want him to know, I replied. Not exactly.

But I had wanted him to feel it. To recognize something in the taste, the scent. To remember what it felt like to have someone do something just for you with care.

Apparently, that had been too much to ask.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Etiquette drills. A history debrief. A failed attempt to sit beside Emma before someone else pulled her into their orbit. I kept my eyes down, my voice neutral. No one noticed.

By the time evening fell, I had gone silent.

Back in my room, I opened the small cabinet where I’d hidden the extra sweets. Six pastries neatly wrapped in cloth, still warm at the core when I tucked them away the night before.

Now they were cold.

I stared at them for a long time, then unwrapped one and took a bite. The crust cracked between my teeth, sugar clinging to my lips. It tasted like effort. Like the best part of me, left out to dry.

Then I picked up the rest and tossed them, one by one, into the waste bin beside the fireplace. Each landing felt like another crack in my heart.

When I turned away, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Shadowed eyes. Tense shoulders. A mouth pressed into silence.

“I’m fine,” I said aloud, as if that could make it true.

Ruby stirred uneasily. You’re allowed to want something back, she said. It wasn’t weakness to offer it.

“It was foolish,” I replied. “I keep forgetting that sincerity doesn’t earn anything here.”

I moved to the window, pushing it open just wide enough to feel the night breeze on my skin. The wind smelled of cut grass and the distant smoke of the training yard.

I had offered something real. Something small and soft and completely unguarded.

And it hadn’t mattered.

Or maybe it had—and that was worse. Maybe he knew it was from me. Maybe he didn’t want it.

That ache settled low in my stomach, where the pastry should have landed.

I leaned against the window frame, arms crossed tight across my chest. Tomorrow would be just another trial. Another mask.

But tonight?

Tonight, I let myself ache.