The sun filtered through the tall windows like a forgotten blessing, bathing the marble corridors in light so warm that even the stones seemed to exhale relief.
The servants moved through the halls with the measured rhythm of an ancient clock: disciplined, but without the usual tension of visiting days or events.
For once, duty was not a burden, but an almost needed routine.
Among them was Gloria.
Her steps were light, though her apron already bore the fatigue of someone who carried more lives than she appeared to. She rose on her toes to reach the cords of the long curtains, her body stretching toward the light as if trying to absorb it.
She was the youngest of the staff, and she knew it. She had to do everything right—not out of vanity, but because every movement was a test.
Martha, the head of service, watched her like a hawk each morning. She had served the family since the Lord was just a boy, and now that experienced gaze followed the novice who had to “learn fast or leave just as quickly.”
Gloria pulled the cord, and the curtain opened completely. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, letting the orange mantle of dawn warm her skin. The feeling was almost unreal: light, silence, safety. Three things she hadn’t known for years.
She never thought she’d end up like this—cleaning floors in a palace that wasn’t hers—but when you run away from home, survival replaces dreams.
“Just graduated from the Academy.”
She remembered that lie perfectly as she adjusted her uniform in front of the mirror for the first time. It was the phrase Jasmin said that saved her. The one that gave her a roof, food, and something resembling a life. Truth is, she never went. Barely finished public high school.
From the house where she grew up, she carried nothing but scars.
There, alcohol was a god and the beatings were her daily sermon. Bottles flew faster than apologies. One night, when one grazed her temple, she ran.
Without looking back. Weaning a torn backpack and carrying a small book of basic spells: the only thing her mother had left her before disappearing. She stole catalysts from some student’s bags.
From that book, she learned to create small defenses, minor attacks, sparks that protected her from the men who saw a lonely girl as a mere carnal object for their disgusting desires.
She lived wherever she could: diners, filthy kitchens, rented rooms that smelled of mold and despair.
Until one afternoon, starving, she knocked on the doors of the Doves of Elerya asylum.
There she was taken in by Jasmin, an elderly nun with a perpetual smile and trembling hands, who treated her as what she had never been: a daughter.
Jasmin taught her to cook, to cast more spells, to sew her own clothes, to learn without the fear of making mistakes.
They allowed her to stay for quite some time, and she helped in any way she could to assist troubled people in her very same situation. In an unexpected way, she learnt that helping others made her truly happy. It gave her a sort of purpose.
“The greatest spell the Gods ever bestowed upon us,” the nun told her softly, “was love itself. You’d be surprised how far a single act of kindness can carry a soul.”
And when Gloria believed she was ready to leave the shelter, she did so with tears and a promise: “I’ll make you proud of me, Mama Jasmin!”
She found the job posting a week later, in the classifieds section of the local paper.
“Looking for young and responsible staff for domestic service in noble residences of Larion.”
She called the four great houses many times. Only one replied.
Frostweaver.
That word sounded like winter and elegance. But also, perhaps, like the opportunity she needed the most.
Now, climbing the marble stairs with her bucket and cloth, the young maid knew that her Lady had such sharp hearing she could detect a yawn behind a closed door. She turned the handle slowly, making no sound.
Miria’s room was a portrait of serenity: lace curtains, fresh air, and a sleeping teenager hugging a cow plushie as if it were her most and only precious treasure.
Gloria smiled tenderly. She tiptoed to the nightstand and turned off the alarm before it could ring. There were no classes today—the notice mentioned repairs in the east wing of the castle—and she thought the best thing she could give the young lady was something she herself had never had: rest.
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She leaned over the bed, brushing away a strand of Miria’s white hair, as bright as the snow in her surname.
“Today I want you to sleep more, Lady Miria,” she whispered, barely a thread of voice.
When she withdrew her hand, she heard a murmur between dreams.
“Mommy…”
The word pierced her chest. Gloria froze, watching the girl’s furrowed brow, the way she clung to the plushie as if afraid the world might melt around her.
She didn’t know all the details, but she knew enough: Helene Frostweaver, Miria’s mother, had died years ago from a disease incurable even by the brightest miracles. Since then, silence had been the only constant guest in the palace.
The maid leaned closer, eyes glistening, and softly kissed the girl’s forehead.
“Rest, my little star…” she murmured, unaware that she spoke with a maternal sincerity that transcended her role as servant.
Miria sighed in her sleep, the tension on her face dissolving. A drowsy smile formed on her lips.
Gloria lingered a few seconds longer, caressing her hair one last time. Then, with steps so light they barely disturbed the air, she left the room and closed the door with the care one uses to keep a secret.
She walked through the palace halls, discreetly wiping away the tears that still ran softly down her cheeks. It was because despite all of that, the razors still came. The hidden bandages bled her Lady’s secret each morning.
The echo of her steps mingled with the distant creak of waxed floors. Each corridor was quieter than the last, and for a moment she thought the place could easily be mistaken for a museum suspended in time: beautiful, solemn… and terribly lonely.
She intended to inform the Lord that Lady Miria would wake later that morning. Duty was clear, routine. But as she turned toward the main corridor, something stopped her.
She heard a voice. Lord Frostweaver’s voice.
That was odd. At that hour, he never received anyone. Gloria first thought he must be rehearsing one of his speeches for council meetings or academy banquets. But there was something in the tone—a tremor, a humanity that didn’t fit the man’s usual coldness—that made her stop still, her hand hovering over the golden doorknob.
“And I want you to know that… I’m proud of you. I really am.”
The voice was rough, a little forced, as if every word emerged after an internal battle. Gloria blinked. Had Gerard arrived early? No, impossible; the train was due later. Her curiosity, stronger than her prudence, made her lean closer.
She pressed her ear to the white door.
“I know I wasn’t the best father…” the Lord continued, his voice now low, trembling. “I’ve always wanted to cover all your material needs, to protect you. But since what happened to your mother I…”
He stopped. The sound of paper crumpling in his hands. A long sigh.
“No, not like this. Disastrous way to start, Lucien. Again.”
His tone shifted—resigned, almost frustrated. Gloria had never heard that kind of voice from him. The man who could freeze a conversation with a single glance now seemed small, caught between guilt and the clumsiness of the unsaid.
Driven by impulse, the young maid knelt and peeked through the keyhole.
She saw him standing, pacing in circles with a handwritten sheet. On the desk, a framed photo showed a younger Miria with a dress far too big for her age. Beside it, three books lay neatly stacked in almost ritual order.
Cultivating My Emotional Intelligence: First Steps.
How to Talk to My Teenage Child.
Family Grief and Healing Wounds.
Gloria couldn’t help but smile, trying her best to contain her innocent giggle.
Lucien Frostweaver—the man known for his unyielding authority and icy composure—had spent the night practicing in front of his daughter’s photograph.
A father trying to melt his own heart before freezing hers completely.
A melancholic smile crossed the maid’s face. She sighed, not in sorrow, but in relief. In silence, she thought that perhaps she had finally found a place where kindness still existed, even if it hid behind marble walls and noble titles.
She stood up, brushed invisible dust from her dress, and knocked three times on the door.
Inside, she heard quick movement: the shuffle of books closing, a frame pushed into a drawer, a forced cough dressing the Lord’s voice once more in his usual armor.
“Come in,” he said, firm.
Gloria entered with her head bowed and her hands clasped in front of her apron.
“My Lord, good morning.” Her voice was soft, respectful, almost musical. “Lady Miria has no classes today. The castle called—they’ve been canceled due to repairs. She asked to rest a little longer. Would you like me to wake her before young Gerard arrives?”
Lucien blinked twice, fast, as if the question had pulled him from a dream.
“No, no…” he coughed and cleared his throat. “Let her sleep. There’s no rush.”
His voice regained its usual icy neutrality.
“Call the Royal Guard Academy. Tell them I’ll move up my visit once Gerard arrives.”
Gloria nodded silently, eyes lowered. She turned to leave, but before reaching the door, the Lord’s voice called her again.
“Gloria.”
She stopped instantly.
“Yes, My Lord?”
“Don’t tell her that her brother is arriving today at the palace.”
No explanation was needed. She understood perfectly what it meant: the constant comparison, the old wound Miria had carried since childhood.
The maid bowed her head in understanding and replied softly, “Understood, My Lord.”
She closed the door carefully, but didn’t leave right away.
She waited a few more seconds, listening. The faint squeak of drawers opening again. The sound of the frame being set back on the desk. Pages turning, searching for answers in the margins of a self-help book.
Gloria smiled.
She continued down the palace corridors, convinced that the man, distant as he seemed, was still trying to be a father. And that this house, so grand and cold, was perhaps—very slowly—learning to love again.
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