The first few days of Army's "employment" with Prince Castor could be summed up in one word: chaotic. But surprisingly, amid the chaos, something unexpected was stirring—something like… connection.
Army had quickly learned the hard way that Castor's world was a battlefield. Not just the political kind, but a daily war of wills between a fiery kid who seemed hell-bent on keeping everyone at arm's length, and a maid who refused to back down.
This particular morning, she stood outside his room, clutching a fresh stack of clothes and steeling herself. The last encounter had ended with a flying candlestick narrowly missing her ear and a very angry prince swearing to "send her to the dungeon."
But Army wasn't about to let a few bruises scare her off. If anything, they made the job more interesting.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked firmly.
"Go away!" a voice shouted from inside.
"Can't," Army called back with a grin. "I'm the only maid who survived the dragon's lair so far."
The door creaked open just a crack, revealing Castor's glare—intense, exhausted, and borderline homicidal.
"I'm not a dragon," he snapped.
"Yeah, yeah," she said, pushing her way inside with her signature stubbornness. "But you are definitely breathing fire."
Castor rolled his eyes but made no move to stop her. Army set down the clothes and began folding his tunics with an efficiency that surprised even herself.
"So," she said casually, "how's the 'most unfavorable prince' today?"
"Unfavorable enough to throw you out, but too stubborn to succeed," he muttered.
Army smirked. "Sounds about right."
They fell into a strange rhythm: Castor testing her limits with sarcastic comments and minor attacks—pillows thrown, books hurled, sudden door slams—and Army countering with deadpan comebacks and a surprising ability to dodge.
In one rare moment of calm, Castor glanced up from his scattered toys and mumbled, "Why do you stay?"
Army paused. "I don't know. Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment."
He looked at her then, really looked, as if seeing her for the first time.
"Everyone else just leaves."
"Maybe they don't want to deal with you," Army teased lightly.
He didn't respond, but the hardness around his eyes softened.
That afternoon, as she was cleaning, Army found herself wandering into the quiet corner of his room where a small, dust-covered trunk sat. She knelt down and carefully opened it.
Inside were faded drawings, a silver locket, and a crumpled letter sealed with a wax emblem—the same flower symbol she'd seen before.
Her heart skipped.
Was this proof of Castor's hidden past? Something the palace was desperate to hide?
Suddenly, Castor appeared behind her, voice low.
"Don't touch that. It's nothing."
Army met his eyes, fierce and raw.
"Nothing worth hiding."
For a moment, silence fell. Then, unexpectedly, Castor whispered, "Mother gave me that. Before she… before she disappeared."
Army's chest tightened. This wasn't just a bratty prince with a bad attitude—this was a boy who had lost so much, yet somehow still fought to keep going.
Days turned into weeks, and their pillow wars continued, but with subtle shifts.
Castor began to smile. Small, rare smiles that broke through his stormy exterior like sunlight through clouds.
One evening, as Army tucked a blanket around him, he mumbled, "Thanks."
It was the first time he'd said it without an edge.
"Don't get used to it," Army said, but her grin was genuine.
As Army lay awake that night on her cot, she realized she was no longer just a background maid in a fantasy novel. Somehow, she had become part of a story worth fighting for.
And if she was going to survive Prince Castor's temper—and the palace's secrets—she'd need all the courage (and sarcasm) she could muster.