No one usually disturbs Meren as she sleepily slides a damp mop over the front steps of Aldercliff Palace. No one besides the occasional wren perched triumphantly atop a mountain laurel, its song pouring from its warm little body like smoke from a tiny dragon. 

That's her job; to clean the entryway until its smooth surface is polished enough to reflect vague outlines of the clouds. To do so before the first guests arrive—lords with fine leather boots, and ladies with dresses that kiss the ground—she has to rise long before the sun.

She doesn’t mind, really. Amongst the repetitive strokes of her mop, she has managed to find a few pebbles of amusement.

She likes watching the little streams of water run off the step she's sponging at and dribble onto the next, then the next, and the next. The gold colour of the staircase shines through the suds, making it look like the base of the great palace is melting. 

She likes being awake to witness the dawn chorus. The Royal Gardens circle the base of the palace like a moat of verdant, manicured grass and shrubbery and, from its branches, mistle thrush, blackbirds and warblers declare they’ve survived the night by bursting into vibrant song. 

Most of all, Meren likes the sunrises. Sometimes, as the sun begins to stain the sky a delicate pastel peach, she dares to take a seat on the top step and watch as streaks of pink bloom like spilt paint, slicing the horizon to ribbons.

They’re enough to make her forget the tender red skin of her palms, at least for a moment.

Velôr boasts a single, mighty palace; a towering, gargantuan thing of limestone and gold ore, its spires, turrets and towers reaching up towards the heavens like blades piercing the bellies of the clouds. Down below, the servant’s quarters weave among its roots like rabbit warrens, the hallways narrow and stuffy with the previous day’s breath. 

On a good day, the wind will skitter down a chimney, flushing out the tunnels but, this morning, the wax sticks appear to have frozen in time as Meren eases herself from her bed.

She has to do so carefully so as not to wake her sleeping colleagues. Her uniform, starched and crisp, crinkles like parchment as she drags an arm through the sleeve and smooths the long, stiff skirt. She is young; barely halfway through her twenty-second year; yet her knees crackle like nut shells as she stoops to pull on her shoes, her fingers too calloused to mind the prickly cotton of her socks. 

Following the wisps of light, she pads towards the mess hall—a low-ceilinged, cave-like stone room–which, at this time of day, is empty besides several bleary-eyed groundskeepers frowning into their porridge. 

Too sleepy for conversation, Meren takes a seat in the furthest corner, the light from the brazier overhead glaring at her from the curve of her pewter tankard. It watches her like an eye as, in silence, she shovels down three rounds of sourdough bread, taking sips of water between chunks to loosen the crusts. Saving the pale wedge of hard cheese for last—a childish habit that has prevailed into adulthood—she pops it between her lips as she stands, pressing it against the roof of her mouth.

Sucking now and again at the craggy rind, she fetches her cleaning equipment from the cupboard and, following the trickle of fresh air, makes her way up toward ground level. 

Giving the door to the courtyard a hard push with one elbow, the rich, ink-black night floods her nostrils like a wave. Swilling it about her lungs like a fine wine, she finds the air to be cool and sweet, fir sap seeping from the woodlands like tea from a bag. Several stars blink down at her through bundles of cotton ball clouds, the moon’s silvery light falling onto her face in a single, limpid beam. 

Even on the warmest of days, a slight wind whispers down from the kingdom of Hylune in the north. Miles away, peering from snow-spattered mountains like a falcon from its roost, its melting glaciers feed Velôr’s rivers and the well Meren uses to fill her bucket—although she knows the Ice Giants would rather not share if they had the choice.  

That frigid water sloshes onto her canvas shoes as she hefts her bucket towards the first step, her mop slung over one shoulder like a bindle. 

That step is one of many fat slabs of gold, stacked neatly to form a wide walkway about the palace. It's looped like a ribbon tied elegantly about the base of a cake, and it is there where he stands, silently watching. 

He must have been there for some time. 

Meren hadn't noticed him approach, although she should have done. 

A tall young man who could easily stand level with a shire’s shoulder, he’s dressed in thin moss-coloured linen; an utterly ineffective shield against the brisk morning air. 

And he’s King Cade’s second-born son—although that thought registers peculiarly late in Meren's mind. 

It's not that he doesn't look like a prince, he just doesn't look like the sort of prince Meren has heard stories about. 

He's the only raven-haired child in a family of blondes. 

Most males in the realm are stocky and hardened from manual labour, whereas he is lean and lithe, and, despite the year-round onslaught of vibrant midday sun, his skin remains as stubbornly pale as porcelain. 

He looks like he'd be more comfortable living somewhere where the lakes are frozen over all year round.

Glancing sideways at him through the corners of her eyes, Meren's grip tightens on her mop's handle.

Rock doves are fond of roosting on the battlements, their mess soiling the golden path below with stubborn white stains. They turn to chalky dust as they dry, and she had been working them determinedly moments ago. However, aware of the prince’s eyes sharp on the back of her head, her movements soon become distracted. 

The grounds of the palace are so large that many servants go their entire careers without crossing paths with anyone who owns it. 

Rubbing the head of the mop back and forth, smearing the same spot around and around, she wonders whether she should greet him. 

Perhaps it is, in fact, rude to address a prince before he's sparked up a conversation first?

He's so tall, his broad shoulders the only giveaway that he hasn't been physically stretched out. 

Meren knows she and the prince came into the world only a few seasons apart, yet she feels like a child in his presence, a dirty, sodden urchin losing a battle with a heap of bird mess. 

His head tilts curiously to the side, just enough that one wouldn’t notice unless they’d been staring at him intently for some time—which, inadvertently, Meren has been doing

She likes the triangle shape of his torso and the masculine point of his nose.

She has pushed the mop into its bucket and slopped it at her feet three times before she makes up her mind that she will have to say something. 

The prince's steady, undivided attention is putting her off her work.

And, for some reason, she doesn't want him to feel he’s being ignored.

Mind made up about how she is to proceed, Meren pulls away from her task and stands properly, propping herself up with the handle of her mop. 

This seems to wake the prince from some kind of stupor, and he blinks as if realising he’s being observed. Straightening the long column of his spine politely, he doesn't smile, just fractionally inclines his pointy chin in a nod of greeting.

She wonders if she should curtsy.

Sucking in a lungful of the brisk, early morning air, she clears her throat, her breath condensing before her in a little plume of mist. Before she can summon a sentence to her tongue, the prince hands some words to her:

"Are you cold?"

Meren blinks at them.

Yes, she is cold. 

She can barely remember a time when she hasn’t been cold, at least a little bit. She has often considered purchasing a coat from the market, but the price tags make her queasy. 

Her surprise must be written all over her chill-bitten face because the prince takes a step closer. When he speaks, his voice is soft and quiet like a breeze through branches.

"Let me see your hands."

There’s a pause while Meren's brain processes his order. She looks left and then right, checking for a lone guard or solitary stable hand out walking the horses. Someone is bound to scold her for talking to Cade’s son, even though he'd been the one who had spoken to her.

She realises he’s still watching her, waiting, and all she’s doing is gazing a dazed, vacant look up into his eyes.

They are shockingly green; strangely bright amongst the muted colours of dawn. 

Scrambling to stuff the mop handle under one arm, her stomach twists in on itself as she holds out both her hands as if shyly presenting the prince with a gift.

He doesn't touch her, both of his slender arms remaining neatly folded like wings behind his back. He regards the tips of her fingers, his eyes sliding along the crease lines of her exposed palms, the slight scuff of blood seeping from a peeling cuticle.

Feeling strangely naked and wonders if, amongst the morning air, he can smell the tang or carbolic soap she can't seem to pick out from under her nails.

When he is satisfied—or has seen whatever it is he'd wanted to see—he gives another curt little nod.

"Thank you. You may get back to your work." 

Her mop held limply under one arm, forgotten, Meren watches with poorly hidden fascination as he carefully skirts around the damp patches she has worked so hard to clean. 

Silently, Aldercliff’s doors slide closed, engulfing his narrow figure.