In a world of royals with magic in their blood, Arya Rein has never been a stranger to work.
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She worked herself up the ranks of the Pierce empire, just as her mother before her did.
And now, she serves as the crow...
It's nearly comical at this point to hear the familiar chime of my morning alarm.
After all, there hasn't been a single morning since I moved into the crowned princess's servant's chambers that I had to rely on the old thing to wake me from the grips of sleep.
No, it's precisely at five am when the castle birds sing their familiar tune that I rise. This is precisely an hour before the kitchen staff begins their haptics, and another two hours before the queen-to-be, Princess Amara, drags her lazy butt out of her silken sheets.
However, today happens to be unlike any other day before for Her Majesty Amara and me, her right-hand servant, assistant, closest ally, and, in unofficial ways, her oldest friend and mentor. Or it will be. If I can get the stubborn teenager out of bed.
I find my way to my dresser, seeking out the thin chain circlet adorned by noble servants of the crown. The modest chain falls at my brows. A sign of the handful of power I carry in this court.
I know that the task of waking the Princess will be easier if I greet Amara with a warm cup of espresso to combat my military-style way of awakening. I tighten my emerald-green uniform at the waist, a simple but flattering number in which Marcus has expertly designed. The neckline exposes the tops of my shoulders, and one of my most prominent features, an extremely defined collarbone. Marcus used to remark that my décolleté was like silk draped over a fixture.
He is always ever so creative with his compliments.
However, his observant nature makes his craft just that much more valuable. My uniform puts my brighter qualities at the forefront while draping over more imperfect features. The way the dress tightens at my upper torso and cascades to my knees helps to better conceal my unusually tall proportions and less-than-flattering waste line, which is taking its time to go back down to its usual size.
I trail my fingers over my stomach.
I miss Faye in the worst way that makes my masterpiece of a uniform feel tight and constricting. But alas, it's my job that keeps us apart.
Know your place, Arya.
The words pursue me into the hustle and life brimming within the castle kitchen. I fill my thoughts instead with the only thing I need to focus on; getting Amara's coffee ready.
Served hot. 165 degrees. Skim milk creamer, she's trying to lose weight. No sugar.
I continue my pursuit past the bakery, not bothering to call the corner because nobody else takes this route at six am. Or, at least I thought. The girl I nearly crash into is young. Maybe fifteen, but the clumsiness in her posture betrays her to look younger. Her skin matches her eyes, a deep russet that contrasts with her white slacks and midnight braids that sweep just above her elbows. And in her hand, she bears a mug of milky white coffee.
