The kitchen always began to sing at dawn.
Not in melody, but in rhythm—blades against chopping blocks, water splashing from the cisterns, the thud of boots thick with flour dust. It was the one place in Worthing Estate where people spoke without calculating each vowel.
Thalric didn't enter.
He listened.
The hallway beside the root cellar curved just enough to allow shadows to pass unnoticed. He stood still, arms crossed, body leaning slightly into the stone. From here, he could hear everything.
"I'm telling you," said a woman's voice. "It's not the same boy."
A snort. "You saw him smile?"
"No. That's my point."
Another voice, younger: "He rides better. Doesn't whine when it rains. Doesn't ask for extra jam."
Soft laughter.
Then: "And have you seen how the Queen won't stand beside him? She used to pat his shoulder like she was brushing off lint. Now? Not a breath."
"And the steward says—"
"I don't care what the steward says," interrupted the first woman. "I know what grief feels like, and that thing wearing Percival's face didn't come back for motherly kisses."
Silence.
Then a whisper, closer: "Do you think it's sorcery?"
A pause.
"I think... it's patience. And no Worthing I've ever known had that."
They laughed again. A kettle screamed. The rhythm resumed.
Thalric eased away from the wall, quiet as dust.
He didn't need their approval.
But their fear… that was becoming useful.
He stepped through the corridor toward the herb vault. Solen was waiting beside the inventory ledgers, her arms folded, eyes sharp.
"You heard?"
"I heard."
"They fear you now," she said.
"They should."
"But not because you're strange," she said carefully. "Because you're still here. They've seen princes fall faster for smaller sins."
Thalric didn't reply.
Solen turned toward the herb drawers, pulled one open, and held up a dried stem of something bitter and purple. "Did you know this one's name used to mean 'patience through drought'?"
He shook his head.
"We call it lintroot now," she said. "Because it clings. Refuses to let go. Ugly. But reliable."
She placed it in his palm.
Thalric turned it once. Twice. Then slipped it into his pocket.
"You know," he said softly, "they can only call it sorcery for so long."
"Then what?"
"Then they'll call it destiny."