Winter sunlight filters through the wide windows, showering the dining room in soft white light. At the head of a long table sits the king, a man with curly brown hair and a furrow in his brow as he surveys a document. The queen is seated on his right, a porcelain teacup cupped in her hands as she sips from it daintily. In the seat beside her sits a young girl with golden hair, her hands reaching out for a bowl of fruit on the dining table.

She must be the princess.

The darling angel of Lucrenz, or so her maids used to claim. Faced with the real deal now, Aster thinks she can understand the reason for all their poetic waxing. Between the shimmering gold of the princess’ flaxen hair and her gleaming amber eyes, she’s the epitome of angelic. Like she’s been lifted straight out of the pages of a fairy tale, or right from the lovingly painted mosaics you can find on the sides of the handful of spirit shrines dotting the towns.

Aster stifles a smile as she watches Lucrenz’s darling angel wrinkle her nose at something in her bowl, before sneaking the offending berry onto her mother’s plate.

And Prince Florian… is nowhere to be seen at the dining table. Aster doesn’t know if she should be relieved or miffed.

“Aster.” The queen greets her warmly when she notices her, smile somehow making the room brighter than it already was. “Good morning. Did you have a good rest?”

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Aster says, dropping into a curtsy. “I did, thank you for asking.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I hope your room was to your liking.”

“It was. The flowers were especially lovely.”

The queen claps her hands together in delight. “Did we get them right? Solomon wrote to your father to ask for your preferences, so I suppose we couldn’t have gotten much wrong. But it’s still a relief to hear that.”

Aster can’t help sneaking a surprised glance at the king. His Majesty personally wrote to her father just to ask about that?

The king catches her in the act, a smile warming his features as he sets down his papers to regard her. “I’m glad they were to your liking,” he says. “Your father was rather extensive in his list.”

“Oh.” Aster can’t help the wave of second-hand embarrassment that washes over her. “I’m so sorry for the trouble.”

“Please, don’t be,” he rebuffs easily. “It just goes to show how much your father truly cares for you. Besides, I was the one who insisted to know.”

Her heart twinges at the mention of her father. It was difficult to feel touched about her father’s act of kindness, especially when things were still so… complicated, between them.

“Then you have my gratitude, Your Majesty,” Aster says.

“The pleasure is ours, Lady Aster. Please, join us for breakfast,” the king says.

A server pulls out the second chair to the king’s left; the first likely reserved for Florian. Aster takes the seat with a murmur of thanks.

She barely tastes her food as she eats. It’s a crying shame. Her first meal in the royal palace, and she’s too preoccupied with her stomach twisting itself into knots for her to even notice what’s on her plate.

A wooden creak floats through the room, Aster belatedly recognising it to be the sound of the doors to the dining room as they open. Her stomach lodges itself in her throat.

She doesn’t want to look.

But she has to.

Aster looks towards the entry, and wonders if she’s going to be sick.

Her nausea dissipates into relief when she sees that the person in the doorway isn’t Florian. Instead, a small boy stands at the entry, wire-rimmed glasses taking up half his face. He walks briskly towards their table before stopping by the king’s side.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” the boy says with a slight bow. “I am here to inform you that Prince Florian isn’t feeling well today, and is unable to join you for breakfast.”

“Is that so,” the king says. “Bring up a tray for him, Ren. And tell him that there’s a fine line between working hard and working yourself to an early grave.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Another slight bow, before the boy departs from the room as swiftly as he’d come.

Aster stares down at her half-eaten pastry, appetite all but gone.

Was Florian really unwell? Or was he just…

Stomach protesting, Aster forces herself to pick up her pastry again, even if it tastes like cardboard in her mouth.