CHAPTER THREE: Beastly Prince
1271 Words
Naya didn’t expect the palace to be so… clean. Gleaming floors, endless corridors, curtains so white they hurt her feelings—this place had no business being this perfect. And her? A forest witch who used to sweep her hut with a twig broom and bathe in moonlight? Let’s just say she stuck out like a nettle in a bed of roses.
The palace welcomed her the way a cat welcomes a mouse—politely, with murder in its eyes. They assigned her to the King’s chambers. Yes, that King. The one with the jawline sharp enough to slice through bread and a reputation that had the maids whispering like the wind on gossip day.
“Don’t look him in the eyes,” one whispered.
“He doesn’t make you a mistress. He just… uses you and leaves you with a haunted expression and ruined reputation,” another added, fanning herself dramatically.
“Like a cursed buffet,” Naya mumbled under her breath.
Naturally, being someone with a healthy sense of self-preservation (and an even healthier fear of powerful men with power complexes), Naya decided on Day One that she would be the least impressive servant to ever shuffle into royalty’s bedroom.
She wore the most tragic tunic she owned—grey, oversized, vaguely smelling of potatoes. She tied her hair into a lopsided knot and smudged ash on her cheeks for that “I survived a chimney” aesthetic. When she walked into the chamber, she made herself so unremarkable she almost convinced herself she didn’t exist.
“Eyes down, lips shut, broom steady,” she muttered like a mantra.
She scrubbed, folded, dusted, and prayed her way through every shift. Weeks turned into months. She became a ghost in the King’s chambers—reliable, invisible, and strangely fond of how the royal soap smelled like lilacs and silent judgment.
And then—drumroll of doom—the rumors began again.
“He’s returning.”
“Who?”
“The First Prince.”
Naya paused mid-polish. “You mean the heir to the throne? The one who disappeared after that dragon incident?”
“No, the other First Prince,” Sarika the head maid rolled her eyes. “Yes, the heir. Prince Kael.”
“They say he has no mercy,” someone whispered.
“They say he fought a bear and won.”
“They say he makes eye contact and your soul leaves your body.”
Naya, ever the skeptic, snorted. “He sounds charming.”
Sarika shot her a look. “Careful. He eats sarcasm for breakfast.”
Naya wasn’t exactly worried. After all, she had no plans of bumping into the Prince. The palace was enormous, and she worked in the King’s chambers, not the monster-in-prince-form’s. Her life was carefully curated to avoid drama, death, and overcooked gossip.
Until, of course, she went into the forest.
It was a regular Tuesday. The sun was suspiciously bright, the birds too chirpy, and her herb pouch desperately empty. She needed moonlace petals, wolfsage, and a reason to procrastinate her chores. The forest was her sanctuary—her place of peace and sarcastic muttering.
She hummed to herself as she picked herbs, brushing her fingers over leaves with practiced ease. That’s when she heard the snap of a twig behind her.
She turned—and collided chest-first into a man.
A very solid, very unamused man.
“Watch where you’re—” she began, and then stopped.
The man stood tall, built like he bench-pressed cows for fun, with hair as dark as regrets and eyes like a thunderstorm deciding whether to ruin your day. He wore dark, embroidered armor and an expression that could curdle milk.
“Who gave you permission to be here?” he growled.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware the trees paid taxes to your majesty,” she snapped, shoving a strand of hair out of her face.
His brows lifted. “Do you know who I am?”
“Rude, condescending, clearly in need of a hug?”
He stepped closer. “You’re bold.”
“And you’re blocking my herbs.”
For a moment, they stared at each other. Naya didn’t flinch. She’d faced angry goats, cursed mushrooms, and her sister Bianka during a thunderstorm. This man? Just another storm with a fancy belt.
Then he said, “I’ll remember you.”
“Great,” she huffed, brushing past him. “Add me to your list of annoyances right under ‘commoners with opinions.’”
And she walked away, feeling proud. Until she returned to the palace.
That’s when karma slapped her with a broomstick.
Sarika gathered all the servants in the main hall. Her tone was suspiciously cheerful.
“Due to new orders from the Royal Council, all tasks are being rotated,” she announced. “Some of you will move to the stables. Others to the garden. And one lucky servant…”
Naya’s heart did a backflip.
“…will begin new duties in the Prince’s wing.”
Cue the dramatic gasp. Naya clutched her herb pouch.
Please not me, please not me, please not—
“Sister Naya, congratulations.”
The universe hated her.
She stared at Sarika like she’d announced her death sentence. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You’ll be transferred to the First Prince’s chambers,” Sarika beamed.
“You mean the same First Prince who probably files his teeth to points and bathes in the tears of disrespectful servants?”
Sarika’s smile didn’t waver. “Exactly that one.”
Naya’s soul did a backflip out of her body. She’d ticked off a royal monster without knowing he was a royal monster, and now she was going to serve him tea?
Fantastic.
As she trudged back to her quarters, she glared at the sky. “I see what you’re doing, Universe. Real cute.”
That night, she tried to strategize.
Option A: Fake her own death. Drawback—she was terrible at lying and also mildly attached to breathing.
Option B: Charm her way out with a potion. Drawback—last time she tried that, her sister turned into a chicken for three days.
Option C: Embrace the doom with sarcasm and bad fashion choices.
She went with Option C.
The next morning, she dressed in another unflattering tunic (now featuring a mysterious tear), threw on her least magical smile, and marched into the Prince’s wing like she wasn’t moments away from becoming a tragic palace legend.
As she knocked on the chamber door, she heard a familiar voice on the other side.
Low. Cold. Unforgiving.
“Enter.”
She opened the door, and there he was—Prince Kael in all his terrifying glory, sitting by the fireplace, sharpening a dagger like it owed him money.
He looked up.
And smirked.
“Oh. It’s you.”
Naya gulped.
“Yep. Me. Your new servant. Surprise?”
He didn’t respond right away. He just stared, slow and calculating.
“You have a lot of nerve.”
“You have a lot of armor for someone who’s indoors.”
He chuckled. It was not a nice sound.
“You’ll make things… interesting.”
Naya forced a smile. “That’s me. Walking disaster with a mop.”
And just like that, her life became a series of daily tests in how not to get vaporized by an emotionally constipated prince. She spilled tea, tripped on rugs, and once accidentally cursed a curtain rod to insult her every time she touched it.
But Naya had survived worse.
And if the universe wanted a war?
Oh, she’d bring the sarcasm.
- Writer
