Chapter 4 Prince Cassian

“Maisie, dear,” Blossom’s clear voice echoed up the stairwell, laced with entirely too much amusement. “You can come down now. The marble floor up there is far too cold to be lounging on.”

I closed my eyes for a brief, mortified second.

Realizing there was no dignity left in crouching behind the stone balustrade, I pushed myself up, brushed off my knees, and smoothed down my velvet robe. I took a deep breath, adjusted the tie around my waist, and walked slowly down the wide timber staircase, keeping my chin up as if I hadn’t just been caught spying like a suburban nosy neighbor.

The entire grand hall had gone deathly quiet.

Dozens of eyes—belonging to courtiers in sweeping velvet cloaks, armed guards in dark steel plates, and noblemen with gleaming daggers—were locked squarely on me.

I felt like a brightly colored stain against their historical, otherworldly aesthetic.

As I reached the bottom landing, Blossom stepped forward, her eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter.

“Everyone, this is Maisie Fable,” Blossom announced to the room, gesturing toward me with a casual flourish.

Then she turned to the tall, dark-haired man standing in the center of the hall.

“Maisie, I would like to introduce His Royal Highness, Prince Cassian of Eldoria.”

Eldoria.

The word sounded completely absurd coming out of Blossom’s mouth in the middle of a house I technically owned.

I looked at Prince Cassian.

Up close, he was even more imposing. He towered over me, his broad shoulders easily filling out his tailored black coat. His dark blue eyes were sharp, evaluating, and currently fixed on me with an unreadable intensity.

Behind him, his guards remained completely rigid, their hands resting lightly on the pommels of their swords.

“Maisie is Eveline’s granddaughter,” Blossom added smoothly, looking back at Cassian. “She recently arrived from the city and has inherited the estate.”

A subtle shift passed over Cassian’s face.

His dark eyebrows pulled together slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise replacing his stoic expression. He adjusted his stance, pulling himself up to his full height. His chin tilted up a fraction, his broad chest expanding as he waited—clearly expecting the standard protocol that usually accompanied his title.

He was waiting for a curtsy.

Or a deep bow.

Or at least the wide-eyed, fawning panic of a commoner realizing she was standing in the presence of royalty.

Instead, I stood my ground and offered him a simple, polite nod.

“Hey,” I said, casual as ever, lifting one hand to give him a brief, awkward wave. “Nice to meet you.”

The silence in the room instantly stretched thin enough to snap.

Behind Cassian, one of his noble friends—the one who had complained about the giant badger—let out a muffled choke that sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh.

The four armored guards blinked in unison, looking deeply offended on their master’s behalf.

Prince Cassian didn’t move.

He stood completely frozen for several long, agonizing seconds, his blue eyes narrowing as he stared down at me. It was as if his brain were actively trying to process a brand-new language he had never heard before.

“Hey?” Cassian repeated slowly, testing the word on his tongue as if it were a strange, bitter fruit.

“Yep,” I said, leaning slightly back on my heels. “Hey.”

“Are you always this informal, Miss Fable?” he asked, his deep baritone cutting through the quiet room. There was a faint, dangerous edge to his voice, but underneath it, I caught a sliver of genuine disbelief. “Or do you simply reserve such casual greetings for royalty?”

I crossed my arms over my chest, looking him up and down.

His silver-embroidered coat was impeccably made. The leather of his boots was immaculate. The guards behind him looked terrifyingly well-trained.

“Look, no offense,” I said, raising an eyebrow at him, “but I’m trying to figure out what’s actually happening here. Are you a real prince, or is this some kind of high-budget, immersive LARP convention in full costume? Did Blossom rent out the main hall for a giant cosplay event without telling me?”

A collective gasp rippled through the courtiers near the entrance.

“Cosplay?” Julian, the nobleman beside Cassian, echoed in confusion. “What is a ‘cosplay’?”

“Is it a dark spell?” another courtier whispered from the back.

Cassian’s jaw tightened slightly, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

He took a single, deliberate step toward me, closing the distance between us until I had to tilt my head up to maintain eye contact.

The faint scent of ozone, cool rain, and crushed pine needles clung to him.

“I assure you, Miss Fable,” Cassian said quietly, his voice dropping into a smooth, dangerous murmur that only I could hear, “I am neither a ‘cosplay’ nor a theatrical actor. I am the second prince of the High Realm, and this ‘inn’ happens to sit directly across our sovereign border.”

“Right. A sovereign border inside my grandmother’s hallway,” I replied deadpan, not flinching an inch. “Look around, Your Highness. You’re standing on polished hardwood. Ten feet that way is a kitchen that serves cinnamon brioche. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t immediately drop to my knees and start kissing your ring.”

For a second, I thought he might actually order his guards to arrest me.

His dark eyes flared, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse jump.

Then, impossibly, the corner of his sharp mouth twitched upward.

It was tiny—blink, and you’d miss it—but a faint, dry smirk broke through his cold facade.

“Eveline’s bloodline is unmistakable,” Cassian noted softly, his tone shifting from cold authority to a dry, entertained rasp. “She possessed the exact same grating lack of respect for authority.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said.

“It wasn’t one,” he countered smoothly, turning back toward Blossom, though his eyes lingered on me for a fraction of a second longer. “Blossom, please tell me my room is ready. It appears the current owner of this establishment is intent on giving me a migraine before midnight is over.”

“Right this way, Your Highness,” Blossom said, her smile wide and completely unbothered as she gestured toward the main staircase. “Your usual suite in the west wing is fully prepared.”

Cassian gave me one last, lingering look—a mix of annoyance, intrigue, and sharp evaluation—before turning on his heel and leading his guard detail up the stairs.

I stood at the bottom of the landing, watching his sweeping coat disappear around the bend of the second floor.

“Well,” I muttered to myself, adjusting my velvet robe as the lively chatter of the magical court resumed around me. “Chapter Seven is definitely going to write itself.”