“Boy!” The stablemaster’s voice echoed through the stalls. “Don’t let me find you sleeping!”
Bora shot upright. “Damn, already?” He swung out of his hammock, landing lightly on the straw-strewn floor. For two weeks, the entire palace had been a hive of activity in preparation for the imperial ball, and the heightened tension had even seeped into the stables, making oversleeping a greater risk than usual.
He grabbed a broom and began sweeping the scattered straw, dust rising in thin clouds that caught the morning light. A dry cough shook him, pulling his focus back to the work at hand.
From stall to stall he moved, feeding the horses, checking their coats, adjusting blankets where needed. A restless mare nudged him sharply; he patted her neck and stepped aside as she settled.
After mucking out the last of the stalls, he wiped the sweat from his brow with a dusty sleeve. The air smelled strongly of hay and leather, with a faint tang of smoke from the palace kitchens drifting through. He paused, ears alert for anything unusual, but the only sounds were the familiar creaks of timber and the soft shuffle of hooves.
He filled the water troughs, each bucket heavy but routine. The motions repeated themselves in a rhythm he could almost perform without thinking: hay into feed basins, water to each stall, brushing down the animals. It was steady work, predictable, and necessary—everything else could wait.
A small bird darted across the doorway, chirping sharply before vanishing again. Bora shook his head. “Restless little thing,” he muttered, watching the bird vanish as a horse whinnied, nudging him back to his work.
Finishing with the last trough, he went to join his fellow stablehand. Taru was hauling a bale of hay across the floor.
“Morning, Taru,” Bora said, straightening.
“Morning, Bora,” Taru replied, shifting the heavy load onto his shoulder. “Looks like we’ve got a full day ahead.”
“Yeah,” Bora scoffed. “Especially since I didn’t catch any real sleep last night. It sure has been a busy two weeks with all this ball preparation. The stablemaster’s been even more of a stickler than usual.”
Taru grunted in agreement, heaving the bale into a feed trough. “Tell me about it. You can feel the whole palace holding its breath. Just two days to go.”
He watched Taru struggle for a moment with the bale. “Here, let me get that,” Bora said, moving to take one end of the load. Together, they set the bale into the feed trough and pulled at the rope until the hay tumbled out with a soft rustle.
“Never gets lighter, does it?” Bora muttered, running a hand through his hair.
Taru grunted, adjusting his grip. “You get used to it—or you don’t last long.”
“Used to it or not, I don’t see how I can keep up with this on an empty stomach,” Bora muttered, shifting the next bale as he hoisted it up and onto his shoulder. “Let’s go to the kitchen and see what Mrs. Supu has prepared for us this morning.
Taru grunted, lowering his own load. “Finally, something we agree on. I could eat half a bale myself before breakfast.”
They set the hay aside and headed toward the kitchen, the stable quiet now except for the soft shuffle of hooves and the distant clang of tools from the smithy on the other side of the stables. The early light filtered through the narrow corridors of the palace servants’ quarters, dust motes catching in the beams above. Their boots echoed against the stone floor as they made their way toward the kitchen.
The faint warmth of cooking fires reached them first, carrying the scent of bread baking and porridge simmering. Mrs. Supu was already at her worktable, moving with brisk efficiency, her hands steady as she stirred and ladled. Beside her, a servant girl stacked a trolley with trays of food and jugs of juice, preparing to deliver them to the palace chambers.
“Morning, boys,” Mrs. Supu called without looking up. “Breakfast’s nearly ready. Wash your hands before you sit.”
Bora and Taru nodded, leaving their work gloves by the doorway. The kitchen was small but organized: shelves lined with jars of spices and dried herbs, stacks of bowls and mugs neatly arranged, and a low fire where pots simmered. The smell of cooking filled the room, sharp and welcoming after the damp, earthy scent of the stables.
“Careful with that trolley!” Mrs. Supu’s voice cut sharply as the servant girl nearly lost her footing, a tray wobbling dangerously in her hands. She caught it just in time, steadying the stack with a quick, practiced motion.
“One slip and we’d be eating porcelain for breakfast,” Taru muttered, rubbing his hands together.
Bora grunted in agreement and took a seat at the worn wooden table. The clatter of spoons and the hiss of boiling liquids created a steady rhythm as Mrs. Supu set steaming bowls in front of them.
Bora dug in, grateful for the small reprieve.
“Hold on a moment!” Mrs. Supu’s voice cut across the kitchen. Bora and Taru looked up, spoons hovering above their bowls.
“You two will not start eating before a word of thanks,” she said firmly, hands on her hips. “It’s not just tradition—it’s respect. Now, a quick prayer, and then you may eat.”
Bora exchanged a quick glance with Taru and muttered a brief, low thanks under his breath. Taru followed suit, rolling his eyes slightly but complying.
“Good,” Mrs. Supu said, satisfied. “Now, eat. You’ll need it if you plan on making it through the morning.”
With that, Bora and Taru bent over their bowls, the smell of porridge and fresh bread filling the small kitchen. For a moment, the world outside—the stables, the palace, all the chores waiting—faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of work, food, and the faint warmth of the kitchen fire.
When the bowls were set aside, Mrs. Supu finished arranging the trolley with a variety of foods and wiped her hands on her apron. “Take this trolley to the east wing,” she instructed the servant girl, pointing toward the palace corridors. “The emperor expects breakfast there in an hour. Don’t drop anything.”
The servant girl nodded, gripping the handles of the trolley carefully, and began wheeling it down the corridor.
“I’ll walk with you,” Mrs. Supu said, following her out. “I need to remind the steward about the wine order for the ball. I’ll walk with you as far as the main hall.” With that, she followed the girl out, her voice fading as she continued down the stone passage.
With the kitchen momentarily cleared of direct supervision, Bora and Taru exchanged a glance.
“Quick,” Taru muttered, “grab a muffin from the basket,” a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Bora smirked, got up from his seat and walked towards the basket that stood on the counter. He grabbed the first and pocketed it in his baggy, then he reached for two more, and made his way back to his seat beside Taru.
He handed one muffin to Taru. “For you,” he said, giving a sly glance around the room.
Taru grumbled as he accepted it, “You always take the lion’s share, don’t you?”
“Think of it as my labor charges, for playing fetch,” Bora replied, unwrapping a muffin and taking a bite.
Taru shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Fair enough,” he said as he followed suite.
A moment of quiet passed as they both ate, the muffled clatter of spoons against bowls and the hiss of the simmering pots filling the small kitchen. Bora focused on his porridge, the warm food a welcome reprieve from the morning’s labor.
Finally, Taru broke the silence. “How’s Eva?” he asked, glancing at Bora over the rim of his bowl.
Bora paused, spoon halfway to his mouth, and shrugged. “Tired,” he said, the word coming out more bluntly than he intended. He thought of the determined fire in her eyes, now tempered by a new, weary tension. “She’s... busy. That relief group she started with the brewer and the carter is taking more of her time. She says they’re getting more families asking for help every week.”
Taru grunted, a sound that conveyed both understanding and concern. “That’s a dangerous game.”
“It’s just neighbors helping neighbors,” Bora echoed Eva’s words, though they felt thinner now, more fragile in the morning light. “But yeah. It is.”
He set his spoon down, the porridge suddenly losing its appeal. The real, unspoken danger wasn’t just the city guards; it was the fever-bright intensity in Eva’s eyes, the way her restlessness had finally found a cause that could get her in harm’s way.
Taru shrugged in return, chewing slowly. “Just wondering. You’ve been quiet lately. Figured she might’ve gotten under your skin again.”
“She has a way of doing that,” Bora admitted, not looking up from his bowl. He traced a finger along its worn edge. “But this isn’t about getting under my skin. It’s different.”
He fell silent, the kitchen sounds filling the space between them. His thoughts didn’t just “flicker” to Eva; they settled on her, with the heavy weight of a stone. He saw her not as the grinning girl in the stables, but as a figure moving through a city sharp with edges and hungry shadows. Always moving, yes, but now running toward something, not just away from boredom.
Before Taru could respond, the sharp scrape of boots against the stone floor announced Mrs. Supu’s return. She paused in the doorway, hands on her hips. “What! Don’t tell me you’re not done with your breakfast till now?”
Bora glanced at the porridge in his bowl and gave a faint smirk. “Almost finished,” he said, spoons hovering, while the muffins were long gone and safely stashed.
Taru grunted, rolling his eyes. “We’re making progress,” he added, digging in again.
Mrs. Supu’s lips pressed into a line. “What has kept you this long anyway, since we’ve been gone quite a while?”
Bora shot Taru a quick look, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Taru returned the glance, equally mischievous.
“Um… the porridge,” Bora offered lamely, tapping his spoon against the bowl.
“And… making sure it’s… warm enough,” Taru added, barely suppressing a smirk.
Mrs. Supu’s eyes narrowed for a brief moment, but the corner of her mouth twitched as if she suspected the truth and chose to let it slide.
Bora set down his spoon, finishing the last bite of porridge with calm efficiency, glancing at Taru with a silent acknowledgment that the muffins were safe and the heist undetected.
She straightened, scanning the room. “Now, tell me—have you boys anything planned this evening?”
Bora’s gaze flicked toward the far corridor. “Nothing yet,” he replied.
“I’ve just secured you an opportunity. The steward is drowning—behind on the final cleaning and decorations. I overheard him lamenting to his assistant, ‘I wish I had more help. We have only two days left before the big day.’ So, I suggested you two. He’s agreed to take you on this evening.”
Taru’s eyebrows shot up. “The ballroom? That’s… not our usual territory.”
Bora’s smirk returned, more intrigued than amused. “Could be interesting,” he muttered, imagining polished floors and grand windows. For the first time that morning, the day seemed to stretch beyond the stables and the kitchen.
They carried their empty bowls to the sink, gave Mrs. Supu a quick nod of thanks, and stepped out into the cool morning air. The stables were quieter now, the horses’ soft snuffles and distant clatter of hooves filling the space as they made their way back to the far end where the stablemaster often lingered.
“Think he’ll say yes?” Taru muttered as they left the kitchen’s warmth and headed back towards the stables.
Bora shrugged. “Only one way to find out. And maybe look useful while we do it.”
They found the stablemaster exactly where they had expected. He was there, arms crossed, inspecting the rows of stalls with a sharp, appraising eye. The faint creak of his boots on the wooden floor echoed through the space as he turned to face them.
“Why are you both standing there?”
Bora and Taru shifted uneasily, glancing at each other before Bora cleared his throat.
“We… uh, finished breakfast, sir,” Bora began, keeping his voice steady. “And we wanted to ask your permission for something.”
The stablemaster’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. “Permission? Speak plainly, boy. What is it you want?”
Bora stepped forward slightly. “The ballroom requires cleaning and decorations, ahead of the council’s ball in two days’ time. Mrs. Supu suggested we could—if you approve—lend a hand.”
The stablemaster’s gaze didn’t waver, but a new, heavier silence fell. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly tone that carried more threat than a shout.
“The council’s ball,” he repeated, letting the words hang. “Do you understand what that means? It is not a festival. It is a display of power. Every noble, every minister, every rival faction will be in that room. The emperor himself may make an appearance.”
He looked from Bora to Taru, his eyes piercing. “If a single drapery is crooked, if a speck of dust is found on a candelabra, it will not be the steward who is blamed. It will reflect on this entire division—on my management. And I will not have the stables marked as a house of incompetents who cannot handle a simple task beyond shoveling manure.”
He let the weight of his words sink in before continuing.
“Make sure you are done with everything here before you leave,” he paused, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that was somehow more intimidating, “because if I pass by the stalls and find their condition wanting, or if I hear a single complaint from the ballroom steward, I will triple your workload, and supper will be the only meal you have, for a fortnight. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Bora and Taru exchanged a quick, wide-eyed glance. The assignment had just transformed from a diversion into a test with severe consequences.
“Yes, sir!” Bora said, his voice steadier now, layered with a new understanding of the stakes.
Taru added, “We understand completely, sir. The stalls will be perfect, and we won’t give them any reason to complain.”
With that, the stablemaster turned and resumed his inspection, the faint creak of his boots echoing like a final warning through the stables.
Bora let out a quiet breath, the small grin on his face now tempered with focus. “Well… no room for error.”
Taru shook his head, all trace of his earlier smile gone. “Triple work and a fortnight of missed meals… This isn’t an adventure, it’s a trial.”
“It’s both,” Bora corrected, his gaze sharpening. “But now we know why it matters. Let’s make these stalls spotless. Our necks are on the line.”
With that, the boys set to work with a grim, determined focus. Each motion was deliberate, every corner checked twice. The morning sun streamed through the high windows, no longer just signaling a new day, but illuminating the narrow path they had to walk between failure and survival.
By the time they finished with the stalls, the sun had climbed high and the smell of polish hung heavy in the air. Their arms ached, but a quiet satisfaction came with the sight of every rail gleaming and every hoof neatly brushed.
Mrs. Supu’s message had been clear: report to the steward once their work was done. So, after a quick wash and a hasty change into cleaner tunics, they made their way through the service corridors of the palace. The air grew cooler, more perfumed, as the stone underfoot shifted from rough to polished.
Neither spoke much — not from nerves, but from a shared curiosity. Whatever awaited them beyond those double doors, it would be unlike the stables they’d left behind.
Bora and Taru stepped into the ballroom, the cavernous space echoing with the scrape of brooms and the shuffle of footfalls. Candles had already been set along the walls, their soft glow reflecting off the polished floors, but there was still work to be done. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, disturbed only by their careful steps.
“You there!”
The voice rang sharply across the ballroom, halting both Bora and Taru midstep. They turned to find a man striding toward them from between the tall pillars—his dark coat immaculate, a ledger clutched under one arm, expression caught somewhere between annoyance and disbelief.
“What business have you here?” he demanded. “This hall is restricted until inspection is complete.”
Taru hesitated, glancing at Bora before answering. “We were told to report for duty. From the lower staff.”
The steward’s brow furrowed. “Lower staff? There are no scheduled transfers from the grounds this week. Who sent you?”
“Mrs. Supu,” Bora spoke up quickly, his voice carrying a mix of pride and uncertainty. “She said you might need extra hands for the preparations of the upcoming ball.”
The man paused, lips thinning as he searched his memory. Then a faint realization crossed his face—irritation giving way to reluctant acknowledgment. “Ah… yes. The matron of kitchens.” He exhaled through his nose, not quite an apology. “She mentioned something about ‘reliable help.’ I hadn’t expected it so soon.”
He gestured curtly toward the far end of the hall. “Very well. You’ll start with the draperies on the east wall. Mind the chandeliers—half of them are new fittings.
As they moved to obey, the steward lingered a moment longer, studying them as though still unsure whether they belonged. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he turned away, his voice echoing back through the chamber.
“See that your work is worth the recommendation.”
Taru let out a breath only after the man was gone. “He talks like he’s addressing statues.” He snorted softly at his own words; “Wouldn’t put it past him.”
They worked in near silence after that, the kind born of habit more than command. The faint creak of the ladder and the shuffle of fabric filled the vast room, punctuated by the occasional mutter when a hook caught or a hem refused to fall straight.
The light outside dimmed as they worked; candles along the walls had been lit, their reflections swaying gently across the polished floor. By the time Bora stepped back to survey their progress, the ballroom had taken on a quiet elegance — still incomplete, but transformed.
The steward returned a little while later.
“Well,” he remarked, his voice carrying across the hall. Bora, balanced halfway up the ladder, paused and turned slightly. “I see you have done remarkably well,” the man continued, stepping closer to inspect the drapes.
Bora adjusted the last length of fabric, letting it fall evenly against the polished stone. Below, Taru was still working along the lower poles, fitting the heavy hooks one by one. The faint rasp of metal against brass filled the silence between them.
The steward’s gaze moved slowly from the east wall to the chandeliers above, his ledger tucked under one arm. “Better than I expected,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Yes… this will do.”
He made a brief note in the margin, then looked back at them.
“You’re efficient, I’ll grant that.”
He led them from the ballroom and into the adjoining corridor. “Now, you’ll assist with the gallery fittings and floorwork. Those candelabras won’t polish themselves.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a quiet blur of brass and dust. They worked beneath tall windows that poured in light until it turned amber and thin. The gallery’s marble echoed with every scrape and sweep, the smell of wax thick in the air.
When at last the steward dismissed them, the sun had already dipped beyond the palace walls. The corridors were dim, lit by the slow tremor of candles in their sconces.
They walked in silence for a moment, the quiet of the servants’ wing a stark contrast to the grand space they had just left. Taru finally spoke, his voice low with a kind of bewildered respect.
“Never seen a room that eats sound like that,” he remarked, glancing back the way they came. “All that space... and you could hear a pin drop on a carpet.”
Bora nodded, the image fresh in his mind. “It’s a different kind of work. Out here, you fix what’s broken. In there, you just... make sure nothing ever looks like it could break.”
“Strange,” was all Taru said, and the word hung in the air, capturing the essence of the afternoon.
The kitchen was in its post-supper calm, the great hearth banked for the night, filling the room with a soft, radiant heat. Mrs. Supu was scrubbing a large pot, but she looked up as they entered, her sharp eyes taking in their dust-streaked tunics and tired postures.
“So,” she said, her tone dry. “I hope you were on your best behaviour for the steward. My recommendation only stretches so far.” She nodded toward the heavy oak table where two wooden bowls sat covered with a cloth. “Saved you the dregs of the stew. Don’t expect a second helping.”
They didn’t need telling twice. The stew was thick with root vegetables and barley, the broth rich and hearty. They ate in a silence born of pure exhaustion, the simple food tasting better than any feast served in the ballroom above.
Between spoonfuls, Bora managed a reply. “No complaints. The drapes are hung and the chandeliers are still in one piece.”
“A low bar, but I’ll take it,” Mrs. Supu said with a faint snort, returning to her scrubbing.
The warmth of the food seeped into their tired bones, a small but profound comfort. Once they had finished, Taru pushed his empty bowl away.
“Still think it was worth it?” he asked.
Bora considered it—the immense pressure, the steward’s sharp eyes, the terrifying threat of the stablemaster.
“It was a change of view,” he said at last. “But I’ll take the smell of horses over perfume any day.”
Taru grunted in agreement. “A horse tells you what it needs. That room... it just sits there, judging you.”
With a word of thanks to Mrs. Supu, they took the long path back through the lower gate. The night air was cool and clean, washing the scent of beeswax and polish from their clothes, replacing it with the familiar smells of rain, straw, and earth.
After bidding Taru good night, Bora made his way to his corner. He loosened his boots, climbed into his hammock, and let the weight of the day drain from his limbs. The memory of the grand ballroom was already fading, like a distant, curious dream.
Somewhere beyond the stone walls, faint music carried from the palace — distant, uncertain, a tune half-formed in the night. He closed his eyes and listened until it faded.
Tomorrow, the preparations would begin again.