The second day of the competition arrived swiftly. Prince Kael descended the stairs, accompanied by Abel, who remained steadfastly by his side.
Prince Kael inquired, "Have you prepared what I requested?"
Abel responded obediently, "Yes, Your Highness. Everything is ready."
As they reached the lobby, two figures entered, capturing Prince Kael's attention. One woman stood out, radiating elegance and refinement. Lyrian, with her porcelain skin and golden locks, commanded the space around her.
Her bright pink gown cascaded down her slender figure, intricately embroidered with silver threads that shimmered in the light. A delicate tiara perched atop her upswept hair, securing a few stray strands.
Lyrian's gaze met Prince Kael's, and she smiled, her full lips curving upward. "Your Highness," she said, her voice melodious and polished.
Prince Kael approached her, his stride confident. "Lyrian, what brings you to my manor?"
Lyrian's eyes sparkled as she curtsied, her movements fluid and practiced. "I came to visit an old friend, Prince Kael. I hope I'm not interrupting anything pressing."
Her words dripped with honeyed sweetness, and Prince Kael's expression softened. "You're always welcome, Lyrian. I'm intrigued by your unexpected visit."
Lyrian's laughter tinkled, a gentle, silvery sound. "I wanted to surprise you. Besides, I heard rumors of a competition for maids. I'm curious about the candidates."
As she spoke, Lyrian's gaze swept the foyer, taking in the opulent decorations and the subtle bustle of the manor's staff. Her poise never wavered, exuding an air of effortless sophistication.
Prince Kael, accompanied by Lyrian and Abel, arrived at the maid quarters, their sudden appearance startling the gathered maids. Conversations ceased, and heads turned toward the trio.
The maids' eyes widened as they took in Lyrian's stunning beauty and Prince Kael's imposing presence. Abel's stoic expression only added to the aura of authority surrounding them.
Miranda, seated among the contestants, felt a jolt of surprise. Her gaze locked onto Lyrian, and her mind stumbled. It couldn't be. The Lyrian—the ruthless, cunning antagonist from her beloved novel—stands before her, flesh and blood.
Miranda's thoughts reeled as she compared the Lyrian of her imagination to the woman beside Prince Kael. The same piercing blue eyes, the same golden locks, and the same enigmatic smile.
Lyrian's gaze swept the room, her eyes lingering on each maid before moving to the next. Miranda felt a shiver run down her spine as their eyes met, but Lyrian's expression remained indifferent.
Prince Kael's voice broke the silence. "Let the competition begin."
The chief maid stepped forward, bowing respectfully. "As you wish, Your Highness."
Miranda's attention remained fixed on Lyrian, her mind racing with questions. What was Lyrian doing here? Why was she with Prince Kael?
Lyrian's gaze swept the room, her curiosity piqued by the assembled maids. She turned to Prince Kael, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Your Highness, what's the purpose of this gathering? A competition for maids seems... unusual."
Prince Kael smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I require a personal maid, Lyrian. Someone with exceptional skills and discretion."
Lyrian's eyebrows arched. "A personal maid? You already have an impressive staff. What makes this position so special?"
Prince Kael's expression turned enigmatic. "Let's just say I need someone who can... anticipate my needs."
Lyrian's eyes sparkled with intrigue, but she pressed no further. Her gaze drifted to the maids, lingering on Namarie.
As Lyrian's eyes met Namarie's, she subtly raised an eyebrow and tilted her head, almost imperceptibly. Namarie's expression remained neutral, but her eyes flickered with understanding.
Lyrian's gaze continued to scan the room, her smile innocent. But Namarie caught the hidden message: a slight pursing of Lyrian's lips and a faint glance toward Prince Kael.
Namarie knew what it meant for Lyrian sending that message. To win was her mission.
The chief maid, a stately woman with a kind face, stood before the assembled maids. She unrolled a scroll, revealing a beautifully calligraphic poem. The room fell silent as the maids' eyes traced the intricate characters.
"Today's task is one of interpretation and skill," the chief maid announced. "This poem, written by the renowned poet, Elara, holds depth and meaning. Your task is to understand its essence and convey your interpretation in writing."
She paused, surveying the room. "You will each receive a blank parchment and a brush. You must write what you understand about the poem, using your own words. Neatness, handwriting, and clarity of thought will be judged."
The chief maid's gaze emphasized the importance of the task. "This is not merely a test of literacy but of comprehension and creativity. Show us your understanding of Elara's message."
The maids nodded, their faces set with determination. Miranda's heart quickened as she accepted the parchment and brush. She had always admired Elara's poetry, and this challenge thrilled her.
The chief maid continued, "You have one hour to complete the task. Begin."
The room erupted into soft scratching of brushes on parchment as the maids began to write. Miranda's eyes scanned the poem, her mind racing with interpretations.
The poem read:
"Moonlit whispers on the wind.
Dance with shadows, heart, and mind
In Twilight's hush, where stars are born
Find the balance, 'twixt night and morning.
What secrets hide in darkness deep?
What truths reveal themselves in sleep?
Seek the harmony, the gentle art.
That weaves the threads of heart and heart."
Miranda's thoughts swirled as she pondered the poem's meaning. What did Elara mean by "balance 'twixt night and morning"? Was it a metaphor for life's contrasts?
With a deep breath, Miranda began to write, her brush strokes flowing across the parchment.
Miranda grasped the brush with her injured hand, wincing as pain shot through her fractured wrist. She tried to steady her grip, but her hand trembled.
Taking a deep breath, she began to write. The brush danced across the paper, leaving uneven strokes in its wake. Each movement sent a jolt of pain through her wrist, making her grind her teeth.
As she wrote, Miranda's hand throbbed, protesting the exertion. Her fingers cramped, refusing to cooperate. The brush slipped, leaving an ugly smudge on the paper.
She paused, sucking in air through clenched teeth. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back. Giving up wasn't an option.
With a determined glance, Miranda continued writing. Her script was barely legible, but she pushed on. Every stroke felt like a hot knife slicing through her wrist.
Sweat beaded on her forehead as she struggled to maintain control. Her hand ached, burning with a fire that seemed to spread up her arm.
Despite the agony, Miranda persisted. She wrote of loyalty, duty, and resilience. Each word etched itself into the paper, a testament to her unyielding spirit.
Prince Kael and Lyrian observed the maids from the front of the room, their eyes scanning the rows of focused faces. Lyrian's gaze lingered on Miranda, her expression intrigued.
"Look at her, Prince Kael," Lyrian whispered, her voice barely audible over the scratching of brushes. "She's struggling."
Prince Kael followed Lyrian's gaze, his eyes narrowing as he took in Miranda's tense posture. Her hand moved stiffly, each stroke of the brush seemingly painful.
"Her hand," Prince Kael murmured. "It's injured."
Lyrian's eyes sparkled with interest. "Yes, and yet she persists. I must admit, I'm impressed."
Miranda's face twisted in concentration; her brow furrowed. She paused, wincing as she flexed her hand.
Lyrian leaned closer to Prince Kael. "Despite her courage, she won't make it. Her handwriting is barely legible, and her thoughts are disjointed."
Prince Kael's expression remained neutral, but his eyes lingered on Miranda. "Perhaps," he said, "her determination will count for something."
Lyrian's smile hinted at skepticism. "I doubt it. In this competition, skill and finesse are paramount. Her injury will only hinder her."
As they watched, Miranda's brush slipped, leaving an ugly smudge on the parchment. She sucked in a sharp breath, frustration etched on her face.
Lyrian's voice took on a sympathetic tone. "It's almost cruel, isn't it? She's trying so hard, but it's futile."
Prince Kael's gaze never left Miranda. "We'll see," he said, his voice low and thoughtful.
As she finished, Miranda released the brush, her hand crumpling onto the desk. Exhaustion washed over her, but a spark of triumph flickered within.
She'd done it.
An hour passed, and the competition concluded. Miranda gazed at her paper, dismayed by the atrocious calligraphy. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.
Prince Kael's voice was low and discreet as he addressed Abel. "Correct the papers, Abel. I want to see who truly understands Elara's poem."
Abel nodded, his expression unreadable. He began collecting the parchments from each maid, his movements efficient and precise.
As he gathered the papers, Abel's eyes scanned the room, ensuring no one watched him too closely. His fingers moved deftly, exchanging one parchment for another.
When he reached Miranda, Abel's hand closed around her paper, his gaze fleeting toward Prince Kael. In a swift, imperceptible motion, he swapped Miranda's poorly written script with a beautifully crafted one.
Miranda, oblivious to the switch, watched Abel's face, her expression anxious. She wondered if her efforts would be enough.
Abel's expression remained neutral, giving nothing away. He continued collecting the papers, leaving Miranda none the wiser.
The room remained quiet, the maids awaiting the results. Lyrian observed Abel's task, her eyes narrowing slightly. She sensed something amiss but couldn't quite place it.
Prince Kael's gaze never left Abel; his eyes locked onto the papers. A hint of satisfaction flickered across his face, gone before anyone could notice.
Abel finished collecting the papers and presented them to Prince Kael. "The corrected scripts, Your Highness."
Prince Kael's eyes scanned the parchments, his expression thoughtful. Miranda's replaced script caught his eye, its elegance and insight striking.
"Well done, Abel," Prince Kael murmured, his voice barely audible.
Abel bowed his head, his face impassive. "As you wished, Your Highness."
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