Servants scramble all throughout the palace. Some hold mountainous vases of flower arrangements, while others carry stacks of vibrant banners and others with shiny trays of culinary delights. I maneuver through the chaos and out the palace doors, feeling as though I am forgetting something. I know I'm not - I'm simply unaccustomed to not having the prince by my side. Or more, my not being at his side. It is strictly against my vow to the king to be without him, but the prince's orders come before anyone else's.

And, he's sent me off to fetch his newly tailored cape from the seamstress in town. The further into town I go, the more I ponder the strangeness of this task - it is not as though he hasn't got a dozen personal servants to carry out such a mundane errand for him. But, who am I to question him?

It is only the unease of not being by his side that truly troubles me. Even though he is well protected within the palace, especially while he is meticulously organizing this ball of his.

I follow the slope of the wide, cobblestone path of the higher-ranking town. The further one goes from the palace, the more poverty grows, like weeds from a berry bush that is the palace, sweet in its security and superiority. A mixture of both wealthy and poor villagers range the shops.

I scan the dangling signs of each building, squished together yet separated by their designs. My pace slows to a stop once I read Noble Stitch in a cursive white font, etched into a peony pink sign. The rest of the shop is naturally the same color, despite the shelves and mannequins of other colored clothes.

A bell dings as I pull open the door, entering a warm, candlelit room that is much more spacious than I expect. My heavy boots creak against the light wooden floor, muffling once I step onto the cerise-red carpet.

A part of me wants to call out to whomever may be here, but something in my throat tightens - the same way it did when we broke into the blacksmith.

"What brings a soldier like yourself here?"

I look up to match the voice - a silky blonde-haired woman descending the spiral of stairs. She walks down with a slowness, not taking her dark lined eyes off me.

"I came here to pick up a cape for the prince," I declare, shifting back slightly as she approaches.

The seamstress looks me up and down. "So you're his shadow," she remarks, as she makes her way to the desk in the back of the room. A tall, long mirror and some gowned mannequins are placed beside it.

I rest my hand on the pommel of my sword sticking out from my scabbard. It isn't unusual to be addressed as "his shadow", but the way she says it - almost with conviction, as if she knows something I do not. "I'm here for the cape," I say again, itching to leave so that I may be by my sun.

She picks up a piece of red fabric from her desk - what I can only assume is his cape. "So you've said," she replies, before turning to face me. "They're right - what they say about you. You're shrouded in a darkness that is worse than death."

I watch her, unyielding. Unsure what to say or think.

She promenades closer, folding the cape in her dainty hands. "And yet, you have the heart of a hero." She hands it over to me.

I take it from her, keeping my other hand on my sword. "Thank you."

The seamstress' pink lips turn up into a smile. "It is I who should be thanking you, Azael."

My body halts for a moment. No one ever calls me by my name, not unless it's Cassian - not since the day in the arena when I defeated Edom. For someone to remember my name feels like a threat.

Even so, she holds her gaze another long moment before she strolls back to her desk. I find myself standing there, mouth dry and tasting of unease. It feels like another minute later before I march out the door, closing it quietly behind me. And the walk back to the palace is a blur as I ponder her words.

A deadly shadow I may be, but a hero? That is something I will never be.

By the time I return to the palace, the ballroom is alive with candle lit chandeliers and royal banners. A large, long table has been placed in the back of the room, with gold, fountain-like trays of crackers, cheese, breads, fruit and other baked goods. Servants now amble around the room, checking everything is in order - the flowers, the trays of fine wine. As much as I detest balls, I can see the appeal to them - the festivity of it all.

Someone slaps the back of my shoulder. "Azael, I thought I'd lost you!" I don't even need to turn my head to know it is Cassian, who now stands beside me.

"Would I not be an incompetent servant if I couldn't get you something as simple as a cape?" I pose, handing him the folded fabric in my hands.

He takes it with a knowing smile. "You are not my servant, Azael. You are my brother." He gives my shoulder blade a grateful squeeze. "Aren't you elated about the ball?"

I pause for a moment, considering his words. He thinks of me as his brother? "You know I don't like large gatherings," I reply, clasping my hands behind my back. "Although, I've never been to a ball so I suppose I cannot comment."

Cassian, still smiling, turns to me. "Well, you'd better enjoy it. Perhaps you'll find yourself a fair maiden."

I can't help but scoff. "I think not, sire," I deflect, shifting in my boots. "I haven't much interest in romance. Not when I'm so preoccupied in attending to your feminine affairs."

His face contorts. "Feminine affairs?" He repeats, incredulous.

"Yes," I chuckle, and then extend my hand across the room. "I mean, hosting a ball? Have you purchased a gown as well?"

Cassian feigns offence and whacks the side of my arm. "You are a liability," he decides, shaking his head. "Well, you best go wash up."

I nod. "I suppose I should," I agree.

"Very much so. You stink, brother."