The Crown Prince's Most Disrespectful Attendant

Ch6: An Unwanted Morning

Nearly a month had passed since the day chaos visited Merri-Len Store. Long enough for the broken shelves to be replaced. Long enough for the gossip to grow ridiculous. Long enough for Albert to believe the world had finally remembered how to leave him alone.

Naturally, that was when it came back.

Morning sunlight spilled through the crooked shutters of Albert's cottage in thin golden lines, dust floating lazily through the beams. The room was warm, peaceful, full of the heavy silence only found in homes where no one had responsibilities.

Albert lay across his bed like a fallen soldier. One arm hung off the side, one leg was halfway outside the blanket, and his hair pointed in several directions, all of them wrong. He snored with the determination of a man trying to prove something. The pillow beneath him had surrendered hours ago.

He was deep in sleep. The kind earned through hard work, late nights, and avoiding society.

Then—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The front door shook. Albert shot upright so violently he nearly launched himself off the bed.

"I'M AWAKE!"

He yelled it with complete conviction. Then continued snoring, his body swaying once to the left, once to the right, nearly tipping over like a sack of grain.

Another bang hit the door. This time a voice followed. Sweet. Gentle. Soft enough to calm storms.

"Albert dear, are you home?"

Sleep vanished. Albert froze, then slowly turned toward the door with the expression of a man hearing his own funeral invitation.

*No. Impossible.* That voice. It couldn't be. She'd said she would be gone for a year. A full year. He'd counted the months with joy. That year hadn't ended. So why—

The voice came again, sugary enough to rot teeth. "Albert? I know you're inside."

His soul attempted escape.

---

Albert climbed out of bed in silence, moving with the caution of a thief crossing sacred ground, creeping toward the front door one careful step at a time. Every board creak sounded like betrayal. When he reached it, he bent down and slowly slid open the tiny viewing slit.

He peered through.

An eye stared back. Large. Painted. Aggressively blinking.

Albert recoiled so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. The voice outside sharpened instantly.

"I heard that!" BANG! BANG! BANG! "Open this door!"

Albert clutched his chest. "What devil," he whispered, "returned you early?"

The banging continued with cheerful violence. With all the sorrow of a condemned man, Albert unlatched the door.

She stood there smiling. A woman dressed in bright layered silks, ribbons tied neatly at the sleeves, jewelry glittering in the morning light. Everything about her outfit said elegance. Everything about her face argued loudly against it, cheeks powdered pale, lips painted too red, brows drawn into shapes nature had never intended.

She beamed at him. "Albert!" Then lunged forward for a hug.

Albert slipped sideways with practiced speed. She embraced empty air.

The woman pouted. "Why are you avoiding me?"

Albert immediately turned his face away and sweetened his voice. "How could I dare touch such fine clothing?" he said. "These rags of mine would stain your beauty. I'd never afford repayment."

She brightened at once. "That is true," she said proudly. "As a mere merchant, you certainly would not."

Albert smiled politely while something inside him died.

---

This woman was named Marta. Messenger. Maid. Professional nuisance. And servant to one of the wealthiest ladies in the region. Unfortunately, she had also decided years ago that Albert was "interesting." He had considered moving towns over it.

Albert leaned against the doorway and glanced outside. The street was already waking, vendors passing with carts, children running barefoot through the lane. And beyond the rooftops, near the town gate, something fluttered in the sunlight.

A flag. Dark cloth trimmed in gold. The imperial lion.

Albert's gaze lingered. Odd. Redvale wasn't important enough for imperial banners.

His attention was dragged back when Marta cleared her throat dramatically. "My lady requires roseberries," she said. "She wishes to make a pie."

Albert blinked once. "Then I wish her luck."

Marta huffed. "She sent me because you always have strange things."

"Compliment accepted."

"Do you have them?"

"No."

Marta gasped as if stabbed. "How can that be? I traveled all this way!"

"You traveled three streets."

"It felt longer." She pressed a hand to her chest and lowered her voice. "My lady truly needs them."

Albert yawned. "Then may fate provide."

Marta frowned, then slowly reached into her sleeve and produced a silver coin. It gleamed in the light.

Albert's eyes narrowed. Bribery. Crude. Transparent. Insultingly effective.

He crossed his arms. "Madam Marta, I cannot be swayed by money."

She sighed and produced a second coin.

Albert's principles collapsed instantly. He smiled with radiant warmth. "No worries at all," he said. "Why didn't you say this was urgent?"

Marta blinked. "You just said—"

"I'll head to the forest today, gather the finest roseberries in existence, and personally deliver them."

He plucked the coins from her hand so smoothly the air barely noticed, and they vanished into his pocket with the speed of long practice.

Marta stared. "You are shameless."

"I am employed."

She laughed despite herself. "My lady has taken rooms at Lila's Lodge. Deliver them there."

"Of course."

"And make sure they're fresh."

"I would sooner insult the sun."

"And wash first."

Albert's smile thinned. "Now you wound me."

Marta adjusted her ribbons, then stepped back. "Try not to look so tragic when you arrive."

"I make no promises."

She waved and glided off down the lane. Albert waved until she turned the corner, then dropped his hand immediately.

---

He closed the door with deep gratitude. Peace returned. Blessed, fragrant peace.

Albert leaned against the wood for a moment, breathing like a survivor. Then he reached into his pocket. Two silver coins. He held them up to the light.

Beautiful. Honest. Far kinder than most people.

He sat at the table and began counting them repeatedly, just to enjoy the sound. "One." He stacked them. "Two." He restacked them differently.

Then his gaze drifted to the window. The flag still waved near the town gate, gold catching sunlight. Imperial. Official.

Wrong.

Albert slowly lowered the coins. His expression changed, skepticism first, then suspicion, then the ancient weariness of a man who knew trouble by silhouette alone.

"Why," he asked the empty room, "is the empire's flag here?"

Outside, the banner snapped sharply in the morning wind.

Showing that trouble was on the horizon.