Three weeks into her new position as Prince Julian's personal attendant, Natalie had established a comfortable routine. Each morning, she would rise before the prince, prepare his clothes for the day, and ensure his breakfast was arranged precisely as he preferred it—toast neither too dark nor too light, eggs cooked just until the yolks remained slightly soft, and tea steeped for exactly four minutes.

  Julian's schedule was rigorous for a nine-year-old, filled with lessons in mathematics, nguages, history, and governance. Natalie attended him to each css, carrying his books and materials, waiting quietly in the corner during his instruction, and walking with him between appointments. During these brief corridor journeys, they would speak in hushed tones about what he had learned, with Julian often sharing insights that impressed her with their depth.

  It was during one such walk, returning from his afternoon geography lesson, that trouble found them.

  "Well, if it isn't our schorly prince and his little shadow," came a mocking voice from behind.

  Natalie felt Julian stiffen beside her before they both turned to face Prince Edmond, the second eldest of the royal brothers. At fourteen, Edmond cked Augustus's physical presence but compensated with a cutting wit that he wielded like a bde. Behind him stood two of his companions—sons of noble families who served as his unofficial court.

  "Edmond," Julian acknowledged with a slight nod, his voice carefully neutral. "I'm due for my political theory lesson."

  "Always rushing to bury your nose in another book," Edmond said with an exaggerated sigh. "How disappointing that the imperial bloodline has produced such a... bookworm." He pronounced the st word as if it were a disease.

  Natalie observed the way Julian's shoulders hunched slightly, how his eyes dropped to the floor—the instinctive posture of someone accustomed to weathering verbal storms by making himself a smaller target.

  "Your Highness," she murmured, "Master Holloway will be waiting."

  Edmond's attention shifted to her, his eyes narrowing. "Ah, the famous Natalie Foster. So devoted to our little brother." He stepped closer, forcing Natalie to look up to maintain eye contact. "Tell me, do you read his books to him as well? Perhaps tuck him in at night with a bedtime story?"

  The nobles behind him snickered, and Natalie felt a fsh of anger on Julian's behalf. But before she could formute a properly deferential yet deflecting response, Julian spoke.

  "My attendant's duties are not your concern, Edmond." His voice was quiet but clear. "And I would appreciate if you would address your questions to me rather than my staff."

  Edmond raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised by this unexpected resistance. For a moment, Natalie feared he would escate the confrontation, but instead he merely smiled—a cold, calcuted expression.

  "Of course, brother. Far be it from me to interfere with your... unique management style." He gnced at his companions. "Come. We're te for our riding lesson. Unlike some, we understand the importance of mastering skills beyond reading."

  As they walked away, Natalie heard one of the nobles whisper, "Emperor of the library," which elicited muffled ughter from the group.

  Julian remained motionless until they disappeared around a corner, then exhaled a shaky breath. "I apologize you had to witness that," he said softly.

  "You have nothing to apologize for, Your Highness," Natalie replied. "In fact, I was impressed by how you responded."

  Julian gnced at her in surprise. "I hardly stood up to him."

  "But you did," she insisted as they resumed walking. "You spoke clearly, directly, and without showing fear."

  "I was terrified," Julian admitted.

  "That's what makes it brave." They reached the door to the library, where Master Holloway would be conducting the political theory lesson. Before entering, Natalie added quietly, "My father always said courage isn't the absence of fear—it's acting despite it."

  Something shifted in Julian's expression—a flicker of thoughtfulness that stayed with him throughout his lesson. Later that evening, as Natalie helped him organize his notes from the day, he brought up the incident again.

  "Do you think I should have said more to Edmond?"

  Natalie considered the question carefully. "May I speak freely, Your Highness?"

  "Always, when we're alone," Julian replied, setting down his quill.

  "I think you said exactly what was needed—no more, no less." She arranged his parchments in a neat stack. "You maintained your dignity without escating the situation."

  "But I didn't stop him from insulting me."

  "Some battles aren't worth fighting," Natalie said, drawing on memories of her father's pragmatic wisdom. "Especially when your opponent has more immediate power."

  Julian frowned. "So I should just accept being their target?"

  "Not at all." Natalie moved to pour him a fresh cup of tea, gathering her thoughts. "But there's a difference between accepting abuse and choosing your moments of resistance strategically."

  "Strategic resistance?" Julian raised an eyebrow, looking suddenly more like a miniature adult than a child. "Expin."

  Natalie smiled, recognizing his schor's mind engaging with a new concept. "Think of it like a game of chess. You don't capture every piece that threatens you immediately. Sometimes you strengthen your position first. Sometimes you sacrifice a pawn to protect your queen."

  "And sometimes," Julian added, catching on quickly, "you appear weaker than you are to lure your opponent into a trap."

  "Exactly." Natalie handed him the tea. "Your brothers see your preference for books as weakness. They don't realize knowledge is power of its own kind."

  Julian sipped his tea thoughtfully. "Augustus can lift twice his weight in the training yard. Edmond can charm anyone at court with his wit. Henry rides like he was born on horseback." He sighed. "What power do books give me against that?"

  Natalie considered this, remembering the countless volumes her father had bound—histories of war and governance, treaties on politics and human nature, accounts of how empires rose and fell not through strength of arms alone but through cunning, strategy, and the ability to understand and predict human behavior.

  "Books give you perspective, Your Highness," she said finally. "They let you see patterns others miss. They give you the wisdom of a thousand lives without having to live them." She leaned forward slightly. "Your brothers know only the world they've experienced directly. You know worlds beyond their imagination."

  Julian's eyes brightened. "You really believe that?"

  "I do." She hesitated, then added, "But knowledge alone isn't enough. You must also learn when to speak and when to stay silent. When to stand firm and when to bend like a reed in the wind."

  "Will you teach me?" The question was sudden, earnest. "Not just to organize my studies, but to... navigate the world outside books?"

  Natalie felt a rush of both pride and trepidation. Who was she to counsel a prince on matters of conduct? And yet, who better than someone who lived each day as a careful performance, reading and responding to others with their very survival at stake?

  "I'll try, Your Highness," she promised. "But you must understand—standing up for yourself doesn't always mean confrontation. Sometimes it means protecting yourself by appearing to give way, while maintaining your inner resolve."

  "Like you," Julian said perceptively. "Everyone sees you as a quiet, proper maid, but there's strength underneath."

  Natalie froze momentarily, wondering if he had somehow guessed her secret. But Julian's expression showed only admiration, not suspicion.

  "I'm merely practical," she deflected gently. "Now, shall we review your mathematics before bed?"

  That night, as she retired to her small adjoining chamber, Natalie reflected on their conversation with a mixture of satisfaction and concern. Teaching Julian to stand up for himself was necessary for his survival in the pace's treacherous environment. But teaching him too well might draw unwanted attention from his brothers or, worse, the Emperor himself.

  A delicate bance would be required—one that would test her own skills of deception and diplomacy to their limits.

  The opportunity to put theory into practice came sooner than expected. The following afternoon, as Julian completed his fencing lesson—a subject at which he showed little natural aptitude—Prince Augustus appeared in the training yard with several of his companions.

  Natalie, sitting quietly on a bench with Julian's books and a change of clothes, immediately tensed. She had learned to recognize the predatory gleam in the eldest prince's eye when he was seeking entertainment at someone else's expense.

  "Continue, little brother," Augustus called out as Julian and his instructor paused mid-exercise. "Don't let my presence disturb your... practice."

  The fencing master, a veteran soldier named Sir Rond, bowed formally to Augustus but addressed Julian. "Perhaps we should conclude for today, Your Highness."

  "Nonsense," Augustus strode forward, his tall frame imposing in the sunlight. "I've been meaning to observe my brother's progress. Father mentioned just yesterday his concern that Julian might be neglecting his martial training in favor of dusty scrolls."

  Natalie saw Julian's grip tighten on his practice sword, saw the flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. Across the yard, Augustus's friends had arranged themselves as an audience, their expressions anticipatory.

  "Your Highness," Sir Rond began cautiously, "Prince Julian has been most diligent—"

  "I'm sure he has," Augustus interrupted. "But diligence doesn't always yield results, does it?" He turned to Julian. "Perhaps what my brother needs is a more... challenging opponent. Someone who can truly test his skills."

  Natalie's heart sank. She had heard stories of Augustus's brutality in the training yard—how he had broken the arm of a young noble who bested him in a match, ciming it was an accident.

  Julian stood very still, his slender frame visibly tense. For a moment, Natalie feared he would flee—giving Augustus exactly the reaction he sought. Instead, to her surprise, Julian turned to face his brother directly.

  "Thank you for your concern, Augustus," he said, his voice steady despite its softness. "But Sir Rond has structured my training program carefully. I wouldn't want to disrupt his methodology."

  A ripple of surprise passed through Augustus's companions. This wasn't the immediate capitution they had expected.

  Augustus's eyes narrowed. "Are you refusing to spar with me, brother?"

  The question hung in the air, a trap regardless of the answer. To refuse would be beled cowardice; to accept would lead to physical humiliation.

  Julian lowered his practice sword and addressed Sir Rond rather than Augustus. "Master, you've often spoken of the importance of proper preparation before advancing to new challenges. Would you recommend I spar with a significantly more experienced opponent at this stage of my training?"

  Sir Rond, a man who had served the imperial family for decades, recognized the diplomatic opening Julian had created. "I would not, Your Highness. It would risk establishing improper technique that might take months to correct."

  Julian nodded and turned back to Augustus. "I value your interest in my development, brother, but I must defer to my instructor's expertise. Perhaps when Sir Rond deems me ready, we might arrange a proper match."

  Augustus's jaw tightened, but he was momentarily stymied. To insist now would be to openly contradict a respected master-at-arms and appear petty rather than powerful.

  "How very... methodical of you, Julian," he said finally. "I look forward to that future match. Though I fear I may be gray-haired before Sir Rond deems you prepared." This earned dutiful chuckles from his entourage.

  "Better to wait than to learn incorrectly," Julian replied mildly. "Father always says patience is the virtue that separates men from beasts."

  The subtle invocation of the Emperor's wisdom was masterful, Natalie thought. It pced Julian under their father's philosophical protection without directly appealing to his authority.

  Augustus's expression darkened briefly before settling into a forced smile. "Indeed he does. Well, don't let me interrupt further. Carry on with your... lesson." He turned and strode away, his companions falling in behind him like a pack following its leader.

  When they had gone, Sir Rond exhaled audibly. "Well handled, Your Highness," he said quietly. "Though I fear you may have only postponed the challenge."

  "I know," Julian replied, his voice finally betraying a slight tremor. "But postponement is better than broken bones."

  The fencing master nodded grimly. "We shall intensify your training. Not to match Prince Augustus's strength—that would be futile for some years yet—but to improve your agility and defensive technique." He gnced toward the departing princes. "Sometimes survival is victory enough."

  After the lesson concluded and they were returning to Julian's chambers, Natalie finally spoke of what she had witnessed. "You managed that situation brilliantly, Your Highness."

  Julian gave her a small, tired smile. "I thought about what you said—about strategic resistance. I couldn't win by accepting his challenge, but I could avoid losing by redirecting the conversation."

  "Exactly." Natalie felt a surge of pride. "You turned what could have been a physical confrontation into a verbal one, where you had the advantage."

  "Not an advantage," Julian corrected, "just less of a disadvantage." He flexed his slender fingers. "Augustus could still break me in half if he chose to."

  "But he didn't get to make that choice today," Natalie pointed out. "You took control of the situation."

  Julian considered this as they entered his chambers. Once safely inside with the door closed, he turned to her with unusual intensity. "I want to learn more. Not just how to deflect confrontation, but how to... I don't know... be stronger in myself."

  "What do you mean, Your Highness?"

  "I mean—" he gestured vaguely, searching for words, "Augustus walks into a room and everyone feels his presence. Edmond speaks and people listen, even when what he says is nonsense. I want... I want that kind of strength. Not to bully others, but to be... respected."

  Natalie understood immediately. Julian wasn't asking for lessons in intimidation but in confidence—the quiet authority that would serve him not just now, as a vulnerable child, but in the years to come.

  "I can help you," she said carefully, "but it will take time and practice. And we must be cautious. If your brothers sense a deliberate change in your behavior, they may become more aggressive, not less."

  "I understand," Julian replied seriously. "Teach me what you can."

  And so began their secret lessons—conducted during study sessions, quiet evenings in Julian's chambers, and brief, private moments throughout their days. Natalie drew on everything she had learned during her transformation from Nathaniel to Natalie: how posture affected perception, how tone could command attention without raising volume, how strategic silence could be more powerful than desperate argument.

  "Stand straight, but not rigid," she instructed as they practiced in his study one evening. "Imagine a thread pulling from the top of your head toward the ceiling. Yes, like that. Now walk across the room."

  Julian did as instructed, his natural grace enhanced by the improved posture.

  "Good. Now when you speak to someone, look at them directly, not down at the floor. But don't stare—that's challenging. Just... be present with them."

  "Like this?" Julian asked, meeting her gaze steadily.

  "Exactly," Natalie affirmed. "You see how that feels different? More connected, more... certain."

  They practiced responses to imagined provocations, with Natalie pying the roles of his brothers, court nobles, even the Emperor himself. She taught him to pause before responding to insults, to control his breathing when nervous, to find the vulnerable points in others' arguments without attacking the person directly.

  Most importantly, she taught him when to stand his ground and when to strategically yield—lessons hard-won from her own life in disguise.

  "The goal isn't to win every confrontation," she expined. "It's to make them think twice before starting one."

  Julian proved an apt pupil, absorbing her guidance and adapting it to his own personality. He would never have Augustus's commanding presence or Edmond's quick wit, but he was developing something potentially more valuable: a quiet dignity that drew from inner certainty rather than external validation.

  Madame Bckwood noticed the change during her weekly inspection of Julian's quarters.

  "The young prince seems... different of te," she remarked to Natalie as they stood in the antechamber. "More composed."

  "He's maturing, ma'am," Natalie replied carefully.

  "Indeed." Madame Bckwood's shrewd eyes studied her. "And his brothers have been less successful in their usual... entertainments."

  Natalie kept her expression neutral. "I wouldn't know about that, ma'am."

  "No, of course not." The older woman adjusted her keys at her waist. "Whatever you're doing, Miss Foster, continue. But with discretion." She lowered her voice. "The pace prefers predictability in its inhabitants. Changes—even positive ones—attract attention."

  "I understand, ma'am."

  "Good." Madame Bckwood moved toward the door, then paused. "Your mother would be proud, I think."

  The comment caught Natalie off-guard, reminding her suddenly and painfully of Eleanor—of all she had lost and all she risked daily. "Thank you, ma'am," she managed to say.

  That night, alone in her small chamber, Natalie allowed herself a rare moment of complete honesty. Removing the cloth pouches from her bodice and loosening her hair, she stared at her reflection in the small mirror she kept hidden beneath her mattress.

  Nathaniel looked back at her, older now than when he had first adopted Natalie's identity, his features beginning the subtle shift from childhood to adolescence. Soon, maintaining her disguise would become more challenging—her voice would deepen, her jawline would sharpen, other changes would betray her.

  What then? How long could this deception continue?

  And what of Julian? The young prince was growing to depend on her not just as an attendant but as a friend and advisor. His trust was predicated on a lie—a necessary lie, but a lie nonetheless.

  Nathaniel returned the mirror to its hiding pce and became Natalie once more, braiding her hair for sleep with practiced fingers. Questions about the future could wait. For now, their immediate safety demanded her complete attention—and teaching Julian to protect himself while she still could was her most important task.