'You're Cashew, Aren't You?'

The palace halls stretched endlessly, bathed in soft golden light from the chandeliers above. The air carried the faint scent of polished wood and lingering traces of perfume from noble passersby. Cashew carefully balanced the tray in his hands, making sure the soup didn't spill. His small fingers gripped the edges tightly, his mind drifting as he walked.

'What can I do for His Highness?'

The thought weighed heavily on him. He was just a servant—a child. He had no strength, no power. But Florian—Florian had done so much for him. Brought him here. Gave him a name. Gave him a place where he belonged.

Cashew wanted—needed—to do something in return. But how?

As he walked, lost in thought, the greetings of the palace staff barely registered in his ears.

"Good morning, Cashew!"

"H-Hello," he murmured shyly, dipping his head.