ARIELLE:
The silk clings like obligation, pale pink-ish white, soft to the eye and cruel to the skin. My bodice cuts just enough to make breathing feel like a luxury. I hate it. I hate the way the gown seems designed to turn me into a thing for display, a silent piece in the royal game. Tonight is another ball another hive of false smiles and empty chatter and it's the Queen's decree that I be here, properly groomed, properly dressed, and precisely miserable. The same feeling as when Niobe made me study those scrolls again this morning filling my head with dark images that are now becoming a reality.
Only the women are in the ballroom now, gathered like jewels arranged by a collector. Red for the Queen. Blue for Princesses. Gold for the Council. Green for Warriors and Knights. Black for Clergy. Every other color for the rest of the court.
I stand out not in a way I like in this pale pink-ish white that looks like spring silk but feels like shackles. Mother sits at the center of the dais, crowned by candlelight, crimson threads pulling the shadows along her form. Her chin rests high with the certainty of a ruler used to be obeyed. I lower my head as I cross to the edge of the marble floor, the cool stone mirroring faint outlines of our gowns.
The scent of jasmine and honeysuckle hangs thick in the air, catching on the low hum of conversation. The ballroom feels vast and confined all at once. But somewhere beneath it lingers the memory of damp stone and temple incense sharp, old, heavy. A wave of revulsion washes over me. The river, the temple, and that creature. A vision of blue-green eyes and skin etched with shadows flashes in my mind. It is a memory that cannot be forgotten, a reminder of the unsettling presence now within our walls. The fact it is a Prince means nothing to me.
A sharp clap of my mother's hands slices through the room. "Let them enter," she commands, and the gold-etched doors open with a low groan. A war of silence follows.
The Seekers cross the threshold. A man with a narrow frame and a voice like dust speaks first. "Your Majesty, I am Mr. Dingle, emissary of Brougia. It is my honor to present our leaders." It steps aside, and then the air turns.
The scent of beeswax and lilies, thick seconds before, thins into something colder, like ozone and old iron. My gaze, pulled without permission, fixes at the far end of the room. I know what I am about to see.
Amber skin seems to drink light rather than reflect it, casting dangerous planes. Plaited black hair hangs heavy, threaded with beads. The line of its jaw could cut stone. It moves with a slow, deliberate grace, occupying space as if it owns it. And those eyes. Those unsettling blue-green eyes that remind me of a storm-tossed sea.
Images from the ancient scrolls flash through my mind - faded images of beings like it, beings called...men. Beasts. The books call them beasts. Tall, muscular, dangerous. They brought plagues and wars, a darkness our warrior ancestors tried to keep from our borders.
"This is Caith, Prince of Brougia," Dingle says.
My breath hitches, my skin crawls. I remember temple walls, whispers, the mark that burns now in recognition, a searing coal beneath my breast. The creature is the same that stood in the river's shadow. My vision goes white. A rage I didn't even know was possible grows from my soul. This thing thinks it can enter my city? My world? I will end it.
And then another figure steps forward, lighter on its feet, a softer presence. Shorter, green-eyed, with a slimmer build and an ease that doesn't scrape at my nerves.
"And this," Mr. Dingle continues, "is Marcus Adem, Prince of Drazamoch Isle, brother to Prince Caith."
Marcus bows more casually to the Queen. He isn't like the creature. I think, for a moment, maybe I could be friends with him, with one who recognizes I cannot be like the rest. One that doesn't send my stomach churning.
The ball swirls again. Caith, its presence moving like a tide pulling attention, disperses into conversation with the court women. It passes by me, a dark, rich scent trailing in its wake. A finger, uninvited and deliberate, grazes mine. A current flashes through me, not a jolt of revulsion, but a strange warmth that blooms in my chest, uninvited. My breath catches. I stiffen, but it is not from revulsion. It. My mind supplies the names, and for the first time, they feel like a lie: Creature. Beast.
I decide to walk away and join the ton, seating myself aside to watch as they dance.
A shiver of unease crawls up my spine. It isn't a prickling sensation, but the certainty of a gaze. I lift my head, my eyes cutting through the chattering crowd and the swirl of colorful gowns. And there, across the room, Caith stands, its eyes an impossible blue-green that pierces the distance.
The look feels like a physical weight, like the moment a predator locks on its prey—predatory, possessive. It holds for a long, breathless moment, the rest of the world fading until there is only the two of us. Then, with a slow, deliberate tilt of its head, Caith breaks the contact. The spell snaps. I am suddenly, achingly exposed.
Why must it always be those eyes on me? The question burns through me, a familiar, helpless refrain.
I get up to walk away but bump into something.
"Careful," a voice, smooth as river stone, stops me mid-breath.
"And you are?" I ask, my spine straightening instinctively.
"Marcus Adem. And your name?" His eyes are far too perceptive.
"Princess Arielle of House White."
"I see you are a private observer," he says, a subtle challenge in his tone.
"That is none of your concern, creature," I reply, enjoying the way his gaze flickers.
"Did you call me a creature?"
"Isn't that what you're told here? What the scrolls claim?" I snap back.
He leans in, his whisper meant for my ears only. "The scrolls are not always truthful. Men are not 'creatures' or 'its.' They are 'he,' 'him,' 'his' mostly harmless, I promise." The promise is a threadbare lie.
A surge of protective rage burns through me. "You think I should forget centuries of history just because a thing I met today said so? Because we're in a ballroom with a Seeker?"
His smile is gentle, but his eyes are not. "I think you misread the script."
"It doesn't matter," I spit out. "All I know is I do not like Caith. Or any of you."
"Then why do you keep looking at him?" Marcus asks, his question a pinprick of accusation. "Or is it his eyes that have been holding yours all night?"
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. "What? That's not true."
He laughs, a low, knowing sound. "He, him, his. It, its. It denies them personhood. But can't you at least acknowledge they are alive?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy and irrefutable. My certainty, my anger, begins to crack. I stand speechless, my dream suddenly feeling flimsy. Maybe... maybe he was right? Maybe my dream wasn't going to happen.
I nod slowly, the words feeling like a betrayal of my own instincts. "He, him, his," I repeat, the words feeling foreign and uncomfortable on my tongue.
Marcus inclines his head. "Progress. Even a drop of kindness makes a sea. Come. Let's dance, and maybe you will see that we are not the monsters you believe us to be."
The music shifts, a slow, liquid current of sound that pulls at the edges of the room. A hand is extended to me, a silent, damning request. I open my mouth to decline, but the words wither on my tongue. It has never been that anyone has even looked at me this way, let alone asked for a dance. Not since...ever.
A shiver of memory. I stare at the hand, a perfect, inescapable trap, and feel the past and future converge on this single, impossible moment.
I take the hand.
The moment our hands connect, the warmth of his skin is a stark contrast to the icy dread in my veins. He pulls me into the rhythm of the music, a slow, deliberate waltz that feels less like a dance and more like a carefully choreographed duel. My body responds, moving with an instinct I thought I'd lost, and his gaze, sharp and assessing, never leaves my face.
I am not simply following his lead; I am a puzzle he is solving with every turn. His touch on my waist is both firm and respectful, a possessive gesture cloaked in formal etiquette, and in the space between our bodies, the air crackles with an unspoken tension. He doesn't look at my feet, or my dress, or the crowd, but directly into my eyes, as if searching for the deepest, darkest secret my soul keeps hidden. It is a dance of silent interrogation, and in this elegant, dangerous game, I am finding myself disturbingly fascinated.
I don't understand myself at all. I should be aside, in my room, or aside watching. But dancing...
Without warning, a gaze snags my attention. I look up, and across the room, Caith is watching. His eyes, an intense and unsettling bore, find me amidst the swirling gowns and chattering voices. It's a look that doesn't just see me, but strips me bare, down to the very core of my soul. A deep chill traces a line down my spine, a feeling of being scrutinized and judged that I cannot shake.
We pull apart slowly, the conversation I was having dissolving with my focus.
"That wasn't bad, was it?" he asks.
"You love to praise yourself," I reply, my voice thinner than I'd like.
Before another word can be said, Caith is on us.
"Brother," Caith says, and the world tilts. "If you may?"
He bows to me, a smirk barely disguised. The dance claims me. His hand, when it takes mine, is an inferno. The touch is a promise of my own undoing.
"I saw you at the river," I manage to say, the words thin and sharp.
"And now you see me here," he murmurs back, his smile widening. "Thought you'd never bring it up? You were quite… flustered."
"Don't speak to me like that. I am not some animal to be watched."
His thumb strokes my knuckles in a slow, possessive circle. "An animal? No. More like a princess caught in the mud. Quite a sight."
"The water looks good on you, beast." My voice is low, my words a challenge.
He laughs, a low, gravelly sound. "And I thought you were all sharp edges, Princess. You seem to soften up considerably when you're surprised."
"Flustered," I correct, my words clipped. "Not softened."
"And here I thought a touch of vulnerability was a good look on you."
"Your little game is transparent," I snaps, my head held high. "Alliance-seeking and power-hungry. It is nothing new."
"It means I get to watch you a little more closely," he retorts, his voice dropping.
"You will not receive anything from me."
He pulls me toward him as the dance accelerates. "But I will," he whispers. "Just as I did at the river."
"So, now," my mother announces, her voice a theatrical pronouncement that rings through the expectant hall. "The Prince of Brougia will choose a partner amongst the many."
The young damsels of Khavena scramble, gathering into a single, uninspired line. I remain rooted to my spot, a pawn in a game I want no part of. The air thrums with a silent, breathless tension. Caith, the so-called Prince of Brougia, turns his attention to the line of hopefuls, his gaze sweeping over them like a scythe. He studies each face, each elaborate gown, with unnerving deliberation, drawing out the moment like a slow execution.
A breath of relief escapes my lips as he turns away from the line. But he doesn't move toward the dais. He walks toward us. He circles Arianna first, a predatory assessment that leaves her flushed and trembling. He moves to Azriel, his gaze lingering for a moment too long, a chilling familiarity in his eyes.
And then, he comes to me. He circles me, his pace slow and deliberate, a hunter moving in for the kill. His eyes never leave mine, and I feel them like a physical weight, creating a vortex of tension that steals the very air from my lungs. The room seems to shrink, the silence deafening.
He stops directly in front of me. The air between us crackles with his raw power. I feel shaken and afraid, a feeling that settles deep in my bones. My heart hammers a frantic, audible rhythm in my chest.
"I see my master is rather attracted to your daughter. Arielle Hennessia," a creature says, his voice a low, gravelly intrusion. Mr. Dingle.
"I see that myself, Mr. Dingle. But he has to decide, not we," my mother says, her voice falsely sweet. My mother, the queen, remains a statue of indifference. She offers me up like a prize, with no fear, no regard.
I look up into Caith's face, into the blue-green fire of his eyes. That familiarity it's not from a painting. He is the beast from the river. The searing intensity of his gaze ignites a flash of absolute terror.
Slowly, deliberately, he bends low. I hold my breath, my body rigid, braced for his touch. His lips, shockingly soft and cool against my skin, plant a feather-light peck on my forehead.
The moment hangs in the air, a declaration more potent than any kiss. My head swims with the implications. His choice is made.
I cannot look at my mother. I cannot breathe in this room. My head swirls with a sudden, suffocating panic. The silent pact between Caith and my mother, the one I just saw in their eyes, breaks me.
I bolt. My slippers slap against the marble, a desperate, frantic sound. I don't know where I'm running, only that I must escape this gilded cage, this betrayal. I flee, leaving the shocked silence and the Prince of Darkness behind me, not daring to look back.