The ballroom was a ruin.
Chandeliers hung crookedly, some shattered completely, glass raining down like frozen stars. Marble floors gleamed beneath the debris, reflecting jagged fragments in a thousand directions. Candles, toppled and smoldering, filled the room with smoke that burned the eyes and stung the throat. Wine from overturned tables pooled into dark rivers, carrying shards of crystal along with it.
Nobles huddled in corners, faces pale, eyes wide with terror. A whispered gasp echoed from one, followed by frantic murmurs.
"Did… did you see that?"
"She… she didn't even flinch," another replied, clutching her gown.
Jiwon moved among them, her gown flowing like liquid silk, guiding them toward the exits. Her movements were deliberate, composed, elegant—a perfect picture of a fiancée.
"Please, remain calm. Follow me," she said softly, but every step was calculated, every glance sharp.
To anyone watching, she was grace itself. But beneath the surface, instincts honed by battles long forgotten flared. Her eyes scanned the shattered hall, every shadow, every trembling hand. These attackers… they are not ordinary.
Beside her, Duke Drake Haint moved with calm precision. Soldiers fell in line behind him, their movements silent, coordinated. A few intruders had been captured alive, others lay dead on the floor, and a few had vanished entirely. Drake's gaze swept the ballroom like a blade—sharp, cutting, uncompromising.
Even in his apparent calm, Jiwon felt it: a subtle tension that lingered like a shadow at the edges of the room. Something faint, dark, and waiting.
Whispers ran through the nobles.
"They say she's his fiancée…"
"I can see why. Even in this chaos…"
To them, she was untouchable, composed. To her, it was a mask. A mask hiding the warrior within.
Drake's voice cut through the murmurs, cold and precise.
"The ball is cancelled. Everyone will depart immediately. Do so calmly."
Shock rippled through the room. Some clutched their gowns, eyes wide with disbelief. Others froze, disappointment and fear mingling on their faces. The night had ended abruptly.
Jiwon stayed close to Drake's side, her hands folded lightly. Her gaze swept the captured attackers—shivering, pale, or stubbornly defiant.
"Take one of the dead attackers to the mansion," she murmured, barely audible.
"I need to examine it… see what they truly are."
Drake's dark eyes flicked toward her, calculating. He nodded once, silently acknowledging her command. No questions. No hesitation. Just trust.
The captured intruders were guided out under heavy guard. Some struggled against the soldiers' grip, others trembled silently, eyes darting toward every shadow as though expecting the darkness to strike again. Jiwon memorized every detail: the irregular way one moved, the faint pulse of energy lingering in another. A symbol etched into the floor glimmered faintly, invisible to most, yet it called to her senses. This is only the beginning.
The ballroom gradually emptied. Footsteps echoed where screams had once filled the air. Smoke began to dissipate, revealing a floor littered with shards of glass, tattered gowns, and spilled wine. Candles flickered, their light weak against the remnants of chaos.
Yet the tension remained.
Drake moved among the guards, his hands resting on the hilts of his swords. Every movement was precise, deliberate, demanding respect. Even in stillness, he radiated authority.
Jiwon mirrored him in subtle ways: graceful, composed, alert. No one could guess that beneath her fiancée mask lay the instincts of a seasoned warrior. She moved among the survivors, assessing, cataloging, remembering. Every twitch, every fear, every whisper mattered.
A hush settled as Jiwon stepped onto the balcony. The night air was cool, tinged with the scent of smoke and blood, carrying the distant murmur of the city below. Lights glittered in the streets, indifferent to the devastation above.
"Those attackers were not ordinary," she whispered to herself.
"There's more to them… and I will uncover it."
Drake appeared beside her, silent. His dark eyes traced the horizon, unreadable, yet acknowledging her words. Between them, a quiet understanding passed—a promise of shared vigilance, of patience and calculation.
Below, the city's soft glow belied the chaos in the grand ballroom. Broken chandeliers swayed gently in the night breeze, echoes of the evening lingering in the form of faint footsteps, whispers, and residual energy pulsing like the beat of some hidden heart.
Jiwon's fingers brushed the railing. She exhaled softly, eyes tracing the horizon, thoughts racing through possibilities, strategies, and dangers yet unseen. The attackers had left questions unanswered. Threads of mystery remained, tangled and dangerous, awaiting unraveling.
Tonight, the immediate threat had been contained.
The Bloody Royal Ball had ended.
Not with further violence.
But with quiet tension—a tension promising more.
"There's more to them than they appear… and I will find out," she whispered again, voice drifting on the night air.
Even in silence, both she and Drake felt it—the night held secrets. And it would not remain quiet for long.
To Be Continued...