Chapter 14: Whispers, Looks and Burning Eyes**
The ballroom glittered like a dream born of stars and secrets.
Music curled gently through the air—soft, lilting, seductive. Crystal chandeliers swayed overhead like frozen galaxies, casting golden light onto dancers who moved like whispers across the polished marble floor. Laughter drifted like perfume, elegant and hollow.
Ravena sat at the edge of the grand hall, tucked at one end of the dinner table where plates gleamed and goblets shimmered with fruit-blush wine. Her red gown hugged her form like molten silk, her hair cascading over her shoulder in long, straight ribbons that caught the light like ink dipped in fire.
But inside, she felt like glass barely holding its shape.
> I don't belong here.
> This isn't a celebration—it's a test dressed in silk.
Her eyes drifted over the room. Men in regal suits danced effortlessly, spinning their partners in rhythm with the palace's quiet pulse. At the far end, a trio approached her table.
> "Princess Ravena and Princess Solana," Seraphina said warmly.
> "Meet my cousins—Lyriana, Vaelira, and Maevor."
Lyriana stepped forward first.
Tall, ethereal, wrapped in lavender mist. Her silver-blonde hair was braided with crystal threads, her porcelain skin glowing faintly under the chandelier's gleam. Her violet eyes were gentle but watchful.
> "Hello. It's lovely meeting you, Princess," she said softly.
> "Nice meeting you too," Ravena said with a courteous smile.
Vaelira followed with a smirk curled at her lips. Her wavy dark red hair framed a face full of challenge, and her flame-kissed black gown whispered with movement. Her amber eyes studied Ravena with wicked amusement.
> "You're the dark one, aren't you?" Vaelira said casually.
Lyriana rolled her eyes.
> "Vaelira, please," she said under her breath.
> "Sorry," Vaelira replied, not sounding sorry at all.
Ravena offered a faint smile. She had faced sharper blades than words.
Then Maevor arrived.
Golden-blonde hair brushed back with charming imperfection. His brown eyes sparkled with mischief, and his emerald coat shimmered like sunlight filtered through leaves. Rings gleamed on his fingers; his smirk was practised.
> "Good evening, beauties," he said, leaning into the table with the confidence of someone used to being adored.
Ravena offered a small smile, unamused.
> Everyone here looks like they walked out of a painting.
> And they *know* it.
> "Good evening," Solana said, her grin wide and eager.
> "What's your name, pretty?" Auren asked, eyes locked on Ravena.
> "Ravena," she replied simply.
He turned smoothly toward Solana.
> "And you, beautiful?"
> "Solana," she said sweetly, beaming.
> "A stunning name. May I have this dance?" he asked, standing.
Solana flushed and nodded. He took her hand and led her away, leaving behind swirling perfumes and jealous glances.
Just then, the room shifted.
The golden atmosphere grew heavier, as if the walls themselves noticed the change.
Prince Damiar entered.
Dressed in black and gold, every line of his tailored coat whispered power. His long hair flowed behind him like storm-touched silk. He walked like someone who had never bowed to anyone. At his side, a woman—icy, elegant—held his arm with graceful possessiveness.
> Of course. I thought bitterly.
> *Here comes the dark prince with his perfect shadow bride.*
They approached the table.
The air bent slightly around them, conversations quieting as their presence washed over the crowd.
> "Good evening, Prince Damiar," the girls greeted together.
Ravena met his gaze.
> "Good evening," she said, neutral but unshaken.
His eyes flicked toward her, glowing softly beneath half-lidded lashes.
> "Hello, Princess," he replied, voice warm with restrained amusement.
He smirked—but it wasn't playful. It was *knowing.*
Ravena resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
> "My lord," said the woman beside him, her voice velvet and frost.
She was stunning—glacial beauty embodied. Hair black-blue, cascading like enchanted silk. Her eyes are silver-blue and sharp. Her gown hugged her curves with imperial elegance, and her lips, stained berry red, curled into a subtle smile that didn't touch her eyes.
She looked at Ravena—cold, curious.
> "And you are?"
She didn't wait for an answer.
Instead, she turned to Damiar and asked with soft amusement,
> "Who is she?"
Damiar tilted his head slightly, lifted a finger to her chin, and answered smoothly,
> "Just some princess."
The words weren't cruel. But they cut anyway.
Ravena's stomach knotted, rage flickering inside her like a torch she wasn't allowed to ignite.
The woman—Nyssira—smiled faintly, as if filing Ravena away with the other lesser things.
> "I see."
Ravena turned back to the dancers. The music swelled, violins sighing above velvet drums.
Seraphina and her cousins carried on like nothing unusual had happened, delicately nibbling fruit and smiling between bites.
Ravena glanced back one more time—regretfully.
Damiar was feeding Nyssira a fig, lifting it to her lips with practiced intimacy. She took it slowly. He brushed a fingertip against her mouth.
Then, he kissed her.
Slow. Intentional. Full of unspoken history.
Ravena turned away.
Anger burned low in her chest.
> Could you two *not* do that here?
She sipped her drink, eyes locked on the dancers.
But she wasn't watching.
She was burning.