In this moment, her fears dissolved like mist in sunlight.
Was this what it felt like—to stand in the spotlight?
Liv felt every gaze pierce her skin: awe, dread, curiosity, reverence. The banquet hall, once humming with clinking glasses and murmured gossip, had fallen into a hush so complete it rang in her ears. Velvet drapes hung heavy against the walls, candlelight flickered in crystal chandeliers, and the scent of roasted pheasant lingered in the air, untouched.
She walked toward the center, heels tapping against polished marble, each step deliberate. Her gown shimmered—gold spun like starlight, catching every flicker of flame. A half mask veiled her face, ornate and radiant, yet somehow unreadable. She felt the weight of their confusion, their wonder, their fear—and welcomed it.
'Be strong. Don't shut down. Feel this. You've earned it.'
She repeated the mantra like a heartbeat, steadying herself against the silence.
Rachel clutched her glass, breath hitching. "Whoa." Her voice barely rose above a whisper. "I've never seen anything like this. She moves like... like a goddess."
Grace's brow furrowed. "Serenya Barath?" Her voice cracked. "That's just a fairytale."
Rachel's eyes didn't blink. "Then explain this."
Grace hesitated. "Maybe some vigilante. Or a goddess of evil—draped in gold, glowing like temptation."
Her words hung in the air, sharp and uncertain.
"How can something so bright be evil?" Rachel's gaze flicked toward Olivia, who stood frozen, mouth parted in stunned silence.
"She's just as shocked as the rest of us," Grace murmured.
Waiters stood mid-step, trays trembling. The orchestra had fallen mute, bows suspended in air. Olivia's thoughts raced.
'What spell have you cast on us, witch?'
She tapped Duke Oscar's hand, her fingers cold for once, her jewelry untouched. No downward glance. No disdain. Just raw disbelief.
"I don't remember inviting strangers."
Oscar's head shook slowly, eyes narrowed. "She wasn't on the guest list. And the guards—how did she pass them?"
He studied Liv like a chess piece. Calculating. Waiting for counter attack.
'Who are you? What's your game?'
Next to Duke Oscar, Prince Ethan didn't blink. His breath hitched, chest rising with quiet urgency.
'I've seen her before. In dreams. Who are you? Goddess of love—or something far more dangerous?'
Something in her presence tugged at him, magnetic and undeniable. He gripped the edge of the table, knuckles pale, legs locked in place. His heart thundered—not with fear, but with longing. He wanted to take her hand, to greet her with reverence, to hear the sound of her voice.
Across the table, Nova's gaze snapped to Ethan. He hadn't looked at her like that—not ever.
'Is she here to claim him? But he is mine. I have been groomed for him.'
She tilted her chin, masking the tremor in her throat. "Auntie Silvia," she whispered, "Is she real? Or am I losing my mind?"
Duchess Silvia of House Merrow didn't answer immediately. Her eyes shimmered, as if butterflies—golden and alive—had taken flight from Liv's aura.
"She's out of this world," Silvia murmured. "There are no perfect words. She would outshine the stars."
For once, the duchess's endless flattery wasn't aimed at Nova. And that stung.
Nova's pulse quickened. 'Why now? Why today? You crash my birthday banquet, steal my spotlight, my prince, and now my favorite auntie?' She wanted to scream, but instead she inhaled—slow, deliberate breaths to keep herself from unraveling.
Liv reached the center of the hall. Her heels clicked once more, then silence.
She swept her gaze across the room. Eyes met hers. Mouths hung open. She had them.
'Now listen.'
Her voice dropped low, but carried with ease. "Oh," she grinned, "please—carry on."
No one moved.
"I'm just a wanderer," she continued, tone playful, "Passing through."
A pause. Then a spark of mischief.
"Who happens to share a birthday with the Lady Nova."
She let the words linger, watching Nova stiffen.
'Carry on. Be fun. Hopefully.'
She wasn't sure if she'd nailed the tone. But who cared? She commanded the room.
"I thought I'd invite myself," she said, "Because none of you know me. And when you're unknown, you don't matter."
She turned to Nova, voice softening. "Happy eighteenth birthday, Lady Nova. You look absolutely stunning."
Nova's eyes flickered—intimidated, uncertain, afraid.
Liv held her gaze. "As I mentioned, I've never celebrated my birthday before. Can any of you imagine that?"
She scanned the room. Confusion. Curiosity. Suspicion. She didn't care.
"I chose this day to be my first. And I'm sure Lady Nova, Duchess Olivia, and Duke Oscar wouldn't mind sharing their generosity with a stranger. Would you?"
Silence responded.
She didn't wait for permission.
Liv strode to a nearby waiter, plucked a glass of wine from a silver tray, and raised it high.
"To sharing with a wanderer."
She drank the entire glass in one breath.
Liv reached for a second glass. The wine was sharp, bitter—and strangely good. Her throat burned, but she welcomed it. A new sensation. A new ritual. Her first taste of celebration.
She tilted the glass, watching the crimson swirl like liquid velvet. 'This damn thing is bittery good.'
From the head table, Duke Oscar rose, clapping slowly, deliberately. His voice rang out, rich and theatrical.
"Well, well, well," he boomed. "That was the introduction we didn't know we needed."
He strode toward her, each step echoing with purpose. The crowd parted instinctively, unsure whether to laugh or bow.
"It's lovely to meet the escalator of this banquet," he declared, eyes gleaming. "The catalyst. The spice."
He laughed—loud, eccentric, almost manic.
Liv's fingers began tapping against her thigh. A quiet rhythm. A signal. 'Hold yourself. He can't touch you here. Not in public. Be still.'
But beneath the gold and bravado, she felt it again—that ache of invisibility. The show had dazzled, yes. But had it changed anything?
'You're still the stranger. Still the question mark.'
Oscar reached her, leaned in close. His breath smelled of aged brandy and roasted meat.
"What are you called?" he asked, voice low, curious.
Liv hesitated. Her heart thudded once, then steadied. 'Play along. That's why you came.'
She lifted her chin, eyes gleaming behind the mask.
"Queen of the Lost Bloodline."
A beat of silence.
Oscar blinked, then burst into laughter. He didn't know whether to be offended or amused.
"My clown," he chuckled. "The Queen of the Lost Bloodline. You are welcome."
He turned to the orchestra, voice booming.
"Music!"
Strings stirred. Drums rolled. The hall came alive again.
"Everyone—it's time to party!"
His laughter rang out, wild and unfiltered. For once, it felt real.