The bells of Ravenford Keep tolled faintly in the distance, announcing dawn. Cold sunlight spilled through the arched windows of the east wing, falling across the silken curtains of Princess Eleanor's chamber.
"Your Grace," whispered a maid, tugging the blankets from Eleanor's shoulders, "the sun is risen. Today is… the day."
Eleanor stirred reluctantly, clutching the sheets as though they could shield her from the world waiting beyond her door. Her breath came in small, uneven waves, her lips parting as if words threatened to stumble out but caught on her tongue. The maid's eyes narrowed with impatience—always impatient. Eleanor dropped her gaze to the floor, cheeks warming.
Today was her eighteenth birthday. The day she and her twin sister, Eliana, were to be formally declared women before the entire court.
Across the hall, Princess Eliana was already awake, already commanding. She stood in front of a tall mirror, a maid fumbling with the ribbons of her gown.
"Tighter," Eliana snapped, hazel eyes flashing like sharpened steel.
"Yes, Your Grace," the maid murmured, hands trembling.
"And fetch my riding boots once this nonsense is done. I'll not crawl through the halls like some doll while every nobleman slobbers over Eleanor's timid face."
A smirk tugged at her lips as she imagined her sister. Poor Eleanor, with her wide doe-eyes and stammering speech, would cower before the lords, curtsy too deep, speak too softly. Eliana relished the thought of standing beside her—sharp where Eleanor was soft, bold where Eleanor was meek.
By midmorning, the corridors of Ravenford swelled with the hum of servants polishing, carrying trays, whispering about the Twin Roses of the Kingdom. Identical in hair and eyes, but oh, how different they were. Some claimed the gods had split one soul into two—light and shadow.
Eleanor, drawn unwillingly from her chamber, clutched her skirts as her steps echoed against the stone floor. Each bowing servant's stare felt like a weight pressing into her shoulders. She kept her gaze fixed on the flagstones.
Then—
"El—lenor," came the drawl from the stairwell. Eliana descended like she already owned the castle, chin high, gown sweeping behind her like a banner. The same face, yet transformed: high cheekbones, narrowed gaze, a predator dressed in silk.
"Still hiding?" Eliana sneered softly as she brushed past, close enough for Eleanor to smell the faint scent of lavender on her. "Try not to faint in front of the court. Father has no patience for weak daughters."
Eleanor's lips parted, the beginnings of a protest caught in her throat. But no sound came.
The heavy doors to the throne room loomed before them, carved with roses and thorns. Beyond lay the nobles, the judgmental eyes, and the king and queen themselves. The day had only begun, and already Eleanor longed for the solitude of her chamber.
Eliana, on the other hand, smiled. Her stage awaited.
And so, the twin roses stepped into the light—one trembling, one blazing—destined to bloom, or wither, before the eyes of the realm.
The throne room glittered with jewels, silks, and too many empty words. Lords and ladies pressed themselves forward with practiced smiles, bowing low before the king and queen, their arms laden with offerings for the twin princesses.
Near the dais, leaning against a marble pillar, stood Lord Alaric D'Arden, heir to the northern marches. His long silver hair caught the torchlight in cold flashes, and his slender frame was draped in a dark coat trimmed with silver embroidery. Alaric had not wished to come to Ravenford. His father had insisted—alliances had to be maintained, appearances kept. Birthdays of royal daughters meant tedious ceremonies, endless chatter, and shallow praise disguised as loyalty.
Alaric had spent the morning half-listening, nursing a goblet of wine, eyes sliding over the crowd without interest. His gaze drifted past the queen's radiant smile, the king's stiff posture, Eliana's calculated charm. All as expected. Predictable.
And then—Eleanor.
She stood half-hidden behind her sister, her gaze fixed downward as though she might vanish into the stone floor if she willed it hard enough. Wide eyes, uncertain hands, a silence so stark against the court's noise it almost startled him.
Amusement flickered across Alaric's face. So this is the other twin? The one they all whisper about—timid, trembling, a shadow of her sister.
He had expected nothing of her. Yet, against his boredom, he found himself watching. Not captivated, not yet, but intrigued—like stumbling across an unmarked book in a library he thought he knew by heart. Still, he gave her no more than a passing thought, letting his expression return to its mask of practiced indifference.
The gifts came one after another. Boxes of silks, twin crowns of gold, twin necklaces of sapphire. Everything doubled. Always equal. Always safe.
Until the small box.
The maid laid it carefully before the sisters. Eleanor's fingers trembled as she reached toward it, but Eliana's hand darted first, sharp and commanding. The lid lifted with a hushed creak.
Inside gleamed a single silver hairpin, delicate and elegant, unlike anything else they had been given. Just one.
The hush stretched as every eye in the room lingered on the lone hairpin. A single gift where all others had come in pairs. Its silver glimmer caught the torchlight, delicate yet striking, as though meant to be worn not by a girl hidden in the shadows—but by one who demanded to be seen.
And then a voice broke the silence. Smooth. Confident. Amused.
"It would please me greatly," the man said, stepping forward from the crowd, "if the fair Princess Eliana would accept such a trifle from my unworthy hands."
Heads turned as he advanced through the throng, each step measured, deliberate. His shoulder-length hair, brown and wavy, brushed lightly against his collar as he bowed before the dais. Sunlight slanted across his features: a face too symmetrical to be anything but handsome, his eyes a deep amber with the glint of mischief in them, like fire waiting to catch.
A murmur rippled through the nobles—some whispered recognition, others awe. His reputation preceded him: Sir Cedric Vale, second son of a powerful house, known for both his wit and the trail of broken hearts he left at every court he graced. Mischievous, yes, but with a tongue as polite and polished as any knight's blade.
Eliana's smirk deepened, her chin tilting proudly as though the gift had already confirmed what she knew to be true—that she alone deserved to be adored, elevated, set apart. She plucked the hairpin from its box and held it against her golden hair, the silver gleaming against the blonde like moonlight woven through sunlight.
"It suits you, Your Grace," Cedric said, his voice low and smooth, bowing again, though the flicker of amusement in his gaze betrayed the restraint in his manners.
Eleanor stood beside her, hands folded tightly at her waist, her chest tightening though she could not say why. The hairpin glimmered between her sister's fingers, the eyes of the court feasting on Eliana's triumph.
And from the shadows near the pillar, Alaric D'Arden watched silently, silver hair falling across his face. For the first time that day, his lips curved faintly—not at Eliana's vanity, nor at Cedric's charm, but at Eleanor's quiet stillness, which somehow shone sharper in contrast to her sister's radiance.
The celebration roared back to life, music swelling, goblets clinking. Yet beneath the noise, the echo of Cedric's words, Eliana's smirk, and the gleam of the lone hairpin lingered like a promise—and a warning.