The following evening unfurled with an unspoken weight pressing against both Sophia and Alexander. Tonight's ball loomed like a storm cloud, glittering on the surface, but with currents beneath that could easily swallow the unwary.
Sophia stood in her chamber as her two handmaidens, Elara and Mirelle, fussed about her. Bolts of fabric whispered as they arranged the gown she had chosen from the market the day before. The soft hue of ivory silk shimmered with undertones of pale lavender whenever the lamplight caught it. Delicate embroidery of silver vines traced the hem and sleeves, giving the gown a regal grace.
Elara worked patiently with pearl pins, weaving strands of Sophia's hair into a half-up braid that tumbled into dark, loose waves down her back. Mirelle dusted a light touch of powder across her skin, murmuring, "My lady, you will outshine the court itself tonight."
Sophia smiled faintly at their enthusiasm, though her heart stirred with unease. The ball was not merely festivity—it was a stage. And on that stage, she and Alexander would be measured, judged, perhaps even tested.
What schemes may wait for him there? she wondered, her thoughts tightening like a fist around her chest. What if someone intends to weaken him further? Or to humiliate him before the nobles? He has endured enough already.
She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. For his sake, she must be watchful, poised, unyielding.
Meanwhile, in his chamber across the east wing, Prince Alexander sat before a tall mirror while his page buttoned the last clasp of his black doublet. The fabric was rich, embroidered subtly with silver threads in the shape of hawks. A dark cape rested across his shoulders, its weight both regal and suffocating. Damien, ever near, adjusted the prince's gloves and murmured, "You look every inch the heir, Your Highness."
Alexander's gaze flickered briefly in the mirror. His reflection showed not triumph but restraint—the sharp line of his jaw, the stoicism etched into his expression. He had learned long ago to wear armor in silence, even when steel was absent.
Yet beneath that still water, currents churned. His thoughts gnawed at him: The king will be there. So will the queen consort… and Father's concubines. Their children too.
He remembered them vividly. The queen consort, elegant and cold as marble, whose smile never reached her eyes. The three concubines, each with their brood of sons and daughters, vying always for favor. He had once been a child among them, but not one of them had ever wished him well.
And now… Sophia would walk into their midst at his side. Will they sneer at her? Seek to unravel her dignity? Will she crumble—or hold?
A flash of guilt pierced him. Why do I even care so much? She is… He cut the thought short, pressing it down, as he always did. Yet it lingered like smoke, curling around him, refusing to disperse.
Back in Sophia's chamber, the last pearl was pinned in place. Elara stepped back with a delighted sigh. "There, my lady. You are ready."
Sophia looked at her reflection in the mirror. For a moment, she hardly recognized herself. The woman gazing back bore not the weariness of a healer, nor the quiet defiance of an outsider, but the poise of someone who could stand in a hall of wolves and not flinch.
Her pulse quickened. Will he think I look presentable? Or will I only bring him further burden with my presence?
She shook the thought away, rising to her feet. Whatever happened tonight, she must walk tall...if not for herself, then for him.
The courtyard bustled with the glow of lanterns as carriages lined in polished rows. Knights stood at attention, their armor catching the last rays of twilight. The air thrummed with anticipation, laughter, and murmurs of servants preparing for the royal procession.
Alexander's carriage waited near the grand steps. He sat in his chair beside Damien, his posture as sharp as his expression, though his hand rested lightly on the armrest of his chair as though grounding himself.
And then—
He saw her.
Descending the steps with her two handmaidens trailing behind, Sophia moved as though the world slowed to watch her. The gown's ivory and lavender shimmered against the dusk, the silver vines glinting like captured starlight. Her hair cascaded in dark waves, the braided crown lending her an air of quiet nobility.
For a breath, Alexander's chest tightened. His heart gave a single, traitorous stutter. She was… radiant. Not in the blinding way of jewels or fire, but in the soft, undeniable glow of someone who carried herself with grace, despite the weight she bore.
His thoughts betrayed him before he could contain them: …She is beautiful.
Sophia, standing a few paces away, felt the flicker of that thought brush against her senses. Heat rushed unbidden to her cheeks. She lowered her gaze quickly, steadying her composure, but her pulse throbbed in her ears.
Damien noticed nothing, stepping forward to assist Alexander into the carriage. The prince's face was stone again, betraying nothing. Yet the faint quickening of his breath had not gone unnoticed, at least, not by her.
Sophia approached the carriage, her steps measured, though the echo of his thought rang within her. When their eyes met briefly before she entered, the world seemed to narrow, silent save for the unspoken words suspended between them.
Inside, the carriage's lantern cast a warm glow as they sat opposite one another. The space was close, intimate in a way that felt almost dangerous. Outside, the horses shifted, the wheels creaked, and the world prepared to carry them into the storm of the palace.
But within the carriage, all that existed were two stolen glances...his carefully hidden beneath a stoic mask, hers shimmering with the awareness of his unguarded thought.
Neither spoke. Neither dared.
And yet, in the silence, something unspoken passed between them...fragile, electric, undeniable.
The carriage jolted forward, carrying them toward the ball… and whatever awaited them there.