The palace buzzed like a hive of restless bees.
Rumours of me—of the girl who had contracted not one god but three—had reached every chamber and every ear.
Nobles whispered in corners, servants traded gossip like coins, and even the guards on patrol spoke of the villainess reborn in white hair and black-and-white eyes.
In the highest tower, the royal family gathered in their private salon. The air smelled faintly of lavender and old wood. A fire crackled low, though it was not the cold that made the room heavy.
Princess Aurelia lounged on a velvet chaise, her gown of crimson spilling like blood around her. She toyed lazily with the ruby pendant at her throat, her lips curved into a sharp smile.
"She has become the talk of the kingdom overnight," Aurelia said, her tone half-amused, half resentful. "A girl no one valued yesterday—today she is called chosen. Imagine that."
Her sister, Princess Isolde, sat near the fire. Unlike Aurelia's fire, she was ice—her gown pale silver, her hair braided with pearls. She tilted her head, her cold eyes thoughtful.
"Talk is one thing," Isolde replied softly. "But the gods' marks are not talk. She has power now. And power cannot be ignored."
Aurelia's laughter rang, sharp as glass. "Do not tell me you wish to bow to her. She is still a Duskbane. Their blood is dirt."
"And yet," Isolde murmured, "dirt can grow roots. If she is, as the rumours say, it may be wiser to stand beside her than against her."
Aurelia scowled, but her eyes glittered with calculation. "Then we must learn what she desires. If she craves jewels, shower her. If she craves whispers, feed her. If she craves influence, flatter her. But I will not bow."
"Not bow," Isolde said, her lips curving faintly. "Merely align." Their quiet debate turned like blades behind silk.
Alaric stood apart from them, silent by the window. The Crown Prince's tall frame was wrapped in a dark tunic embroidered with gold. His golden eyes reflected the light of the setting sun as he listened without speaking.
"Brother," Aurelia said at last, turning to him. "What do you think? Will you tame this villainess, or will she make a mockery of you?"
Alaric did not look at her. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the sky burned orange. "I will watch her first. Words are worthless. A person's gifts are their truth."
"And what gift will you give her?" Isolde asked.
Alaric's lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "The right one."
He did not say more. But in his silence, he was already calculating.
Far from the royal salon, another woman heard the rumours.
Her name was Lady Evelyne Seraphiel, and she was beautiful in a way that stole air from lungs. Her skin was pale as ivory, her hair golden as sunlight, her eyes green as spring leaves.
She was the one chosen by the goddess of health herself, blessed with healing hands and a face that had become the envy of half the noble girls in the realm.
It had been expected—no, decided—that she would marry Crown Prince Alaric. Her beauty, her blessing, her noble blood—all perfect for the crown.
Until me.
The news of my transformation reached her chambers like a dagger. Evelyne sat before her mirror, her hand stilling on the silver brush she dragged through her hair. Her maids whispered behind her, afraid to meet her gaze.
"She—she contracted three gods," one whispered.
"White hair like moonlight," said another. "Eyes marked black and white."
"She is said to be beautiful now. Unrecognisable."
The brush snapped in Evelyne's hand.
Her lips curved into a smile sharp enough to cut.
"Let her come," she whispered to her reflection. "The goddess chose me. I will not be cast aside for a villainess in white." Her laughter filled the chamber, sweet and venomous.
The day of the ball arrived too soon. The manor was alive with preparations. Servants rushed with fabrics, jewels, perfumes, polishing shoes, and brushing gowns until everything shone. My family's decision had been made: we would go together, united, in the same colours—blue and white.
It was my mother's idea. "They will expect division," she said sharply. "They will expect Elara to walk apart, to be cast out. We will give them no such pleasure. We will be a wall." And so it was done.
The carriage ride to the palace was long, the road lit with lanterns and alive with the wheels of dozens of noble families arriving early to stake their presence. Inside the carriage, the air was thick with perfume and tension.
My father sat with quiet authority, his expression unreadable. My mother's sharp eyes never strayed from me, though her lips were pressed tight. My sisters sat close on either side, their gowns blue silk edged with white lace, their hair bound with pearls.
And Caelum sat across from me, his storm-grey eyes steady.
I shifted slightly, the slit of my gown revealing the curve of my leg, the silver jewellery draped across my back glimmering faintly in the lantern light. My hair spilt long and white, alive as breath itself.
As the wheels turned, I leaned forward, my voice low. "There is something I must tell you," I said.
They looked at me, curious. "My hair," I whispered. "It is not just hair anymore. It moves. It listens. It has a mind of its own and I can't control it."
For a moment, silence filled the carriage.
Then Diana let out a sharp laugh, though her eyes flickered with unease. "You speak as though it is a serpent."
Selene's brows drew tight. "Show us."
I tilted my head. My hair slid forward of its own accord, strands curling up like fingers, brushing against Maris's cheek. She gasped, pulling back, though the touch had been gentle.
The strands curled again, then settled, flowing back across my shoulders like nothing had happened. My siblings stared.
Caelum's hand tightened briefly on his sword, then released. His eyes, storm-grey, never left mine. "Do not let the court see it tonight," he said firmly. "Not yet."
I smiled faintly. "As you wish, brother." But inside, I knew—it was another weapon. And weapons were never meant to stay hidden for long.
The palace rose before us, all towers and marble, lit with thousands of lanterns that bathed the night in gold. Music drifted from the open halls, laughter spilling out with the scent of wine and roasted meats. Nobles thronged the steps, their gowns jewels in the night, their whispers sharper than blades.
The Duskbanes' carriage rolled to a stop. And when we stepped out, silence fell.
We were dressed as one, a wall of blue and white. My father's tall frame led, my mother's icy grace beside him. Caelum followed like a shadow, my sisters sharp and elegant at his side.
And then me.
My gown flowed like water, deep blue slit high to reveal the curve of my leg. The back was bare, silver chains of jewellery draped across the pale skin like constellations. My hair poured down, white as snow, rippling like a living river. Gasps echoed across the steps.
"Is that her?, The villainess? She is… unearthly, Beautiful, terrifyingly pretty."
The music inside faltered for a breath before resuming, too quick, too sharp. Every gaze turned. Every whisper followed.
And I did not bow my head. I met their eyes, steady, sharp, untamed. The girl they had called powerless trash now walked into their hall like a queen. And the hall itself seemed to shiver.
The ballroom was a sea of light. Crystal chandeliers glittered above, spilling golden fire across polished marble. Musicians filled the air with sharp strings and heavy drums, but the music faltered as we crossed the threshold. Our family entered together, dressed in blue and white.
The nobles who had been laughing moments before turned to look. They looked at us. No, at me.
The villainess reborn. Whispers rose like a tide, curling through the hall.
"Her hair—snow white. Eyes black and white—just as they say. Is that… the mark of music on her forehead? She carries the gods inside her."
Others whispered of desire.
"She's beautiful, too beautiful, I would have her in my bed, if only she would take me."
The kingdom was not bound by one tradition. Here, women could marry women as freely as men married men.
And as I stepped across the marble floor, I felt not only the eyes of lords but also ladies.
Women's gazes lingered, bold and heavy with lust, as if imagining my white hair tangled in their fingers, the silver chains across my back pressed to their lips.
It was not only men who hungered. And I felt the weight of both.
The king and queen sat upon their raised thrones at the head of the hall. King Hadrien's sharp eyes pierced through the crowd, heavy as a blade, while Queen Selvara's smile curved like a dagger hidden in silk.
To their right stood Princess Aurelia, crimson-clad, her gaze alight with cruel amusement. Beside her, Princess Isolde shimmered in silver, her cold eyes assessing me with quiet calculation.
And at their centre stood Crown Prince Alaric. Golden-eyed. Silent. Watching.
By his side stood Lady Evelyne Seraphiel. She glowed like sunlight, her golden hair braided with diamonds, her gown pale green, the mark of the goddess of health faintly shining at her wrist. She was flawless, radiant, perfect—everything a crown demanded. But her eyes.
Her eyes burned with something darker as they locked on me.
"Lord and Lady Duskbane," the king's voice boomed. "And their children. You honour us."
My father bowed low, his voice steady. "Your Majesties. We come as duty commands, and as loyalty binds us."
My mother bowed as well, her face sharp, unreadable. My siblings followed, each bending just enough to show respect but not submission. And then me. I did not bow.
I lowered my head, yes, but only a fraction, my white hair spilling forward, alive with a faint ripple as though moved by its own will. The mark of music glowed faintly at my forehead, catching the candlelight. The nobles gasped.
Whispers curled like smoke.
"She did not bow., "She dares., "She bows to no one."
The king's eyes narrowed. The queen's smile only widened. "Lady Elara," Queen Selvara said, her voice carrying across the hall.
"We have heard much of you. More than rumour now, it seems. The gods themselves favour you."
My voice was calm, soft enough that silence fell to hear it. "The gods chose me. I am theirs."
"And yet," Princess Aurelia's laughter rang sharp, "you walk among us still. Mortal. Flesh and blood."
Isolde's cold gaze flicked over me. "Power or not, flesh bleeds the same."
I smiled faintly, not flinching. "And yet, flesh binds gods now."
The queen's eyes glittered with interest. The king's jaw tightened. And Prince Alaric, he said nothing. He only studied me with those golden eyes, as though measuring, weighing, considering.
Then Lady Evelyne stepped forward. Her gown caught the light, her green eyes glowing like spring. Her smile was sweet, her voice gentle, but the steel beneath it rang clear.
"I am Evelyne Seraphiel," she said, her hand resting lightly on her chest. "Chosen of the goddess of health. Blessed to heal the sick, to bring life to the broken."
Whispers rippled.
"She was to marry the prince. "She is beloved by the court. "She is the jewel of the kingdom."
Evelyne's gaze fixed on me. Her smile remained flawless, but her words were edged.
"I welcome you, Lady Elara. It must be strange to rise so quickly from the ashes of scorn. To wear crowns in whispers when yesterday you wore chains of shame." Her words were silk. And poison.
I met her gaze, unflinching. My lips curved faintly. "Strange, yes. But I have always preferred thorns to flowers."
Gasps broke across the hall. Nobles leaned closer, hungry for more. Evelyne's smile faltered, if only for a breath. Alaric's lips curved faintly, the barest ghost of approval.
The music began again, heavy drums and strings filling the silence. Nobles began to move, partners taking hands, gowns sweeping across marble. But the eyes never left me.
Some women watched with hunger, their lips parted, their gazes lingering too long on my hair, my legs revealed by the slit of my gown, the silver chains across my bare back.
A noblewoman in sapphire whispered to her companion, her eyes fixed on me. "I would wed her tonight if she asked."
Men, too, their gazes thick with desire, their whispers heavy with want. "Power and beauty both. Dangerous. Irresistible."
But beneath the hunger lay fear. For beauty bound to gods was beauty bound to death. The first approach came not from the royal family, but from the nobles who dared.
A duke's son bowed before me, his hand trembling as he asked for a dance. I refused with a smile that made him pale.
A baroness in emerald stepped forward boldly, her eyes dark with want.
"Lady Elara," she whispered, "they call you villainess, but I see only a queen."
Her hand brushed lightly against mine, lingering, daring.
I tilted my head, hair sliding like silk to coil faintly at her wrist before releasing. Her eyes widened, her breath caught. She stumbled back, flushed, as though touched by fire. The whispers deepened.
"She has power even in her hair, Bewitching. Dangerous."
At last, the royal family moved. The king rose, his heavy crown gleaming in the candlelight.
"Lady Elara," he said, voice sharp as iron.
"You will stand beside Crown Prince Alaric tonight." It was not a request.
All eyes turned to me. Evelyne's smile froze. Aurelia's lips curved in cruel delight. Isolde's gaze sharpened, searching. And Alaric's golden eyes, steady as fire, waited.
I stepped forward, the slit of my gown whispering against marble, my hair flowing like a living thing. I met the king's gaze, the queen's, and at last, Alaric's.
My voice was soft. Steady. Sharp. "Very well. Let us see if the crown can dance with thorns."