The musicians struck the opening chord. The ballroom shifted as if on command, partners taking hands, skirts sweeping across polished marble.
Every noble, every servant, every watching eye turned toward one pair.
Me and the crown prince.
Alaric moved forward with the calm certainty of one who had been trained all his life to carry the weight of a kingdom. His golden eyes caught mine, steady, unflinching, as he extended his hand. The hall seemed to be still, waiting for my reply.
Evelyne's smile was frozen, too perfect, too sharp. Aurelia's lips curved in cruel delight. Isolde's cold eyes narrowed, calculating.
The king and queen watched like hunters who had laid a trap. And my family—my father's jaw tightened, my mother's gaze sharpened, my siblings stiffened as if bracing for a storm.
I placed my hand in Alaric's. The musicians began again, a slow, sweeping melody. His grip was warm, firm, as he drew me into the circle of dancers.
His arm brushed my bare back, the silver chains across my skin glimmering under the chandeliers.
My slit gown whispered against my leg as we moved, white hair flowing like a river that had a mind of its own. Every step echoed. Every eye followed.
"You do not bow," Alaric said quietly as we turned.
My lips curved faintly. "And yet, here I dance."
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile. "Do you always bite with roses in your hands?"
"Better roses than daggers," I murmured, "though I hold those too."
The faintest flicker of amusement touched his golden eyes. But I was not watching him alone. Across the hall, through the swirl of dancers and the glitter of jewels, I saw her.
A girl.
Tall, strong, her shoulders broad, her body moving with the grace of a warrior even as she stood still.
Her hair was dark, tied back in a braid that brushed against the line of her back. Her jaw was sharp, her lips full, her skin kissed by the sun.
And her eyes—her eyes were locked on me. Obsession burned in them.
She was not watching me as the others did, with fear or envy or lust half-hidden. She watched me as if I were the only person in the hall.
Her gaze did not waver, did not break. It pinned me. My steps faltered for half a heartbeat. Alaric noticed. His golden eyes flicked toward her, then back to me.
"You see someone," he said softly.
"I see many," I replied, forcing my gaze back to his. But I could still feel her watching.
My parents noticed. My siblings, too—Caelum's storm-grey eyes flicked toward the girl, his jaw tightening.
My mother's fingers clenched briefly on the fan she held. Even the king and queen, sharp and watchful, followed the thread of my gaze. The hall itself seemed to hold its breath.
But I danced on. Step by step, turn by turn, the crown prince's hand at my waist, his golden eyes on mine.
The whispers rose like wind.
"She dances as if she commands the music.
"Her hair moves—it shifts with her."She looked at someone. Did you see? She looked away, but—"Who was it?"
The melody rose, the drums thundered, and with a final turn, the dance ended. The crowd erupted in applause, though beneath it lay hunger and unease.
Alaric released my hand, his gaze lingering a moment longer. Then he stepped back, bowing slightly before turning.
To Evelyne.
The chosen of the goddess of health stepped forward, her gown green as spring, her smile sharpened into triumph.
She slid into Alaric's arms as though she belonged there, her golden hair catching the light, her eyes flashing at me with venom barely veiled. Together they began to dance, perfect, practised, expected.
The court sighed, relieved. This was how it should be. And yet—eyes still turned back to me.
My sisters took partners, my brother too. Nobles swirled, the floor filled, and laughter rose again. But I slipped through them like a shadow, my gown trailing blue silk and silver chains, my white hair rippling behind me.
The hall grew louder, brighter, until I stepped past the heavy doors into the night. The garden lay quiet under moonlight, the air cool, carrying the scent of roses and damp stone.
Lanterns glowed faintly along the path. The noise of the ball became a dull hum behind me.
And she was there. She stood near the fountain, half in shadow, tall and strong as I had seen her. Her eyes met mine instantly, as if she had been waiting. The obsession in them had not faded.
Up close, she was even more striking—sharp lines softened by strength, beauty born not of jewels or silks but of fire and bone. Her gown was plain compared to the others, but on her, it looked like armour.
"You came," she said, her voice low, rough, carrying the weight of certainty.
I tilted my head, white hair sliding forward like a curtain of moonlight. "You were watching me."
"Yes." Her gaze did not waver. "I could not look away." Her honesty was raw, unhidden.
It unsettled me. For a moment, silence lay heavy between us, broken only by the sound of water trickling in the fountain.
Then I stepped closer, studying her face, the lines of her jaw, the shape of her nose, the curve of her mouth. And something struck me. A familiarity.
The boy I had told Caelum to find. The boy whose description I had given.
The son of the murdered king. The one hidden, whispered, erased. My breath caught faintly. She looked like him. Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she sensed the thought passing through me.
"What is it?" she asked.
I did not answer. Not yet. Instead, I let my gaze linger a moment longer, sharp and unflinching. "You remind me of someone," I said softly at last.
Her lips curved faintly, not a smile but something close.
"Then perhaps that someone is meant to be found." The air between us thickened, tense, alive.
Inside the ballroom, music thundered, laughter rose. But out here, under the moon, the world felt narrowed to two. Me and I.
Her eyes swept over me, slow and unashamed—my hair, my eyes, my bare back glittering with silver chains.
When her gaze returned to mine, it burned. And before I could reply, she stepped forward, close enough that her scent—dark, warm, faintly spiced—wrapped around me.
She caught my hand gently, lifted it to her lips, and kissed it.
Her mouth was warm against my skin, her breath soft. The simple kiss lingered. Too long. I should have pulled away. I didn't.
Her other arm slid around my waist, strong and sure, pulling me closer. My breath caught as my body brushed against hers, her warmth pressing through the thin fabric of my gown.
My hair rippled, sliding forward as though reaching for her. Then her lips found mine. The first kiss was soft, almost careful.
Testing.
But when I did not resist—when I tilted my head just enough to answer—the kiss deepened.
Her lips pressed harder, her arm tightening around me, drawing me against her strong frame. My hands, unthinking, rose to her shoulders.
The taste of her filled me—dark wine, smoke, heat. Her mouth parted mine, and the kiss grew darker, hungrier.
A low sound vibrated in her throat as her hand pressed firmly against the small of my back, arching me closer.
My body trembled—not from fear, but from the sharp edge of something I had never allowed myself before.
The world faded. The ballroom, the music, the whispers—all gone. There was only her mouth, her heat, the strength of her body pressed against mine.
The kiss pulled me into a darker place, a place where masks and roles dissolved, where there was no villainess, no crown, no court—only fire.
And I did not want to leave.
But the world did not let us remain there. A sound broke the silence.
Footsteps. Voices. I froze, pulling back slightly, though her hand remained firm against me. My breath was uneven, lips bruised from the force of the kiss.
She frowned, dark eyes flicking toward the shadows beyond the lanterns. "Your family," she murmured. "They are searching."
And then I saw him. A man in plain clothes, lurking by the hedge. Her subordinate. His eyes met hers, then flicked to me, then away, shame flickering across his face.
He had betrayed us. My parents' voices came closer. My siblings, too. The crunch of boots on gravel, the sweep of gowns against grass.
Her hand tightened at my waist. "I did not ask him to," she whispered quickly. "But he fears for me. He fears you."
And then they were there. My father's eyes blazed. My mother's face was sharp with cold fury. Caelum's hand rested on his sword hilt, storm-grey eyes unreadable.
My sisters stood behind, shock flickering in their faces. They had found us. They had seen.
For a heartbeat, the garden froze. I stood close against her, her hand still on me, my lips tingling with her kiss. The lanterns painted us in gold and shadow, the evidence undeniable.
My mother's lips parted, ready to cut. My father's hand curled into a fist.
But before their words could strike, she stepped forward, drawing me slightly behind her, her dark eyes fixed on my parents.
"I will follow her," she said. Her voice was steady, deep, carrying a weight that silenced even the night birds. "Where she goes, I go."
The boldness of it stunned even me. And my parents—strangely, impossibly—did not argue.
Perhaps they saw the mark of fate in her face. Perhaps they saw the echo of the boy I had described, the lost heir buried beneath disguise.
Or perhaps they saw only the inevitability of gods and bonds already forming. Whatever they saw, their answer came swiftly.
"So be it," my father said quietly. My mother's lips thinned, but she gave a sharp nod. And just like that, it was done.
The carriage home was silent, heavy with tension. My siblings stole glances at me, at her, at the space between us. My mother's sharp gaze lingered on her profile, my father's on mine. Caelum's jaw was set, unreadable.
She sat close beside me, her arm brushing mine, her warmth steady. When the lantern swayed and shadows rippled across her face, I saw again the truth that unsettled me most.
She looked like him. The boy I was told to find.
The boy meant to build my kingdom. But she was not a boy.