The sun had not yet set when Riven stepped into the orphanage hall wearing the outfit her teacher had forced her to try for the first time.
Black. Red. Silver chains.
Sharp boots. A coat cut like a duke of ancient legends.
For the children and the head nun, it was as if someone entirely new had entered.
The hallway fell silent.
One of the younger boys whispered,
"Is… is that really Riven?"
A little girl peeked from behind the nun's skirt, eyes sparkling.
"She looks like a knight from those storybooks!"
Another child, braver, ran up to her, circling around with awe.
"You look so cool! Like you could slay ten monsters at once!"
The nun blinked several times, unable to hide her shock.
"My child… you look—" she set her hand over her chest,
"—intimidating. And alarmingly elegant."
Riven only blinked.
"…I don't look that strange, do I?"
All the children shouted at once: "YES!"
⸻
The grand hall was overflowing with nobles, shimmering gowns, and polished marble floors. Crystal chandeliers floated overhead like captured constellations.
Then—
The doors opened.
A cold draft swept inward as Riven stepped across the threshold.
Her outfit absorbed the light around her:
a fitted black coat with an asymmetric tail, crimson sash draped across her shoulder like a commander's mark, silver chains catching the glow of the chandeliers. Her boots struck the floor with a confident rhythm—sharp, resonant ,Her golden eyes were cold, and sharp, and her facial features were so serious , and her short black hair swayed in the breeze with every step she took.
Every head turned.
Whispers rippled through the hall.
"Who… is that?"
"She looks like a dark duke…"
"No—more like an assassin dressed as royalty."
Her presence was heavy—dangerous—yet impossibly refined.
And with each step she took, nobles instinctively made space.
Morrivayne chuckled inside her mind,
"Look at you. A deadly noble. A walking threat wrapped in silk and shadow.
Perfect."
Riven ignored her.
Princess Lyria stood near the center of the hall, bathed in the soft glow of chandeliers. Her gown—layers of blush-pink petals—flowed around her like she was made of early morning light.
She turned at the sound of murmurs…
…and froze.
Her breath caught.
Riven approached through the crowd like a storm wrapped in velvet—
cold, elegant, powerful .
Lyria's cheeks warmed before she could stop them.
She had prepared herself to see Riven tonight,
but not like this.
Too striking… too confident… too—
she swallowed,
—too much for my heart to handle.
Every noble's eye traced Riven's silhouette with a mix of fear and fascination.
"She doesn't look like she belongs here…"
"No, she looks like she belongs above us."
"That aura… I can't look away."
Some nobles stepped back as she passed—others bowed instinctively,
not even realizing they did.
It was as if Riven carried the weight of a forgotten dynasty.
Even the king straightened on his throne, eyebrows lifting slightly.
At last, Riven reached her.
Their contrast was breathtaking:
Riven — shadow and steel.
Lyria — light and petals.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Lyria smiled softly, her voice barely above a breath,
"You look… incredible."
Riven blinked, confused.
"Is it not too much?"
Lyria shook her head quickly, strands of her hair shimmering.
"No. It suits you perfectly."
Her blush deepened.
Morrivayne snorted.
"Oh, she's falling for you already. And you? You don't even realize it."
Riven frowned internally.
"…Falling? Why is she falling ?"
Morrivayne groaned.
Music filled the hall—soft violins, gentle flutes.
Before Riven could flee the attention, Lyria stepped closer.
"Would you…" she hesitated,
"…dance with me?"
Riven stared.
"I don't know how," she admitted honestly.
Lyria offered her hand, palm trembling slightly.
"I'll guide you. Just follow my lead."
Hesitation flickered in Riven's yellow -tinted eyes…
but she placed her gloved hand into Lyria's anyway.
The room held its breath.
Lyria placed Riven's other hand gently on her waist—
and Riven stiffened, unfamiliar with the closeness.
"You're tense," Lyria whispered, smiling.
"Relax. I won't step on your feet."
Riven slowly loosened—only a little.
They began to move.
Lyria's steps were light, petals swirling around her.
Riven's were firm, precise—like a warrior learning softness for the first time.
And somehow…
they matched perfectly.
A dangerous elegance paired with a blooming grace.
Whispers rose around them:
"They look… beautiful together."
"A perfect contrast."
"A shadow and a rose."
Lyria laughed gently when Riven stumbled.
"You're doing wonderfully."
Riven stared at her—
at her warm smile, the light in her eyes—
and felt something unfamiliar flutter in her chest.
She ignored it.
The queen sighed softly, hand over her heart.
"They are… breathtaking."
The king nodded slowly,
"Riven looks far too intimidating. Half the nobles are scared of her."
The queen smirked,
"And the other half wish to recruit her."
When the dance ended, nobles applauded—
not out of etiquette,
but awe.
Even the orchestra paused for a heartbeat.
Lyria curtsied with glowing cheeks.
Riven bowed stiffly, unsure what to do.
They looked at each other—
Light and shadow,
Petal and blade,
Princess and hunter—
and the hall knew:
This would not be their last dance.
When the final note of the orchestra faded, the hall remained unnervingly quiet.
Riven stepped back, bowing awkwardly.
Lyria's hand lingered in the air for a heartbeat longer than necessary—
as if she wasn't quite ready to let go.
The nobles applauded, but even their claps felt hesitant,
like they were unsure if clapping for Riven might offend her
— or provoke her.
She could feel their stares like needles:
fear, curiosity, admiration… jealousy.
Morrivayne hummed in her mind,
"Look at them. They fear you more than they fear their own king.
Delicious."
"Please shut up," Riven muttered internally.
The orchestra resumed a softer melody after Lyria left for the throne.
Riven remained near the edge of the ballroom, trying to appear as small and unimportant as possible.
It did not work.
A nobleman—young, tall, with sleek blond hair and an embroidered navy coat—approached her with a confident swagger. The type of person who believed the world bent toward him naturally.
He bowed slightly.
"Lady Riven," he greeted, voice smooth like polished marble.
"I've been waiting for a chance to speak with you."
Riven blinked, unsure how to respond.
"…Why?"
The noble chuckled softly, as if her bluntness only amused him.
"I wished to congratulate you. Your entrance was unforgettable. Your strength even more so. A woman who dances like a knight and carries herself like a general… fascinating."
Riven shifted uncomfortably.
"I'm not… anything like that."
"But you could be," he continued, stepping closer.
"Someone like you deserves a title. A place. Influence. Perhaps even—"
"Lord Evrin."
The voice cut through like a blade.
Lyria stood behind him.
She was composed—but her eyes weren't.
The softness from moments earlier had vanished, replaced by something sharp and cold.
Evrin bowed quickly.
"Princess Lyria. Forgive me. I was simply congratulating your savior."
Her gaze remained icy.
"Strange. From here, it looked like you were pressuring her."
Evrin flinched ever so slightly.
"I would never—"
"She is a guest," Lyria said, stepping forward until she stood beside Riven.
"Not entertainment. Not a tool. Not a political opportunity."
Riven looked between them, confused.
Evrin forced a smile, bowed stiffly, and retreated into the crowd.
Only after he disappeared did Lyria exhale, her shoulders relaxing.
Riven raised a brow.
"You… looked angry."
"I wasn't angry," Lyria said too quickly.
"I was concerned. He is known for manipulating strong people. He wanted to use you."
"Oh."
Riven nodded.
"That is annoying
Lyria's lips curved into a tiny smile.
"Yes. Very."
But inside her chest, Lyria felt something unsettling—
a sharpness she didn't recognize.
A discomfort she didn't want to name.
Not jealousy.
Not exactly.
Just… a fear of losing something she didn't realize she valued.
Another noblewoman in a shimmering lavender dress approached first.
Behind her trailed two flustered attendants, fanning her dramatically.
"Lady Riven," she said with a polite, practiced smile,
"I have never witnessed such a… commanding display.
May I ask who tailored your attire? It is—"
Riven blinked.
"My teacher."
"Your… teacher?"
The woman's smile twitched slightly.
"Oh. I see. How… unique."
Another noble approached, a man with too much perfume and too much confidence.
"You dance surprisingly well for someone who has spent her life in the wilderness, Miss Riven."
" i stepped on her foot twice," Riven replied honestly.
Lyria nearly choked beside her.
The noble's smile
Behind silk fans and jeweled goblets, whispers spread:
"Look at the princess—her face is red."
"She hasn't smiled like that in years."
"Do you think the hunter girl bewitched her?"
"No… the opposite. The princess seems enchanted on her own."
The king overheard and frowned deeply.
The queen, however, hid her smile behind her glass.
Morrivayne cackled,
"Oh, this is delicious. You are causing chaos simply by breathing."
Eventually, the attention became too suffocating.
Riven excused herself and slipped through the crowd,
heading toward the tall glass doors leading to the balcony.
Cool night air brushed her face, the moonlight pale on her coat.
She finally exhaled.
"You hate attention, don't you?"
Lyria's voice came from behind.
Riven turned.
Lyria stepped onto the balcony, the soft glow of moonlight catching the petals of her dress. She looked like a creature made of fairy tales.
"I don't understand why people stare so much," Riven muttered.
"I didn't do anything."
Lyria laughed quietly—soft, musical.
"You didn't do anything… except walk in looking like the commander of a legendary army."
"…That is supposed to be a compliment?"
Lyria's eyes sparkled.
"Yes."
Silence settled between them—comfortable, warm.
Lyria leaned against the railing, stealing glances at Riven.
Riven pretended not to notice.
"You really do look different tonight," Lyria said softly.
"Not just the clothes. It's… your aura.
Stronger than before."
Riven hesitated, then answered honestly,
"You too feel stronger than before .
Lyria turned to her fully now, with smile she said .
" thank to you I don't feel weak anymore , and ones again thank you for saving me ."
"No need to thank me " Riven replied calmly
Lyria seemed to study her face for a long moment.
"You always say things so simply… but they mean so much."
Riven looked away, unclear why her chest felt tight.
A breeze passed, brushing a loose strand of hair across Lyria's cheek.
Without thinking, Riven reached out and brushed it aside.
Lyria froze.
Her cheeks blossomed with color—soft pink like the petals of her dress.
Riven tilted her head, confused.
"Are you feeling warm? Your face is red."
Lyria covered her face with her hands, groaning quietly.
"No—Riven, that's not— It's… never mind."
Morrivayne nearly screamed laughing in Riven's mind.
"You hopeless creature.
Footsteps echoed behind them.
A guard bowed.
"Your Highness, Your Majesty requests your presence."
Lyria sighed softly, disappointed.
"I guess it's time…"
She turned to Riven one last time.
"Will you stay a little longer?"
Riven nodded.
"If you want me to."
Lyria smiled—bright, warm, almost childlike.
"I do."
Then she left, disappearing back into the glowing hall.
Riven remained on the balcony, watching the moon.
Morrivayne's voice softened—a rarity.
"…Little hunter, you have no idea what you're starting, do you?"
Riven closed her eyes.
"….. what do you mean "
Inside the hall, the king and queen watched the balcony where Riven still stood.
The king exhaled heavily.
"She is powerful… too powerful."
The queen sipped her drink.
"She saved our daughter."
"That doesn't make her harmless."
"No," the queen agreed.
"But it does make her loyal."
The king fell silent.
And in the shadows of the hall, several nobles whispered:
"She might become dangerous."
"She already is…"
"…which is why she must be kept close."
The night ended with a final bow, a final dance, a final whisper of music.
But as the doors closed behind the departing guests,
one thing had become unmistakably clear:
The princess had taken interest in the girl of shadows…
Fate had begun moving—
quietly, inevitably—
like the soft first step of a dance that neither of them knew by heart.