The chandeliers of the Soloman Palace didn't just provide light; they demanded perfection. Under the weight of a thousand crystals, Maena Callahan stood as the Empire's crowning achievement. Her silver hair was pinned in an intricate web of braids and pearls, and her silk gown—the precise shade of a summer twilight—clung to a frame she had spent years meticulously thinning.
"Oh, Maena, the way the silk catches the light," Lady Elara gushed, waving a feathered fan. "It's as if the stars themselves decided to dress you."
Maena offered a practiced, ethereal smile. "You are too kind, Elara. It is merely the talent of the seamstresses."
"Nonsense," another girl, Julianne, chimed in with a sharp glint in her eyes. "Though, I do wonder... the Crown Prince is quite late, isn't he? A pity. To look this divine and have no one to claim the first dance."
The circle went quiet, waiting for a crack in the porcelain mask. Maena didn't blink. She raised her crystal flute, the amber wine barely touching her lips—calories were enemies, after all—and tilted her head.
"His Highness is the Sun of Ravaryn, Julianne," Maena said softly, her voice like velvet. "The sun does not keep a schedule for the moon's convenience. Besides, it gives me more time to enjoy your delightful company. I should hate to be whisked away so soon."
Julianne's smile twitched, defeated by the sheer politeness of the rebuttal. To Maena, it was a chore—a dull, repetitive script she had memorized by age ten. She scanned the ballroom, her heart a leaden weight. She wasn't looking for love; she was looking for her warden.
"His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Ciro Soloman!" the herald cried.
The ballroom bowed in a rhythmic wave. Maena glided forward, her movements fluid and rehearsed. Ciro walked toward her, his golden hair gleaming, his stature regal. But as he reached for her hand, Maena's gaze snagged on a smudge of crimson against the high, stiff collar of his tunic.
Lipstick. Fresh and indiscreet.
"You look... adequate, Maena," Ciro said, his voice flat.
"And you look as though you've had a busy evening, Your Highness," she whispered, leaning in as if to share a lover's confidence. Her smile remained fixed for the crowd, but her eyes were ice. "Do try to be more discreet. The servants have gossiping tongues, and I find the scent of cheap rose water on your skin quite distracting."
Ciro smirched, his fingers tightening around hers with a bruising grip. "Well, Lady Callahan, it's not like you actually care who I spend my afternoons with. We both know what this is."
Maena's stomach churned, a hollow, bitter ache. He was right. She didn't love him, but the blatant disrespect was a stain on the only thing she had left: her image.
"I care about the crown I am to wear," she replied. "And that crown is currently being dragged through the mud of your affairs. It reflects poorly on my House."
Ciro sighed, a sound of profound boredom. "Let's just dance to keep up appearances, hm? Spare me the lecture."
He led her to the center of the floor. As they moved through the rigid steps of the waltz, Ciro spoke over her head, his eyes roaming the room. "My cousin is returning, by the way. Kyren Romero. The Archduke is descending from those wretched northern mountains to 'assist' with the treasury audit."
Maena forced a polite hum. "The Archduke? A rare visit."
"A nuisance," Ciro corrected. "He has a nose for blood and secrets. Stay out of his way, Maena. He doesn't have my... patience for your delicate sensibilities."
As soon as the third dance ended, Maena performed a graceful curtsy. "I find the heat of the candles a bit overwhelming, Your Highness. If you'll excuse me?"
"Go," he said, already looking toward a blonde lady-in-waiting across the room.
Maena vanished into the shadows of the gallery, slipping into a private sitting room. She shut the door and leaned against it, fanning herself with a frantic, desperate rhythm. Her corset felt like iron bands. She was a bird in a gilded cage, and the bars were tightening.
The door clicked open. Maena straightened instantly, the mask snapping back into place.
Her sister, Zira, stood there. With her cropped silver hair and sharp green eyes, Zira looked like a jagged shard of glass compared to Maena's polished diamond.
"Tiring of the spotlight already, 'Perfect Maena'?" Zira sneered.
"I needed a moment of silence, Zira. Please."
"Well, have your moment," Zira said, tossing her gloves onto a side table. "I'm leaving. I've had enough of these vultures. And don't look for the Callahan carriage—I'm taking it now. You'll have to beg Ciro for a ride home in his golden chariot."
Maena's brows narrowed. "Leaving? The ball is barely halfway through. Father expects us to stay until the end."
"Father isn't here, and I have... better things to do than watch you pretend to be a saint." Zira flashed a sharp, cold grin and turned on her heel.
Maena watched her sister go. There was a frantic energy in Zira's step, a secret tucked into the fold of her cloak. In a family built on lies, Zira was the most honest about her darkness.
Maena felt a prickle of unease. Her family's "business" had been whispered about in the dark corners of the estate—smuggling, bribery, things that led to the block. If Zira was moving now, tonight, it wasn't for a tryst.
Maena grabbed her silk wrap. She didn't go back to the ballroom. Instead, she slipped out through the servant's entrance, her heart hammering against her ribs. She watched from the shadows as the Callahan carriage rattled away, not toward their estate, but toward the harbor district.
"You," Maena hissed, beckoning a stray hackney carriage waiting near the gates. She pressed a gold coin into the driver's hand, her voice trembling but firm. "Follow that carriage. Keep your distance, but do not lose sight of it."
As she climbed inside, the silk of her "perfect" dress felt like a shroud. She was following her sister into the dark, and for the first time in her life, Maena Callahan didn't care if her hair stayed in place.