The Grand Lunar Concord had been whispered about in every corner of the known realms for months, spoken of in awe and speculation alike. An annual gathering of kingdoms and dominions, this year's ball was unlike any other. Hosted in Artherion, the celestial seat of the Elyrion dynasty, it promised an elegance only whispered about in the legends of old. It was the night the world would bow to the glory of Artherion, and Lucien Elyrion, heir to the throne, was to make his first public appearance since the Rite of Fire.
The castle itself loomed like a dream above the clouds, its white stone spires veined with glowing crystal, shaped by celestial architects of ancient renown. Waterfalls glittered like ribbons of starlight, pouring from floating terraces into the gardens below. Each corridor of the palace shimmered with ambient magic—runic light embedded in marble walls, archways supported by statues of seraphic warriors, and windows shaped like wings letting moonlight pour onto golden floors.
Inside the grand ballroom, stars danced across a high arched ceiling that mimicked the heavens. A massive chandelier floated above, formed of suspended diamond-like fragments that reflected the orchestra's magical notes into glowing patterns on the walls. Nobles from every kingdom mingled beneath it, dressed in robes stitched with constellations, capes woven with phoenix feathers, and jewels that whispered enchantments. Monarchs, mages, and beings that were barely human glided across the polished floors.
The purpose of the ball was both political and sacred. It celebrated peace forged after a war between kingdoms of the North and South, symbolized by the Grand Lunar Concord. Yet beneath the diplomacy, everyone knew it was a stage for subtle rivalries and unspoken prophecy.
Among the guests, the House of Ashkaroth had arrived with due ceremony. Their king, Zeburel Ashkaroth, stood tall with his children in tow. His presence, regal and somber, bore the weight of centuries. Though his kingdom, Dravenguard, was feared for its militaristic rule and veiled occultism, none could deny their power. Beside him was his eldest daughter, Princess Vaeloria Ashkaroth, cloaked in crimson velvet and a pearl-studded crown, her eyes had always darted toward Lucien.
But at the edge of the procession had stood Mirelleth.
Her role was clear—she was Vaeloria's handmaid, summoned to Artherion not by royal favor, but by the cruel intentions of her mistress.
Vaeloria had ensured I traveled with them only to be humiliated, exposed, and discarded amidst the splendor of nobility.
Earlier that day, I had awoken before the sun had fully risen over Dravenguard. The floors beneath her straw mat were always cold, but today it bit deeper, perhaps in anticipation. I prepared Princess Vaeloria's garments—selecting from dozens of silken gowns, brushing strands of her golden hair until it gleamed like flame, applying perfume and subtle charms to accent her allure. My entire morning was spent with combs, pins, oils, and whispered incantations for beauty.
The princess's sisters had gathered, each elegant in their own way but none as commanding as Vaeloria. She had laughed coldly when I stumbled, making her repeat instructions as if to prove her inferiority before her siblings. I had endured it all without a word.
Now, standing among gold and glory, she kept her eyes low, hands clasped before her. Her dress was plain, the color of faded lavender, borrowed from one of the younger noblemaids who pitied her. She felt out of place, like a brushstroke that didn't belong on such a divine canvas.
But something stirred.
Music swelled. The orchestra began the ceremonial waltz, and the marble staircase behind the throne flared with ethereal light. From the veil of radiance descended Prince Lucien Elyrion.
Every eye turned toward him, and time itself seemed to hush. Clad in white regalia stitched with threads of gold and silver, he moved like he was born of light itself. His long silver-blonde hair fell like a waterfall down his shoulders, catching the chandelier's glow. Crimson eyes—piercing yet kind—scanned the crowd, his face the very picture of divine beauty. A high nose, sculpted cheekbones, lips soft yet strong. He was beyond human. He was Elyrion.
I felt my breath caught in my throat.
He descended step by step until he stood at the edge of the dance floor. With grace that defied reason, he extended a gloved hand toward the crowd—then to her.
Whispers turned to gasps. Murmurs clashed against stunned silence. Vaeloria's mouth opened slightly, her poised expression faltering. King Zeburel's eyes narrowed, and the nobles began to shift uncomfortably.
All this was replayed in my mind as I danced with the Prince, all while being careful not to miss a step.
I hadn't understand and still don't. I hadn't moved. My heart was thunder. My legs had been frozen...well, not until he pulled me into this dance.
Was he mocking me? Was this another cruel trick?
But there was no scorn in his eyes, only certainty. The kind of certainty that made the stars obey.
He stepped closer and had taken my hand gently, lifting her from the floor like I were spun of moonlight.
The orchestra played the waltz, a melody that rippled like silk through the air. As they moved, it was as though the world shrank to the size of the ballroom and every other soul vanished. Mirelleth felt the power in his arms, the calm rhythm of his breath, the way he led, not like a man of pride, but like one dancing with eternity itself.
My hands were trembling in his, my gaze fixed on the collar of his regal coat, too afraid to look up, too drawn to resist. I felt safe still, terrified, gloriously alive.
Vaeloria was livid. She stood at the base of the stairs, her smile a weapon, her poise strained to its limits. Her sisters whispered, their lips pressed tight in disbelief.
"How dare he…" Vaeloria muttered under her breath.
But even she could not interrupt the sacred first dance. Not in front of the world.
The court of Artherion watched as Mirelleth, nameless, lowly, unremarkable, danced with the son of light.
The music swelled again. Then faded. Silence. Applause.
Lucien bowed to her with elegance, his eyes lingering on hers.
The world returned.
And I stumbled back, breathless.
"You dance well," Lucien whispered, the king arose before the court.
"My people," his voice rang like sunlight through stained glass, "Artherion welcomes you."
And so began the night.