The royal capital of Eloryndra pulsed with excitement.
The sky blazed with sunset gold, casting long shadows across the spires of crystal and brass. Banners fluttered from every tower—scarlet and silver, embroidered with the phoenix crest of the ruling House Virellion. Streets were swept clean, flowers lined the marble paths, and servants rushed to prepare the event that would alter the fate of kingdoms: The Midnight Masquerade.
A ball thrown in honor of an heir unknown.
And Elara was walking straight into it.
Kael adjusted the mask on her face—a delicate thing of white fire feathers and gold thread, hiding the upper half of her face but allowing her violet eyes to glow like stardust beneath. Her gown was flame silk, woven with illusion magic—each movement sent sparks of silver light cascading from the fabric. She looked like living flame.
"Are you ready?" Kael asked.
"No," Elara whispered. "But I'll do it anyway."
They entered through the servants' gate, passing unnoticed through corridors of wealth and tension. Kael handed her a small scroll—written in invisible ink, to be used only if needed.
"If anything goes wrong, run," he told her.
Elara gave a sharp nod and disappeared into the crowd.
Inside the ballroom, magic glittered like frost in the air. A thousand masked nobles danced across the floor of enchanted glass. Floating chandeliers hovered above them, suspended on spells older than memory. Music flowed from instruments that played themselves, guided by unseen hands.
And at the heart of it all, seated on the Flame Throne, was Crown Prince Alric Virellion.
His mask was made of obsidian and sapphire, and his gaze swept the crowd like a hawk eyeing prey. At his right stood his advisor—a pale man with a serpent's smile. On his left, an empty seat remained—for the one who would one day rule beside him.
Elara stepped into the ballroom, her presence like a ripple in still water. Heads turned. Whispers began. No one recognized her, yet everyone noticed her.
A noblewoman in emerald silk leaned toward her companion. "Who is she?"
"I don't know," the man murmured. "But I want to."
Elara felt the stir of ancient magic in her chest—the Ember Crown's power responding to the palace. She closed her eyes briefly. The ghosts of queens past whispered at her ear.
"They'll smile at your face and poison your wine."
"All masks are lies, child. But some are necessary."
A hand extended before her. "May I have this dance?"
Elara opened her eyes.
It was him.
Prince Alric.
He was taller up close, more striking than any painting. His voice was a deep, steady current, and his touch was warm as he pulled her onto the dance floor. The music shifted.
"Who are you?" he asked, curiosity hidden behind courtly charm.
Elara smiled. "Does it matter?"
Alric smirked. "Only if I want to remember you."
They danced.
The world blurred around them—spinning gold and violins, laughter and longing. Elara moved with grace she didn't know she possessed, every step guided by something older, something royal. Alric watched her like a puzzle he couldn't solve.
"You're not from court," he said after a while.
"No," she replied.
"Yet you walk like a queen."
"I walk like someone who knows where she's going."
He laughed softly. "Dangerous words. Many here don't."
Their dance slowed.
"I'll find out who you are," Alric promised.
Elara's eyes sparked. "And if I don't want to be found?"
"Then I'll chase a shadow until dawn."
Before she could reply, the music ended. Applause filled the hall. Elara stepped back, her heart pounding—not from fear, but something stranger.
Something dangerous.
She turned to leave. But before she could, a scream shattered the air.
A noblewoman collapsed, convulsing—her mask falling to reveal eyes glowing with corrupted fire. Guards rushed forward. A priest called for protection wards. The music stopped.
And in the sudden silence, Elara felt it.
A curse.
Someone had slipped a cursed object into the crowd. A test. Or a trap.
And it was aimed at her.
She reached out, summoning fire—not to burn, but to purify. Her fingers glowed gold as she touched the woman's forehead. The corruption hissed and melted. The crowd gasped.
Magic. Ancient. Royal.
Alric stood frozen.
"You…" he breathed. "That wasn't court magic. That was—"
Elara vanished before he could finish.
Back through the servants' gate. Down the halls. Into the shadows. Kael was waiting.
"They know," she said.
"I saw."
Elara clenched her fists. "That wasn't random. Someone knew I'd be there. They sent the curse."
Kael nodded. "They're flushing you out. The court is starting to guess."
"They don't just suspect me," she said bitterly. "They fear me."
He gave her a long look. "Then let them."
Later that night, Elara sat alone on a rooftop overlooking the city. Lights glittered like stars. Bells rang in distant towers.
She remembered the way Alric had looked at her—charmed, curious, wary. He didn't know her truth.
Not yet.
But soon he would.
And when he did… everything would change.
Far below the palace, in the crypts of stone and bone, a ritual was unfolding.
A cloaked figure lit candles in a circle of blood. He opened a book bound in dragon hide and began to chant in a forgotten tongue.
A single phrase echoed: "The Hidden Flame must not reign."
From the shadows, something ancient stirred.