The grand hall of the Solaris Palace shimmered under the light of a thousand crystal chandeliers, their reflections dancing across the marble floors like scattered stars. Nobles draped in silks and jewels laughed behind gloved hands, their voices a practiced melody of false pleasantries. At the very heart of it all stood Lilian de Valtoria, the Northern Duke's only daughter, her smile as polished and sharp as the silver knife tucked discreetly into her sash.
"Lady Lilian, your dress is exquisite! The prince is so fortunate."
"Truly, a match blessed by the gods."
She inclined her head, her violet eyes glinting with practiced warmth. "You flatter me," the lie sliding effortlessly from her lips, as smooth and cold as the poisoned wine she suspected was already on its way.
A servant offered her a crystal flute of golden wine. She took it, her fingers brushing the stem just enough to feel the faint residue of poison—weak, amateurish. How quaint.
Someone here had tried to drug her. She didn't react, didn't allow her gaze to betray a flicker of recognition. Instead, she lifted the glass to her lips—and subtly, imperceptibly, switched it with the one in the hand of Lady Seraphina, a woman who had spent the last hour sneering at her from behind a jeweled fan.
Let her enjoy her own medicine. Lilian felt a brief, almost imperceptible tremor of satisfaction.
Across the room, Crown Prince Cedric stood surrounded by fawning admirers, his golden hair catching the light like a manufactured halo. His gaze flickered to her, then quickly away, as if she were a mildly inconvenient shadow on the opulent wall. Beside him, Elara, the so-called "fallen noble" with her perpetually doe eyes and trembling lower lip, clung to his arm like ivy on a crumbling, desperate wall.
Lilian's nails dug into her palm, the sharp points biting through her delicate glove.
Pathetic. The word was a venomous whisper in her mind.
Then—pain.
A searing headache split her skull like an axe cleaving through ice. Her vision blurred, the grand hall twisting into a grotesque carnival of swirling colors. Memories that weren't hers surged forward, a tidal wave of foreign knowledge crashing into her carefully constructed world—
—A novel. A story. Her story. And she was the villainess.
She was the one destined to lose everything. The prince would betray her, her family would fall into ruin and disgrace, and she would die alone, her pleas for mercy echoing unheard in a dark, forgotten cell. Begging for mercy that never came.
Her knees buckled. The flute slipped from her fingers, shattering on the polished marble floor with a sharp, echoing clink.
"Lady Lilian!"
Voices swarmed around her, but they sounded distant, muffled, as if she were submerged underwater. She saw Cedric finally turn, his expression more annoyed than genuinely concerned, a faint wrinkle marring his perfect brow. Elara's doe eyes widened—not with worry, but with something cold and sharp, something like anticipation, a predator's gleam.
She knows. The realization was a shard of ice in Lilian's chest. She knows, and she revels in it.
Lilian's gloved hand shot out, gripping the edge of a nearby table, her knuckles white. The world tilted precariously, but she refused to collapse. Not here. Not now. Not in front of them. Never.
A servant rushed forward, concern etched on his face. "My lady, should I—"
"Don't touch me." Her voice was a whip-crack of ice, thin and dangerous. The servant recoiled instantly, as if slapped.
Just then, the grand doors to the hall burst open with a resounding thud.
A wave of murmurs rippled through the stunned crowd as Duke Kael Valtoria, the infamous "Ice Duke," strode into the hall. His black cloak billowed behind him, the silver fur trim bristling like the fur of a formidable wolf, and the very temperature in the room seemed to plummet, a palpable chill settling over the gossiping nobles.
His glacial eyes, colder than any northern winter, locked onto Lilian, cutting through the throngs of people.
"We're leaving." His voice, though quiet, resonated with an undeniable authority that brooked no argument.
No one dared stop him as he reached her, his hand gripping her arm firmly but not unkindly, steering her swiftly towards the exit. Behind them, Cedric finally stepped forward, his voice dripping with an almost theatrical false concern. "Your Grace, surely—"
The duke didn't even glance back, his powerful form an unyielding wall. "The next time my daughter is unwell in your care, Prince, I will not be so courteous." The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air, sharper than any blade.
The carriage ride home was silent, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Lilian stared out the window, the ornate streetlights blurring into streaks of gold, her mind racing at a dizzying pace.
She remembered.
The novel. Her cruel, predetermined fate. The betrayal that was not a future event but a dark, festering reality already unfolding around her.
Her father's voice, rough but not unkind, cut through her thoughts, pulling her back to the present. "What happened?"
She turned to him slowly, her violet eyes no longer reflecting the light of crystal chandeliers, but a steely, nascent resolve. "I saw the truth, Father."
The duke studied her, his gaze sharp enough to flay skin, searching for any hint of weakness. Then, to her profound surprise, a slow, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips.
"Good."
That night, in the solitary privacy of her chambers, Lilian stood before her mirror, illuminated only by the flickering candlelight. She peeled off her delicate gloves, revealing the half-moon marks her nails had left in her palms, crescent-shaped indentations where she had gripped herself in silent agony.
A faint line of blood welled in the crescents, a stark crimson against her pale skin.
She lifted her gaze to her reflection, a chillingly calm smile spreading across her lips. Reaching into a hidden compartment in her dressing table, she pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden box. Inside, a cluster of pale, silken moths stirred. She selected one, its wings brushing her fingertip like dry lace.
"Soon," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "Soon, you'll have more than just silk to consume."
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