The chandeliers blazed with shards of sun, crystals scattering firelight across the marble floor. The orchestra swelled, violins and drums threading together in a rhythm that matched the pulse of the court itself.
Already the ballroom was alive. Silk gowns swept in arcs of color, jewels sparked like captured stars, and voices layered into a hum that was equal parts laughter and calculation. Every noble here knew what tonight meant — this was not a ball merely to celebrate. It was a stage.
And its centerpiece was her.
When the herald's trumpet cut through the noise, the hum died.
The carved doors opened wide, and Metheea stepped into the hall on Azrayel's arm.
The hush was not silence, but the sharp intake of a hundred breaths at once. Heads tilted. Fans stilled. Eyes widened and narrowed in equal measure.
The lost princess…
She walks among us…
Metheea felt it all pressing in, the weight of their stares prickling across her skin like a hundred fine needles. But she did not falter. Her chin was high, her expression smooth, the careful mask drilled into her since the day she was thrust back into this gilded prison.
Azrayel's hand at her side was firm, steadying, though to the court, it was nothing more than a prince escorting his sister. To her, it was a tether in a sea that threatened to drag her under.
They walked the length of the hall until the dais loomed, where the Emperor sat enthroned.
Therion's presence was a blade sheathed in velvet. His crown caught the light, but it was his eyes that held the hall still — cold, measuring, carved of the same iron as the throne beneath him.
At his right stood High Chancellor Malrick, quill tucked neatly behind his ear even here, his parchment rolled tight beneath one arm.
Azrayel and Metheea reached it side by side, and as one, they lowered themselves in reverence.
Azrayel bent into a deep bow, while Metheea swept into a curtsey, her skirts pooling around her like liquid silver.
In perfect unison, their voices carried.
"Your Majesty."
Therion's voice rolled out, regal and steady. "The blood of Katarthan stands before us."
It was not a welcome. It was a claim.
The orchestra struck its first grand chord. Trumpets blared and drums thundered.
Azrayel turned to her, extending his hand.
"Will you dance, Princess?"
Metheea placed her hand in his. Their fingers brushed — too long, too deliberate — before he guided her to the center of the polished floor. The whispers swelled like surf against a cliff, speculation sparking across the room as the crown prince led her into the first dance.
The music lifted.
Their steps began in perfect precision, the formal patterns of court. His palm pressed lightly to her waist, her fingers resting on his shoulder, their bodies circling in the ancient choreography of power. Yet beneath the formality was something sharper, a tension thrumming just under the skin.
Her body moved without falter and for a heartbeat, Metheea was grateful. Grateful that back in the academy, she had been drilled in the dances of Katarthan, and that the palace's tutor had quietly reinforced her steps in the days leading to this.
Without those lessons, she might have stumbled now, under the weight of a hundred watching eyes.
"They are staring," she murmured without lifting her gaze from the polished floor.
Azrayel leaned in, his voice pitched low, silk over steel. "I do not like their eyes on you."
"That is all they can do," she replied, lips barely moving. "Look."
"And that," he said, the line of his jaw unyielding, "is already too much."
Her breath caught, but she did not falter as he drew her through the next turn. Around them, nobles whispered behind jeweled fans, some with envy, others with suspicion. Daughters of dukes measured her gown against their own. Sons of lords wondered what alliances might be brokered—or broken—by the curve of her smile.
"Why?" she asked softly, as he twirled her out, his hand never leaving hers. "Why do you not like it?"
He did not answer with words. Instead, he pulled her back into his hold and in one fluid motion dipped her low, his hand braced firm just above her knee, steadying her as the world tilted.
She reddened instantly.
She did not know if it was from the pressure of his hand on her leg, searing through the fabric, or from the fact that she already knew the answer.
The court stirred.
Nobles from Makuteya and Dythrid shifted in their seats, some frowning, others whispering at the boldness. Too close, too intimate.
But the Katarthans only watched with measured calm; here, dances were meant to mimic the art of battle with steps like strikes, twirls like parries, dips like finishing blows.
When the final note fell, applause crashed down like a storm.
After the dance, the line of gifts began.
Noble houses stepped forward one by one — jeweled chalices, dragon-thread tapestries, casks of wine pressed in provinces that begged for imperial favor. Each gift gleamed, but none were simple. Every object was wrapped in unspoken demand: remember us, reward us, grant us what we hunger for.
The merchants of Makuteya came next, their silks and golden baubles glittering almost as much as their words. They bowed low, their smiles wide, each phrase of congratulation polished to a mirror sheen.
Yet beneath the courtesy was an edge Metheea could not ignore. Their eyes swept the hall with practiced subtlety, lingering on the spaces where Count Verry should have stood.
A chill prickled down her spine. They still don't know.
She forced her fingers to remain still against her gown, though her heart stumbled in her chest.
Her throat tightened. It was not only their silks and jewels that glittered. It was suspicion, thinly veiled, coiled between every word they spoke.
Then the envoy of Dythrid stepped forward. His robes were emerald edged in black, the fabric heavy as if it carried the weight of an oath. Upon his breast gleamed the sigil of Dythrid — a black eagle with wings outstretched, talons clutching a crown.
The air shifted. Conversation died, fans stilled, even the musicians faltered on their strings. The court seemed to hold its breath as one.
Metheea's stomach knotted.
Duke Poolij.
She knew that face. Those cold, calculating eyes had often lingered in her childhood doorways, always speaking to her mother in low tones she was not meant to hear. Words about loyalty. About sacrifice. About bloodlines.
She had been too young then to understand, but old enough to feel the menace behind them. And now, standing here draped in the authority of Dythrid, he looked no less dangerous but only older, sharper, more certain of the power he carried into this room.
Every step he took across the polished marble felt like the scrape of a blade.
"Princess Metheea Feylisse," Duke Poolij intoned, his voice cutting clean across the hall. "Daughter of Katarthan's throne and Dythrid's blood alike. No court may claim you without remembering the other."
He paused, letting the silence bite, then gestured. "We bring a token from the land of your mother — the land that still names you its own."
The silence stretched.
Then, deliberately, Azrayel set his hand on her shoulder. A quiet gesture, yet it rang louder than Poolij's declaration. The court saw it for what it was: a warning, a claim, a shield. She was seated on Katarthan's dais, and Katarthan would not let her be taken.
Poolij's gaze lingered on that hand, and his smile tightened — thin as a knife's edge.
A servant stepped from behind him. Not bearing chest or jewel, but leading a young woman.
"She is sent to serve at your side," the envoy said smoothly, inclining his head. "A token, if you will, of Dythrid's devotion — a reminder of duties that bind us all."
Gasps rippled sharp and fast. Fans snapped shut. Whispers hissed: A spy… a claim… a chain in flesh.
She wanted to spit the word back at him—devotion—but the hall was a stage, and she could not shatter the performance without shattering herself.
Therion's expression remained unreadable. Malrick's quill scraped once against parchment, the sound punctuating the tension.
Azrayel's hand twitched at his side, jaw set tight enough to crack. His eyes flicked to her, a low growl curling in his voice, meant only for her.
"I can have them cut down where they stand."
Metheea's heart jolted—not at the threat, but at the raw promise behind it. She tilted her head just slightly, lips barely parting.
"No. Not here. Not now."
Her glare didn't waver, but her refusal seemed to steady her. She straightened on the dais, smoothing her skirts as if unbothered. The court would see only poise and none of the storm twisting inside her.
She inclined her head toward Poolij, her smile cold but flawless.
"Katarthan thanks Dythrid for its… devotion. Your gift is received with honor."
Poolij's nod was subtle, a thread pulling the invisible chains tighter. The hall exhaled, unaware of the silent war being waged.
She didn't have a choice.
Poolij had been clever, placing her in full view of the court where every gesture would be read as a claim or a challenge. Each nod, each careful smile, was not courtesy — it was a declaration of Dythrid's intent.
To refuse openly would be to spark outrage, to signal weakness, to give Dythrid a reason to strike. Even standing still, she carried the weight of two kingdoms, and every eye in the hall measured how far Katarthan would bend before breaking.
Her smile did not waver, yet inside, a fire burned.