Elira and Serina, still side by side, rose gracefully from their curtsey. Their gowns, one gleaming like midnight starlight, the other like dawn's blush, shimmered beneath the unyielding gaze of the throne's bearers.
The Emperor regarded them only briefly, his expression carved in stone, but the Empress lingered. Her eyes—cool, crystalline, merciless—swept from one girl to the other.
"The daughters of the eclipse," she said at last, her voice smooth as silk yet heavy with implication. "How fitting that you stand together on this night."
The crowd stirred. Some gasped softly, others bent their heads lower, but all listened. The phrase carried weight, an omen that did not pass unnoticed.
Elira bowed lower, her voice steady. "It is the greatest honor to greet Your Majesties."
Beside her, Serina echoed, though her tone carried a faint tremor. "We are humbled by your presence."
The Empress's smile deepened, a curve sharp enough to draw blood. "So young. So radiant. One would think the gods themselves were kind to the empire tonight." Her words were sweet, but her eyes glimmered with calculation.
From the dais, Prince Sylus seized the pause, stepping forward. His cloak of black and gold unfurled behind him like a banner of intent. He bowed to his parents, then turned smoothly toward the girls.
"If it pleases Your Majesties," he said clearly, "I would claim Lady Elira Rothermere for the next dance."
The crowd gasped, a ripple of excitement and unease passing like wildfire. Serina's lips tightened, her expression faltering for the first time as she glanced at Elira. Their dance—cut short before its natural close.
The Empress's reply came swift, her tone leaving no room for refusal. "Indeed, you shall." Her hand lifted ever so slightly, commanding the orchestra to prepare. "Dance well, my son. The empire delights in harmony."
Serina's frown lingered, her hands clenching at her skirts, but she lowered her gaze. To resist the Empress, even by a glance, was folly.
Elira inclined her head, her voice calm despite the storm beneath her ribs. "As Her Majesty commands."
Sylus extended his hand toward her, his dark eyes glinting. "Then, Lady Elira, may I?"
Elira placed her hand lightly in his, her movements composed, though her heart was cold with calculation.
Around them, the ballroom buzzed with hushed voices, the nobles too skilled at gossip to hold their tongues even in so grave a moment:
"Did you see? The Empress herself sanctioned it."
"A match between House Rothermere and the crown—it would bind the empire tighter than chains."
"Or strangle it."
"Perhaps this is no simple dance… perhaps it is the first step of an arrangement."
The envoy prince leaned back in his chair, watching with a smile that did not touch his eyes. He sipped his wine as though enjoying a play staged only for his amusement.
And still, the Empress watched, her smile soft as a veil, her eyes sharp as a blade.
The strings of the orchestra swelled again, coaxing the dancers forward.
The first step of the second prince and the Rothermere daughter was taken.
And with it, the whispers grew louder, like serpents coiling in the shadows.
The music swelled again, smoother this time, though the tremor of unease still pulsed beneath its rhythm. Prince Sylus led Elira onto the center of the polished marble, his hand firm against hers, his posture calculated to display princely authority before the watching court.
Their steps fell into rhythm—measured, precise, elegant—but beneath the surface of grace lay a coil of unspoken tension.
Sylus's lips curved faintly as he leaned closer, his voice pitched for her ears alone, though every pair of eyes watched them as if they might divine his words from the way his mouth moved.
"You dance well, Lady Elira," he murmured. "Too well to hide in your father's shadow. Tell me—did you plan to steal the entire hall's attention with such… unconventional company?"
Elira's eyes did not falter; she matched his gaze as though the Empress herself had not just tethered her fate to his. Her smile was faint, her tone polite but edged with cool clarity.
"I had no such plan, Your Highness. The hall's attention is fickle—it wanders where it pleases. Tonight, it wandered to me. Tomorrow, it will wander elsewhere."
Sylus's grip tightened fractionally at her waist as they turned. "Humility does not suit you. Not when every whisper in this hall names you alongside me." His eyes flickered briefly toward the Empress, then back to her. "Do you hear them? They already imagine what a union of crown and Rothermere would mean."
Elira's lashes lowered just slightly, the shadow of her smile deepening. "Whispers, Your Highness, are like smoke. They choke those who breathe them in too deeply."
He chuckled low, his steps quickening just enough to pull her closer before releasing her into a graceful turn. "Sharp words. I had been told Duke Rothermere's daughter was gentle, pliant, easily charmed. Yet here you are, speaking as though you see through the court already."
"I was taught," Elira replied, her voice calm as silk, "that one who does not see through the court is quickly consumed by it."
For the briefest moment, Sylus's smile faltered, his obsidian eyes narrowing with interest. Then, with a tilt of his head, he smoothed it away, his tone shifting to something lower, more dangerous.
"Then perhaps, Lady Elira… you and I understand each other better than most."
Around them, the nobles whispered behind jeweled fans and stiff collars:
"Look how close he draws her."
"The Empress smiles… surely this is her design."
"If Rothermere's daughter is chosen, the balance will tilt irreversibly."
From her place at the edge of the floor, Serina watched, her lips pressed tight, her hands clenched in her skirts. She masked her frown with effort, but her gaze never left her friend—both proud and wounded, a silent storm she dared not voice beneath the Empress's watchful eyes.
The orchestra soared, and Sylus dipped Elira low, holding her a heartbeat longer than courtesy required. His voice brushed against her ear, velvet and iron.
"You may yet belong to me, Lady Elira. The court sees it already."
Elira's lips curved as she lifted her eyes to his. "Belong?" she echoed softly, her tone laced with quiet defiance. "Your Highness, I am not so easily claimed."
The music surged, and they spun again—two figures locked in step, every turn a battle disguised as elegance, every smile a blade hidden beneath silk.
———.
"Young Lord, please—get a hold on your anger!" Lance hissed, clinging desperately to Thorne's sleeve as the eldest Rothermere heir tried to storm toward the dance floor.
Thorne's face was crimson under skin, his jaw clenched so tight one could hear his teeth grind. "Leave me, Lance! How dare that smug little peacock pull my sister as if she were some—some thing he owned!"
His outburst drew several startled glances from passing nobles, but Thorne only puffed his chest higher, practically radiating murder.
"My Lord, you just can't kill him in front of the entire crowd, spun!" Lance hissed again, nearly tripping as he held Thorne back by sheer desperation.
"Then I'll wait until dessert!" Thorne barked, yanking against him like a bull dragging a farmer through the mud.
Wystan The stewardof HouseRothermere, who had been calmly standing in worry, sighed and muttered, "I prepared the poisonas you asked youngmaster. If he won't drink it, I will—at least then this humiliation will end quickly."
"You did?!" Thorne roared, whipping his head around. "Yes, brilliant! Slip it into Sylus's goblet! Make it look like indigestion!"
"Lord Thorne!" Lance nearly cried, trying to anchor his furious master. "This is a banquet, not a battlefield, we aren't supposed to do this.!"
By now, several nobles nearby were whispering, hiding their confusion behind fans. The sight of the heir of Rothermere wrestling with his knight while demanding poison was dangerously close to turning the solemn imperial ball into a battlefield of errors.
Meanwhile, blissfully unaware of her brother's meltdown, Elira twirled beneath the chandeliers, locked in the Second Prince's hold—her expression unreadable, though perhaps the faintest twitch of amusement curved her lips.