From the high dais, beneath the gilded canopy where the twin thrones loomed, the imperial couple watched the swirl of silk and light below. The Second Prince and Elira moved in perfect synchrony, their figures turning beneath the chandeliers as though the music itself obeyed them.
The Empress's eyes, sharp as polished obsidian, lingered on the pair. She leaned toward her husband, voice carrying like velvet edged with steel.
"Dear," she said with a smile that did not reach her eyes, "do you not think our son looks most fitting with the young lady?"
The Emperor's gaze followed hers, unblinking, cool as stone. "Fitting," he murmured, his tone deep enough that those seated nearby straightened instinctively. "But fitting does not always mean destined."
Her fingers brushed the armrest of her throne, as though idly tracing patterns in silk. "Still… there is promise."
At the far end of the hall, by the dessert table laden with sugared fruits and glittering confections, Serina Hysenberg was oblivious to such lofty judgments. A circle of young noblewomen surrounded her, their jeweled hairpieces bobbing as they leaned close, eager to catch her laughter.
"Oh! Try this one,Lady Serina. " a brunette urged, nudging a plate of candied figs toward her.
Serina's eyes lit up as she plucked one, her delight unfeigned. "Mmm! It's even sweeter than the rose jellies," she said, her voice bright. A few of the girls giggled, whispering that she looked like a child lost in paradise rather than a lady at court.
Yet, as she lifted another sugared fruit, her gaze strayed toward the dance floor. Elira, radiant in dark silk, twirled with the First Prince, their steps flawless, their presence commanding. Serina's lips parted, a faint sigh escaping before she could stop it.
"Look at them," one of the girls whispered behind her fan, eyes darting to Serina. "Like a story from a ballad."
"More like a game of crowns than a ballad," another replied dryly, popping a sugared almond between her teeth.
Serina didn't answer. She simply leaned forward a little, sugared fingers forgotten, watching as if her heart itself were caught in the rhythm of the waltz.
One of the bolder young ladies nudged her with a laugh. "Careful, Lady Serina—if you stare so hard, people will start to say you envy your friend."
Serina blinked, cheeks flushing softly. "Envy?" she echoed with a smile, shaking her head. "No. I… I only think.....she looks..... happy."
Her words were quiet, almost drowned by the chatter around her, yet something off . She returned to nibbling her sugared fruit, but her eyes never quite left the couple at the center of the floor.
Above, high upon the dais, the Empress followed that same line of sight. The faintest curve of her lips deepened, though whether in amusement or calculation none could tell.
—.—>>>>●●●●<<<<—.—
The music swelled one final time, then waned, drawing the dancers toward their closing steps. Elira moved as though carved into the rhythm itself, her gown trailing shadows across the polished marble. Every turn, every measured glide, felt heavier than mere ceremony—this was a stage, and every eye watched not her but the web she stood in.
'How predictable', she thought, her lashes lowered to veil the flicker in her gaze. 'The Empress already imagines a crown on my head. The Emperor measures me like a jewel to be weighed. And Sylus…'
Her partner's grip was firm, almost possessive. Prince Sylus's blue eyes had not strayed once as though this dance was a proclamation: This is mine.
The final notes trembled through the air, strings drawing long, delicate sighs. Sylus led her into the last elegant turn, then stilled. The ballroom erupted in applause like a crashing wave, but Elira heard it only distantly.
He bent slightly, his lips close enough that only she could hear:
"You dance well, Lady Rothermere. You've kept pace with me far better than I expected."
'If only you knew, Sylus… I have danced with you a hundred times before—in another life. I know your every step before you take it. '
Elira tilted her chin, her smile a glimmer of polished steel. "And you, Your Highness, lead better than I imagined."
His brows arched—an instant of surprise flickering across his proud mask—but he smoothed it away with a faint laugh.
"Sharp-tongued. I see why my mother favors you,and that alone takes my interestin you."
The applause continued, courtiers whispering behind jeweled fans, hungry for meaning in every exchange. Sylus, perfectly aware of their gaze, took her hand. With practiced grace, he lifted it to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. His eyes never left hers, dark and unyielding, a silent promise—or a claim.
Elira's heart did not flutter, though she let her lips curve as though it had. How easy it would be to believe this play, to forget the pyre that once consumed me.
He straightened, releasing her hand at last. "I must go to The Majesties. My father will wish to speak before the next toast."
"Of course," Elira murmured, dipping into a flawless curtsey. "Do convey to The Majesties my gratitude for the honor of this evening."
Sylus gave her a final, measuring look before striding toward the dais where the Emperor and Empress awaited, the nobles parting like a tide before him.
Elira stood alone amidst the fading applause, her hand still faintly warm where his lips had brushed it. She curled her fingers inward, lowering her gaze to hide the smile that ghosted her lips.
'Let him think he leads. The Game has only just begun. Son you'll be my pawn '
The thunder of applause ebbed into murmurs, then into the soft rustle of silks and hushed conversation. Elira straightened, her smile still fixed like porcelain, but her gaze drifted upward, away from the swirling nobles on the floor.
On the balcony that overlooked the hall, she caught sight of Baron Griffith. He stood apart from the others, his figure stiff against the gilded rail, eyes dark and sunken as though he bore a shadow heavier than the finery he wore. His hand tightened on his cane when he noticed her looking. For the briefest moment, their gazes met—and Elira's lips curved ever so slightly with curtsey.
The board is filling, she thought. And the pieces do not even know they are pieces.
Movement distracted her from below the balcony. A maid in Rothermere livery was guiding an elderly noblewoman toward the side corridor leading to the rest chambers. Her steps were quiet, her presence unremarkable—yet Elira knew better. That pale figure, head bowed in dutiful manner, was none other than Lira.
Elira's breath caught faintly, though her expression never faltered.
'Is this how it went in last life? Is this how Baron spotted Lira?'
'Even in this timeline, she weaves herself into places she should not belong.'
For a moment, just a moment Elira was like blank page just seeing the past unfold again.
' Reality itself will not shift, unless some pawns first break the rules and forget they were meant to obey.'
From his place on the balcony, Baron Griffith's gaze followed the maid. The cane trembled in his hand. His weathered face drained of color, his jaw parted as though the sight alone wrenched breath from him.
"No…"
The word was mouthed, not spoken, yet his lips formed it with painful clarity. His eyes widened, disbelief battling with recognition.
Lira passed beneath the balcony, her arm supporting the fragile lady, her eyes lowered. But when the baron leaned slightly over the rail, straining forward with a desperation unbecoming of his station, he caught a glimpse of her face as the candlelight fell across it.
His grip on the rail whitened. His voice cracked into the hush of the upper hall, though few below noticed.
"Alina…? My—my daughter?"