As expected. People are so easy to read.
Prince Ethan's thoughts were quiet but sharp as his steps slowed, nearing the center of the ballroom. The crowd parted like silk, eyes wide, mouths whispering behind jeweled hands.
Why a flash banquet just to celebrate a birthday?
He scanned the room—gilded chandeliers, polished marble, nobles dressed like peacocks. All this… for her?
Nova stood waiting, spine straight, hands folded at her waist. Her heart pounded beneath layers of silk and composure.
Just turn like a noblewoman. Put on your smile. He doesn't bite.
She gritted her teeth, then turned—slowly, deliberately. A trained smile bloomed across her cheeks.
"Prince Ethan," she said, voice smooth, practiced. "How good of you to attend my birthday celebration."
Ethan mirrored her smile, his gaze steady, unreadable.
"Gratitude for the invitation," he replied. His voice was low, rich, with a hint of amusement. "Your beauty is indeed exceptional as it has been rumored."
Nova bowed gracefully, her white-gloved hand extending toward him.
He leaned in, lips brushing the back of her hand.
You have good looks, he thought. Nice
smile—if it's real. But what's beneath that smile?
He let go.
All eyes were on them.
From across the room, Duchess Olivia gave a subtle thumbs-up, her expression gleaming with pride. Nova caught the gesture, her gaze flicking toward her mother.
The speech. Say the speech.
But her mind was blank. The carefully rehearsed lines had vanished.
She improvised.
"Let me usher you to your seat," she said, voice light, almost airy.
Ethan nodded, one brow raised.
"Right after you."
They moved together, steps in sync, the ballroom watching as if the fate of the kingdom hung on every glance.
Liv walked hesitantly in her apartment, each step slow and watchful, her bare feet whispering against the cold wooden floor.
She stopped near the spot.
The knock had come from there—beneath the wooden floorboards, the air felt heavier than it should.
She dared not get too close.
Her breath hitched. Her throat was dry. She swallowed hard, clenched her fists.
"Hello?" she called out, her voice crackling with fear.
Silence.
Then—
A voice.
Smooth. Poetic. Familiar.
"Open up if you want your desires fulfilled…
Don't open. If you want them buried."
Liv froze.
Her eyes locked on the floorboards. The voice had layers—like velvet over steel. It was gentle, but sharp. Playful, but dangerous.
I know that voice.
Her heart thudded.
It sounds like Anord Brene.The tailor.
But doubt crept in.
What if it's not him? What if whatever's down there means to harm me?
She glanced toward the door. The guard was outside—silent, not moving. He wouldn't come in time. Not if something went wrong.
"Time is of the essence," the voice repeated.
This time, it was clearer.
Liv's breath caught.
It must be him. It has to be.
She knelt slowly, her fingers brushing the edge of the floor. Dust clung to her skin. She spotted a loose plank—just slightly raised. Good enough for her hand.
If this person wanted to hurt me… they would've done it already.
She hesitated.
Should I report this to the guard? Or open it?
Her fingers hovered.
He said desires fulfilled… What desires? Freedom? Truth?
She pressed her palm to the wood.
It was warm.
Okay. I'm doing this.
She slid her fingers beneath the plank.
And pulled.
To Liv's surprise, as she pried up the fourth plank, the wood gave way with a soft groan—revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.
She leaned over, breath shallow.
A basement? No… a tunnel.
The air shifted—cool and dry, tinged with the scent of old stone and lavender oil. Then—
Click.
Lights flickered on.
Liv gasped, stumbling back. The sudden glow painted the walls in soft amber, revealing smooth stone, polished steps, and a corridor that stretched beyond sight.
A second surprise greeted her.
A man stood at the base of the stairs.
Lean. Impeccably dressed. His coat was tailored to perfection, silver-threaded cuffs gleaming under the lights. His posture was upright, graceful. His eyes—sharp, calculating—missed nothing.
"Hello?" he said, voice calm, melodic.
Liv halted.
Her heart thudded.
I don't believe this.
"I've lived in this quarter as far as I can remember," she whispered. "And there's been a tunnel down here all along?"
She stared, stunned.
It must be.
Anord smiled.
"You've awakened to a whole new side… revealed," he said, turning smoothly on his heel.
His footsteps echoed softly as he walked away.
"Keep up," he called over his shoulder, "or you'll find the banquet is over."
Liv blinked.
Banquet?
She stepped onto the stairs, her feet moving before her mind could catch up.
"How do you know I want to go to the banquet?" she asked, voice rising with urgency.
But Anord didn't answer.
He was already halfway down the tunnel, his silhouette framed by the golden light.
Liv ran after him, her breath quickening, her fingers still curled around the comb.
The tunnel swallowed her steps.
And the world above faded behind her.
The tunnel swallowed them whole.
Stone walls pressed close, slick with moisture and veined with roots that pulsed faintly, like veins beneath skin. The air was cool and damp, tinged with the scent of earth and something older—metal, perhaps, or forgotten magic. Their footsteps echoed in uneven rhythm, the sound bouncing off the curved ceiling like whispers trying to find their voice.
Dim lanterns flickered along the path, casting trembling shadows that danced across Liv's face. She kept close to Anord, though she didn't trust him. Not fully. But the silence between them was thick, and the deeper they went, the more it felt like the world above was dissolving—banquets, the prince, expectations—all fading into the stone.
This place has secrets, she thought. And so does he.
They reached a narrow archway carved with symbols she didn't recognize. Anord pressed his palm against the stone, and with a soft groan, the wall shifted.
Beyond it: his workshop.
It was like stepping into a different realm.
Warmth greeted her first—soft and dry, like the breath of a hearth. The scent of cedarwood and lavender curled around her, mingling with the faint tang of iron and ink. The walls were lined with shelves, each cluttered with tools, bolts of fabric, and glass jars filled with powders and pigments. A mannequin stood in the corner, draped in half-finished velvet, its eyeless face turned toward her as if watching.
The light here was golden, spilling from a single lamp on the worktable. It cast long, deliberate shadows—everything felt curated, intentional, like a stage waiting for its actors.
Liv stepped forward, her boots clicking against the polished stone floor.
She ran her fingers along a roll of silk—cool, smooth, almost too perfect.
This evening is very strange… in a weird way.
She turned to Anord, who was already moving toward the far wall.
"So I suppose you have all things planned," she said, voice low. "If you knew I needed you tonight."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he opened a narrow closet, its hinges creaking like a sigh.
From within, he retrieved a box.
Wrapped in deep blue cloth, tied with a silver ribbon.
He placed it on the table, then stepped back.
Liv stared at it.
The shadows seemed to lean in.
What's inside?