It was unlike anything Liv had ever seen.
The mask shimmered with threads of silver and gold, etched with symbols she didn't recognize—but somehow understood. One side was smooth and regal, the other wild and jagged, like lightning frozen in metal. It floated toward her, turning gently in the air, casting soft glints across the marble walls.
Liv's breath caught.
A mask? Not a crown?
But as it neared her face, she felt it—the weight of legacy, the pull of destiny. This wasn't just a disguise. It was a declaration.
Seth's voice softened, low and reverent, like a benediction whispered at the edge of a sacred rite.
"The crown is not always worn atop the head. Sometimes, it is the face we choose to show the world."
Liv nodded slowly. She understood.
The mask settled onto her face, molding to her skin with a warmth that felt like memory. It didn't hide her—it revealed her.
She was no longer just Liv.
She was Liviara Barath. Queen of the forgotten bloodline. Bearer of rebellion.
A hush fell over the room.
Then Seth stepped forward, her voice steady but tinged with sorrow.
"Your Majesty, I'm afraid we can't come with you. But be assured—when you need us, we'll be here."
Liv turned sharply. "Wait—what do you mean?"
But before she could reach them, the fairies raised their hands in unison. Their eyes shimmered with emotion—pride, fear, love—and then, with a snap of their fingers, they vanished.
The air trembled. A faint gust swept through the chamber, rustling the butterflies on Liv's gown. One wing flickered, dimmed, then reignited.
She blinked. That wasn't expected.
Her brows drew together. I guess I'm on my own, she thought, steadying herself with a slow breath.
But the thought didn't feel like a warning anymore. It felt like a beginning.
She stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed. Her gown shimmered with glowing butterflies, each wing pulsing softly like breath. The mask mirrored the same ethereal pattern, and even her heels carried the motif—delicate, radiant, alive. She looked like something conjured from moonlight and memory.
The marble floor beneath her heels echoed with quiet resolve.
"How do I look?" she asked, half-playful, half-nervous.
Anord's eyes never left her.
You do have your mother's look, he thought, a flicker of memory tightening his chest.
He saw her again—Serenya Barath, standing in the same hall, her eyes fierce with defiance, her voice trembling with conviction. She had worn no crown, only a threadbare cloak and a fire in her soul. And now, her daughter stood before him, cloaked in light.
"If the sun dared hide behind dark clouds," he said, his voice low and reverent, "your aura would command it to shine. You are stunning—simply perfection. You don't need the moon to guide your path, no matter how dark it gets. You are the light."
His eyes glowed—not with magic, but with reflection. Of her.
Liv held his gaze for a moment longer than she meant to. The compliment lingered in the air, warm and unflinching, like sunlight refusing to fade. She wasn't used to being seen like that—not just admired, but understood. It stirred something in her chest, something fragile and unfamiliar.
She looked down briefly, as if the butterflies on her gown might offer answers. Their glow was steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. Her fingers brushed the edge of her mask, tracing the delicate wings.
This isn't armor, she thought. It's truth. And I'm ready to wear it.
She lifted her chin.
"Thank you," she said softly, her voice steadier than she expected. "I wasn't sure I could pull this off. But… maybe I'm more ready than I thought."
Anord smiled, but said nothing. His silence wasn't empty—it was reverent, protective. Like he knew this moment belonged to her.
Liv met Anord's eyes again. There was something behind them—knowledge cloaked in silence. A flicker of withheld truth.
"I must guess," she murmured, her tone laced with curiosity and challenge, "that you know how I'm supposed to reach the banquet?"
She already knew the first part had been severed—cut off, sabotaged. The second part? That was a mountain of its own.
A knowing beam lit Anord's face. Do you think I would start something without planning the end? he mused, the thought blooming like a secret flower.
"I shall guide you to the banquet door," he intoned, voice low and lyrical. "Beyond that… the path is yours to carve."
Liv considered the offer. It was fair. After all, it was her shell that needed cracking—her belief system, her borrowed identity, the mask she'd worn for eighteen years before this one.
She inclined her head. "I can work with that."
"Then come, Your Majesty." He gestured with a graceful sweep of his hand, like a conductor beckoning the first note. "Follow me."
Liv turned toward the door, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. Each step echoed like a heartbeat. She didn't know what waited beyond the threshold, but she knew who she was as she crossed it.
Not just a girl in a glowing gown.
A queen in the making.
Anord pulled the door open.
Outside, beneath the moon's silver gaze, stood a white horse. It glowed faintly, as if stitched from starlight. Its mane shimmered with the same ethereal pulse as Liv's gown.
Of course, she thought. Tonight is all about drawing attention.
She had lived her life in the shadows. This new path—this emergence—had its own mountains. But she was ready to climb.
Anord's gaze met hers again, steady and unreadable.
"Your ride," he murmured, voice like velvet over stone. "I trust you know how to command it?"
She offered a nod, quiet and assured.
"Take this as well." He extended a small white bottle, smooth and cold in her palm.
Her brow lifted beneath the half-golden mask. "What is it?"
Anord's smile was faint, almost wistful.
"When the Duke's guards—or the prince himself—draw too close, shatter it upon the ground. It will grant you passage."
Liv's smile curled, slow and thoughtful. It brushed the edge of her glowing gown.
Topical, she mused. Everything laid down. Fascinating.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, playful but sharp. I'm coming back for you, Anord. I have questions. But first—my grand entrance.
"Thank you, Anord. For everything."
He shook his head, solemn and sincere. "No, Your Majesty. The honor is mine."
He bowed low, then formed a step with his hands.
"Allow me," he whispered, "to lift you into your legend."
Liv stepped onto his hand and swung herself onto the horse. Its back was warm, its breath steady beneath her.
She looked down at Anord one last time. "Thanks."
He met her gaze, silent and steadfast.
She turned forward, gripping the reins. The butterflies on her gown fluttered in rhythm with the horse's breath.
Here I come, nobles. Prince Ethan. I hope you receive me with open arms.