The long-awaited day of the royal ball had finally dawned, and Velrathis was alive with feverish anticipation. Such occasions were rare, and even those unlikely to glimpse the King himself found reason to attend—for power flowed through proximity, and the court was brimming with nobles and influencers eager to forge alliances. Seamstresses scurried to deliver gowns to gilded doorsteps, while others hurried to fetch their own from modest tailors.
Inside the castle, the atmosphere was electric. Servants dashed across marble floors, arms full of silk and crystal. Chandeliers were polished until they blazed like captive suns. No one dared slack; the King's eye was everywhere.
Meanwhile, in the throne room, Eamon Silverclaw stood at rigid attention before King Alaric.
"Any news of her whereabouts?" Alaric's voice echoed, low and dangerous.
"No, Your Majesty," Eamon replied. "I've searched every corner of Velrathis. Not a stone left unturned. The girl in the portrait does not exist—at least, not here."
Alaric's gaze hardened. "I cannot be mistaken. She spoke our tongue. She belongs to Velrathis."
"Permission to speak freely?"
"Granted."
Eamon exhaled. "Were it anyone else making such a claim, I'd think them delusional."
A sly smile tugged at Alaric's lips. "Careful, Eamon. You tread on thin ice." Then, dismissively: "Enough. Your sister has been asking for you. Go."
Eamon frowned. "That little witch again? What schemes is she weaving now?"
"If you don't know, am I to? Keep her in check. She has a talent for overstepping."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Eamon bowed and departed. At home, he exchanged pleasantries with his parents before retreating to his chambers. He needed rest before the ball.
"Eamon—you're back." Morgana greeted him with feigned warmth.
"Spare me the act. What do you want?"
"Just to know what you've been up to lately."
"Nothing I can share. The King's business. Understand?"
"Yes, brother."
"Good. Now leave me. I need to prepare."
As soon as he disappeared into the bath, Morgana prowled through his room. Her sharp eyes caught a folded parchment on the bed. Unfurling it, she discovered a painted portrait of a young woman she did not recognize. Velrathian, no doubt, but unfamiliar.
"So… this is the phantom girl the King sent you to find," she whispered darkly, folding it back.
Evening arrived swiftly. The castle glowed with golden firelight, its chandeliers spilling brilliance across vaulted halls. Music swelled, laughter echoed, and the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine perfumed the air. Nobles swept in like jewels come to life.
"Has everyone arrived?" Alaric asked from his raised seat.
"Not yet, sire," Eamon replied. "Lady Morgana is absent, and the Duke and Baron's households have yet to arrive."
Alaric's smile was thin. "Duke Cedric—always so cautious. We'll give them time."
Moments later, two carriages rolled to a halt at the castle gates. From one stepped Lady Rowena Vale, the Duke's daughter, radiant in cream silk that caught the torchlight like woven moonlight. From the other emerged Lady Marissa Voss, bold in crimson, her beauty daring and sharp.
Rowena, unwilling to draw attention, veered away from the throng as soon as she entered. She let herself wander through quiet corridors, fingertips trailing along cool stone, her eyes drinking in the magnificence of the castle. Lost in thought, she collided with a figure—broad, tall, commanding.
"My lord—I beg your pardon." She dipped quickly, realizing too late she had stumbled into a pureblood. Her heart raced.
"No harm done," Eamon said smoothly. His eyes narrowed in interest. "Which house claims such a lady who wanders alone, away from the crowd?"
"I am Rowena Vale, daughter of Duke Cedric," she murmured, head bowed.
"Would Lady Vale care to join me for the feast?"
Rowena hesitated. Her father had warned her to avoid attention. But fate, it seemed, placed her directly into the path of the King's right hand. And he was dangerously handsome.
"It would be my honor," she said, slipping her hand into his.
From above, Morgana watched, envy twisting in her chest. "So my brother fancies the little dove," she muttered. "But even the noblest human cannot rival the blood of our kind. She is nothing but a pretty face. He had better use his head, not his heart."
Her gaze flicked toward the dais—and froze. The King himself was watching Rowena. Morgana's pulse quickened with fear. But when she looked closer, she realized the glint in Alaric's eyes was not desire—it was calculation. That was worse.
Later, in his study, Alaric brooded over scattered scrolls, a cup of dark wine untouched in his hand. The plague of black magic spreading through the North gnawed at his thoughts. A knock roused him.
"Enter."
Eamon bowed. "You summoned me, Your Majesty."
"Yes. What news from the North?"
"There are leads. I'll ride out tomorrow."
"Good." Alaric's gaze sharpened. "And the girl you escorted earlier—who is she?"
"Lady Rowena Vale of the Duke's house."
"Interesting. She is not the one I seek. But the resemblance… uncanny. Sister, perhaps. Or cousin."
Eamon frowned. "But the Duke has no daughters save Rowena."
"Not officially." Alaric's smile was thin and knowing. "It seems the Duke hides more than he reveals. Summon her. I will speak with her myself."
Rowena's heart thundered as she was led to the throne room. This was precisely what she had feared. She fell to her knees before the King, bowing her head.
"Do you know why you stand before me?" Alaric's voice was soft, dangerous.
"No, Your Majesty."
"I've encountered one who looks very much like you. I seek her. Tell me—how do you explain this?"
"Your Majesty…" Rowena swallowed hard. "I am the only daughter of Duke Cedric and Duchess Elara. I know of no cousin from my father's side."
"Only daughter?" Alaric pressed, eyes narrowing.
"Yes, sire. I've lived with my grandmother until recently. If my father has secrets, they are his alone."
Alaric leaned forward, studying her. She held her breath.
"If I find even a grain of falsehood in your words, you will die for it."
"Yes, Your Majesty. I would not dare lie."
"Dismissed."
Rowena all but fled, her pulse still hammering in her throat.
Alaric gestured to Eamon. "End the feast. Clear the hall. Lock the gates."
"Yes, sire."
When the revelry was silenced, Alaric retreated alone to his study. The changes in his body were worsening. Hunger. Darkness. Power clawing at his veins. If he remained among the crowd any longer, he feared what he might do.