The Ariann Kingdom was a realm that stood proudly among the top three kingdoms of the known world. Its banners, embroidered with gold-threaded suns, stretched across the capital city like rays of light blessing the common people. Yet tonight, even the grandeur of Ariann's capital seemed to pale before the brilliance of the Royal Palace, for it was the night of the grand banquet—an occasion so prestigious that nobles traveled from every corner of the continent to attend.
Inside the palace's eastern wing, Elena sat before a polished mirror, her fingers nervously playing with the edge of her gown. The silk was crimson, adorned with tiny diamonds that caught the flickering lamplight, making her seem as though she was wrapped in starlight. Her maids worked silently, pinning her raven-black hair into a delicate cascade of waves, letting a jeweled comb rest just above her ear.
"You look like the goddess descended," one of the maids whispered.
Elena offered a soft smile, but her heart refused to settle. She had been chosen as the child of prophecy—a title she had not asked for but could never escape. Tonight, she was to be betrothed to Damon, the First Prince of Ariann, a man said to possess the kingdom's purest and strongest bloodline.
"Elena, stop biting your lip."
A playful voice dragged her out of her thoughts. It was Selene, her closest friend since childhood. She leaned against the doorframe, her gown a glittering shade of pale blue. Beside her was Amara, another of Elena's companions, whose sharp tongue was only rivaled by her loyalty.
"You don't understand," Elena whispered. "Tonight changes everything. If the prophecy binds me to this fate, then… then I have no choice."
Selene crossed the room, placing her hands gently on Elena's shoulders. "You make it sound like being bound to a prince is some kind of curse. Most women in this kingdom would trade places with you in a heartbeat."
Amara rolled her eyes. "That's because they don't know the princes like we do. Damon may be brilliant, but he's also arrogant, calculating, and ruthless when he wants to be. He isn't marrying Elena because he loves her—he's marrying her because the prophecy favors her. And trust me, the royal family never does anything without reason."
Elena's hands trembled slightly, and she lowered her gaze. "So what am I then? A symbol?"
"Perhaps," Amara said bluntly. "But symbols can change the world. And if you're careful, maybe you can change Damon himself."
Selene squeezed Elena's shoulders and laughed softly. "Enough of this gloom. Tonight you must shine. Let them all see that the chosen child of prophecy is not to be pitied, but envied."
---
The palace gates loomed before them, guarded by armored sentinels who carried lances taller than any man. The carriage slowed as it approached, and Elena peeked through the window. Hundreds of noble families entered the palace grounds, their carriages painted with their house crests. Lanterns floated into the sky, illuminating the night like a thousand suns.
Inside the grand hall, the air was thick with the mingling scents of rare perfumes and rich food. Music swelled from a group of court musicians, their instruments weaving a tapestry of sound that wrapped around every guest. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, and the marble floors reflected the radiance of countless jewels worn by the noblewomen.
"Elena!" Selene whispered excitedly as she tugged her friend's sleeve. "Look, the princes are arriving."
All conversation in the hall seemed to pause as the ten princes of Ariann entered one by one.
First came Damon—the First Prince—clad in royal black and silver, his posture flawless, his steps calculated. His hair was the color of midnight, his eyes sharp as blades. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was a man destined to rule. Whispers spread like wildfire:
"He's even more striking than the stories say."
"The bloodline of kings flows in him."
"A perfect match for the child of prophecy."
Damon's lips curved into a faint smile as he accepted the bows and curtsies offered to him. Yet his gaze swept the hall like that of a predator, sharp and discerning. When his eyes landed briefly on Elena, her breath caught in her throat. For just a heartbeat, she felt as though the entire hall had disappeared, and only he remained.
Then the moment passed.
The Second Prince entered next—Renard, known for his scholarly pursuits. His gentle demeanor contrasted sharply with Damon's imposing presence. The Third, bold and loud, swaggered into the hall, while the Fourth and Fifth followed with their own airs of confidence and pride. Each prince carried the aura of power, and the nobles eagerly whispered their names, each assessing their strengths and weaknesses.
But then, the hall fell silent.
"The Sixth Prince," someone whispered.
All eyes turned as Miguel entered the hall. He was tall, his figure lean but commanding, and his face was hidden behind a silver mask. His attire was simple compared to his brothers, yet it only added to his mystique. Where Damon drew attention with his brilliance, Miguel demanded it with silence. His presence was heavy, suffocating, as though the air itself bowed to him.
The king, seated upon his golden throne at the far end of the hall, regarded his son with unreadable eyes.
Whispers spread rapidly:
"They say he's colder than ice."
"I've never seen his face before…"
"He's ruthless, they say. More dangerous than Damon himself."
Elena's heart pounded as she watched him. Unlike the others, Miguel made no effort to greet or charm anyone. He simply bowed his head to the king, then moved to stand quietly at the edge of the hall.
"Why does he wear a mask?" Elena whispered.
Amara leaned close. "Because the Sixth Prince is not meant to be understood. He is a shadow in a world of light. You would do well not to stare too long."
Selene smirked. "I think he's fascinating. Mysterious men always are."
Elena forced herself to look away, though a strange unease lingered in her chest.
---
As the banquet unfolded, wine flowed freely, and laughter filled the hall. Dancers performed in the center, their bodies moving with elegance and precision. Elena found herself seated near the nobles of her family's rank, but close enough to see Damon at the high table. He was surrounded by admirers, both women and men, each eager to curry his favor.
From time to time, his eyes flickered toward her, and each time, Elena felt the weight of his attention.
"Drink," Selene urged, placing a glass of golden wine in Elena's hand. "You're too stiff. Relax."
Elena hesitated, then sipped. The warmth spread through her veins, easing her nerves. One glass became two, then three, and soon the music seemed brighter, the laughter louder.
Unnoticed, Miguel slipped from the hall, his departure masked by the noise of the celebration.
By the time Elena realized how dizzy she felt, Selene and Amara were gone, swept away into the crowd. She stood, trying to steady herself, but the floor tilted beneath her feet. Her vision blurred as she stumbled through the palace corridors, searching for fresh air.
Her hand brushed against a door. She pushed it open and stumbled inside. The room was quiet, dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight through the window. She sank onto the bed, her body heavy, her mind hazy.
Sleep claimed her.
When her eyes fluttered open again, dawn's light streamed through the window. Her head ached, and she groaned softly. But then—her breath caught.
Beside her, lying with calm composure, was a man. He was tall, his features plain, almost too ordinary, his expression unreadable even in sleep.
Elena's heart pounded violently.
"Who… who is this?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Little did she know—the man she mistook for an ordinary subordinate was none other than Miguel, the Sixth Prince of Ariann.
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