The first thing Elena heard was the faint cry of birds outside the palace window. Their song was soft, a gentle reminder that the world had already moved into a new day. Yet within the chamber, silence pressed down heavy as stone.
Her body felt weightless, yet her mind churned with fragments of memory: the laughter of the banquet, the sting of wine on her tongue, the dizzying corridors, the cool touch of moonlight as she stumbled into this room…
And then—darkness.
Now, her eyes widened, heart hammering in her chest as she saw the man beside her.
He wasn't supposed to be there.
His back was half-turned, his breathing calm and measured, as though the world outside and the storm inside her heart meant nothing. His face—ordinary, too ordinary, the kind that could vanish into a crowd without a trace—was utterly at odds with the crushing stillness that seemed to hang around him.
Elena clutched the sheets to her chest, her breath coming shallow and fast. What happened?
The man stirred. Slowly, his eyes opened, sharp and unyielding, their depth so calm it was terrifying. He sat up with measured ease, like someone who always knew exactly where he was and what to do.
"You're awake," he said, his voice low, steady.
The simplicity of his tone chilled her more than shouting ever could.
Elena's lips trembled. "Who… who are you?"
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood, brushing off invisible dust from his plain clothes. His every movement carried a strange grace, unrefined yet precise. Finally, he looked at her, eyes unblinking behind that mask of ordinariness.
"You need not know," he said.
"What do you mean I need not know?" she snapped, though her voice was shaky. "I wake up to find a man in my room and you expect me to—" She stopped. Her mind spun with possibilities. Is he a servant? A guard? An intruder?
He tilted his head slightly. "I was here before you stumbled in."
Her breath caught. Before me?
Memories blurred—her dizziness, her steps down the long corridor, the heavy wooden door she had pushed open. She hadn't checked. She hadn't asked. She had simply collapsed.
"You…" Her voice faltered. "Why didn't you leave when you saw me?"
The man's eyes narrowed faintly. "Would it have mattered?"
Elena's cheeks burned with indignation and shame. "Of course it matters! Do you realize what this looks like? If anyone finds out—"
Her words cut off as he moved closer, not with threat, but with a kind of quiet inevitability. His presence pressed down on her until her voice shrank in her throat.
"No one will find out," he said flatly.
Silence fell again. Elena stared at him, her chest heaving, her thoughts colliding violently. Something about him was wrong—not his ordinary appearance, but the weight in his words, the calm certainty in his eyes. It wasn't the demeanor of a servant. It was something more. Something dangerous.
She swallowed hard. "Then… who are you really?"
His lips twitched, just slightly, as if amused. "A shadow."
And with that, he turned, striding toward the door as if the conversation was over.
Elena's fists clenched against the sheets. She wanted to demand answers, to scream at him, but the words died on her tongue. There was something in him—an untouchable wall, cold as winter, unyielding as steel.
The door opened. He paused, half-turned, the morning light spilling across his back.
"You'd best return to your friends before questions are asked," he said quietly. "And forget I was ever here."
Then he was gone.
---
By the time Elena left the room, the palace was already buzzing with life. Servants hurried down the corridors, carrying trays of food and bolts of silk. Nobles whispered in clusters, retelling tales of the banquet with exaggerated flair.
"Elena!" Selene's voice rang down the hall as she rushed over, Amara close behind. Relief flooded their faces.
"Where were you?" Selene scolded. "We looked everywhere for you after the banquet. You just vanished!"
Elena forced a smile, though her hands trembled as she clasped them together. "I… had too much to drink. I must have wandered into a room and fallen asleep."
Amara arched a brow. "Alone?"
Elena's throat tightened. She hesitated a fraction too long. "Yes."
Her friends exchanged a look but said nothing more. Yet Elena felt their eyes linger, questions unspoken.
---
At the far end of the hall, seated upon the throne of gold, King Alaric watched the nobles with detached calm. His gaze was sharp, calculating, as he observed his sons gathered before him.
Damon, the First Prince, stood at the forefront, dressed impeccably in black and silver. His smile was polite, but his eyes gleamed with ambition. He had noticed Elena's absence at the end of the banquet, and though he said nothing, his mind cataloged every detail.
Beside him stood Renard, the Second Prince, scholarly as ever, speaking softly to a group of ministers. The Third Prince boasted loudly of his swordplay, while the Fourth and Fifth lingered in subtle rivalry.
And then there was Miguel.
The Sixth Prince stood alone at the edge of the hall, his silver mask concealing his face. He neither spoke nor sought attention, yet the air around him was sharp, tense, as though daring anyone to step closer. His brothers eyed him warily, as if remembering ghosts of an old memory, one too distant to grasp.
The king's lips curved faintly. Ten sons, ten flames in the same fire. How many will survive when the embers fade?
---
"Elena," Selene whispered as they entered the banquet hall for the morning gathering. "Look, the princes are assembled."
Amara leaned close. "Remember what I told you. Damon may seem perfect, but he's dangerous. And the others… each carries their own storm. Do not trust too easily."
Elena nodded faintly, her gaze drifting—first to Damon, then to the silent figure in the silver mask.
Her chest tightened. A shadow… he called himself.
But shadows had a way of lingering, even when the sun rose.
And Elena had the strange, sinking feeling that her life had already been entangled in his, whether she wished it or not.
---