The royal palace of Ariann was built not just as a seat of power but as a monument to awe. Its great Summoning Hall stretched so far that Elena almost felt dwarfed by it, as if she had stepped into the ribcage of a slumbering giant. Marble columns rose like eternal guardians, gilded chandeliers swayed with the faintest breeze of incense, and the throne of the King rested at the far end of the hall, elevated above countless polished steps.
The King of Ariann himself sat upon that throne, wrapped in robes of deep crimson threaded with gold. His beard was silvered with age, yet his eyes were sharp, carrying the weight of centuries of bloodline power. He was not just a ruler; he was the living embodiment of Ariann's might.
And tonight, all ten princes had been summoned.
Elena stood near the center of the hall with her friends — two court ladies who had accompanied her — and her heart thundered. She had never seen so many powerful figures gathered in one place. Each prince carried an aura that seemed to warp the very air, pressing upon her chest until it felt as though she were breathing through silk.
Her friend Liora leaned close and whispered nervously.
"Do you see? That's Crown Prince Damon."
Elena's eyes flicked toward the first step below the throne. There, a man stood with a calm arrogance that needed no words. Damon, the First Prince. His figure was tall, shoulders broad, dressed in dark royal attire embroidered with golden threads. His presence was magnetic — the kind that made people look even when they did not wish to. His sharp jaw and piercing gaze gave him the appearance of a hawk perched high above, ready to strike at prey below.
"They say his bloodline is the purest," Liora whispered again. "The strongest… perhaps even stronger than the king himself when he was young."
Elena nodded slightly, though her eyes drifted across the line of figures standing on either side of the hall.
The Second Prince, lean and intellectual-looking, gave off an aura of calculation, his lips twitching into the faintest smile as though the entire court was his chessboard. The Third Prince, broad and brawny, wore armor instead of robes, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow light. The Fourth, Fifth, and others followed, each distinct, each exuding their own pride.
And then… her gaze stopped.
At the farthest end of the line, a man stood quietly. His robe was darker, plain compared to the others, and a silver mask covered his face from brow to jaw. His stance was neither arrogant nor flamboyant. He looked… ordinary. Forgettable. If not for the mask, Elena might have dismissed him entirely.
Yet her chest tightened when her eyes lingered.
The masked man did not move, did not even breathe too heavily. But something about him set the back of her mind on fire. It was not recognition — she had never seen him before. It was not attraction — though his presence was oddly magnetic. It was something deeper, more primal. An instinct that whispered: danger.
"That one…" she whispered unconsciously.
Her other friend, Selene, caught her glance and shook her head quickly. "Don't stare. That should be the Sixth Prince… Miguel. The one no one dares to speak of openly."
Elena's heart jumped. "The Sixth…?"
Selene lowered her voice even further, so low that Elena had to strain to hear.
"They say he is ruthless, colder than ice, and shrouded in mystery. Many in the palace whisper that he shouldn't even exist — that he was cursed at birth. But when the King summons all his sons, he cannot be absent. Still…" she shivered, "…no one really knows his true face. Some even think he wears the mask because he was disfigured. Others say it's to hide the darkness in his eyes."
Elena turned her gaze back toward him — but Miguel was as still as stone, unreadable. The mask gleamed faintly under the chandeliers. He gave no hint of life, no emotion, not even acknowledgment of the King's presence. He stood as though detached from the world, as if this grand assembly meant nothing to him.
Her gut twisted.
"An eerie feeling…" she whispered, more to herself than to her friends. She could not place it. Something in her blood responded to him — a pulse, a silent resonance that made her shift uncomfortably.
The King's voice rolled through the hall, low but powerful, demanding attention without effort.
"My sons. My blood. Tonight, I summon you not for trivial matters, but for the path ahead of Ariann. The kingdom stands among the top three in the world, yet threats loom. You will soon face trials, not merely as princes, but as men who must shoulder the name of Ariann."
The words struck the hall like thunder. The princes straightened, though some kept smug expressions. Damon, the Crown Prince, inclined his head respectfully, though Elena caught the spark in his eyes — sharp, hungry, ambitious.
The King's gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on each prince. When his eyes lingered on Miguel, a strange silence fell. For the briefest moment, Elena swore the King's expression softened, ever so slightly, before returning to its steel-like calm.
She shivered again.
Why did she feel as though the masked prince was watching her, even though his face betrayed nothing?
Her mind raced, but the King's voice snapped her attention back.
"And you…" his eyes lowered to where Elena stood, "the child of prophecy. You have been brought here to walk among my blood, to see with your own eyes what fate demands of you."
The entire hall turned toward her.
Elena's throat tightened. A hundred piercing gazes — some curious, some hostile, some unreadable — fell upon her slender figure. For a moment she wanted to shrink back, but she clenched her fists instead.
She lifted her chin, her beauty catching the golden glow of the chandeliers. Though her heart trembled, she refused to lower her gaze.
The princes studied her one by one. Damon's eyes narrowed slightly, like a predator studying prey. The Second Prince smirked faintly, clearly amused. The Third Prince scoffed under his breath, as if unimpressed. And Miguel…
Elena's heart skipped.
Though his mask hid everything, she could have sworn his head tilted the faintest fraction toward her, acknowledging her presence.
And in that instant, she knew — she would not forget this night.
Not the hall, not the throne, not the oppressive weight of the princes' gazes. And certainly not the masked figure at the end of the line, whose silence screamed louder than words.
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