The day of the second prince Althurd's birthday dawned draped in gold and crimson. From the moment the bells tolled, the Revazkerio Palace bustled with activity—knights in polished armor flanking the corridors, servants rushing to lay silks and flowers across every bannister, and courtiers already whispering of what the Emperor might declare before the night was done.
Though her heart bristled at the thought, Princess Zuleika had no choice but to attend. For tonight, the Emperor himself would announce her presence formally to the nobility of Feltogora—unveiling the guest princess from Nexus not as a shadow in the palace, but as a piece upon the board.
The Grand Hall opened its doors like the maw of some magnificent beast, swallowing nobles and dignitaries alike. Its vaulted ceiling glittered with chandeliers wrought of purest crystal, each flame mirrored in a thousand fractured lights. Tapestries depicting Feltogora's conquests hung between towering pillars of marble veined with silver, the woven threads so vivid they seemed to bleed battle and glory into the very air.
Everywhere she looked, nobles gathered in clusters—women in gowns of crushed velvet, heavy brocade, and cascading lace dyed in the empire's colors: deep crimson, black, and burnished gold. Their jewels glittered like stars caught in flame, crowns of rubies and sapphires pinned into elaborate hairstyles. The men wore doublets of silk and stiff collars embroidered with the sigils of their houses, swords bound in jeweled scabbards more for show than blood. Masks of painted courtesy hid their true expressions, yet their eyes darted with endless calculation, weighing allies and rivals alike.
The hall itself had been dressed in a theme of victory. Red silks draped the tables like rivers of blood; golden plates reflected the candlelight; the scent of roasted pheasant, seasoned boar, and sweet pastries lingered in the air. It was not celebration alone—it was display, a reminder that Feltogora's wealth was boundless, its rule unshakable.
From her chamber, Zuleika was assisted by her maid Cess and two handmaidens of the palace, who draped her in a gown chosen not by her but for her. The fabric was pale ivory, meant to distinguish her from the sea of crimson, yet threaded with gold that bound her to their imperial theme. Her hair was pulled into an intricate braid pinned with pearls, a crown too delicate to be hers set upon her head. She caught her reflection once and nearly laughed—it was less a dress than a cage.
At the final call, she was led to the archway at the head of the hall where the court had already gathered, voices hushed with anticipation. The Crown Prince Matthew awaited her there, clad in black and gold, a cape clasped at his shoulders, his bearing tall and assured. He offered his hand, the picture of a dutiful host.
"Come, Princess," he said with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "The Empire awaits your introduction."
Zuleika hesitated for a heartbeat before placing her hand upon his arm. His skin was warm, steady, but to her it felt like grasping a serpent. She set her jaw, adjusted her shoulders, and together they stepped forward into the blazing light of the Grand Hall.
The thunder of trumpets cut through the chatter, sharp and ceremonial. The herald's voice boomed across the vaulted chamber, each syllable echoing against the marble walls gilded in gold.
"His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Mathew Klyde Lavezki Revazkerio… and Her Royal Highness, Princess Zuleika Livia Yekosta Vasiliou of the Kingdom of Nexus."
At once, the hall fell into reverent silence. Nobles turned, their jeweled gowns and embroidered cloaks rustling like waves. All eyes fixed upon the great archway draped in scarlet banners.
Crown Prince Matthew appeared first, a commanding figure clad in black and gold, his cape sweeping like the wings of a hawk. His chin was lifted, his smile deliberate, his every step rehearsed to project authority. At his side, Princess Zuleika emerged, her hand resting lightly upon his arm.
The crowd stirred—silk rustling, whispers blooming like wildfire—as they descended the marble staircase in perfect unison. To the nobles, they looked harmonious: the host prince and the foreign jewel, gliding with poise. Yet beneath the veil of grace, their words were venom.
"You staged that slaughter," Zuleika whispered through her smile, her lips curving as though she shared some delightful jest. "Those people... was that your entertainment?"
Matthew's head inclined slightly, his eyes locked forward, expression flawless. "Entertainment? No. A reminder. Empires do not survive by letting rats dance at midnight." His voice was calm, honeyed, as though reciting a compliment. "You should be thanking me, Princess. I spared you worse humiliation by showing you how the world truly works."
Her grip on his arm tightened, though she kept her face serene. "You call it survival—I call it butchery. You crush joy because you fear it."
His jaw flexed, though his smile remained fixed for the watching eyes below. "Do not mistake discipline for fear. Nexus may coddle its weak, but Feltogora rules because it does not flinch from the necessary."
"Necessary?" Zuleika's tone sharpened beneath her feigned grace. "There is nothing necessary in killing children."
For a moment, his eyes flicked to hers—cool, sharp, unreadable. Then he leaned slightly closer, enough that only she could hear, his lips still carved in that polished smile. "Children grow into rebels. Better to cut weeds before they root. You will learn that, in time."
She nearly faltered, but she steadied herself, chin lifting with quiet defiance. "Or perhaps you will learn, Crown Prince, that weeds only grow fiercer when the ground is soaked with blood."
The hall erupted in murmurs as the herald announced their names, and applause rang out to veil the daggers in their words. Still arm in arm, still the picture of elegance, they walked onward, masks fixed as the game played on.
The thunder of applause still lingered as Zuleika and Matthew descended the last steps. At the opposite end of the Grand Hall, the great bronze doors opened once more, their hinges groaning like a herald of something far greater.
"Her Imperial Highness, Princess Aquila Faye Lavezki Revazkerio, and His Imperial Highness, Prince Zejidiah Sean Lavezki Revazkerio," the announcer's voice rang clear.
The hall hushed again.
Aquila entered first, every step measured, precise, as though the floor itself bent in obedience. She wore a gown of deep indigo silk threaded with silver filigree, its high collar framing her pale throat like a crown of moonlight. Sleeves of sheer fabric fell like mist down her arms, and the hem of her gown trailed behind her like liquid midnight. A circlet of polished silver rested atop her hair, her silver eyes gleaming beneath it with that unearthly sharpness that made courtiers bow a little too low.
At her side, Prince Zejidiah moved in silence, escorting her with the same nonchalance he carried everywhere. His attire was less ostentatious than his siblings': a robe of black trimmed with gold, cinched with a narrow silver sash. His long light blue hair, tied loosely at the nape, framed his serene expression. Where Matthew exuded fire and Aquila command, Zejidiah was a still lake—calm, yet unfathomable.
The nobles watched them pass, whispers slipping like threads between jeweled fans. Aquila's eyes flicked briefly across the hall—and for the barest heartbeat, Zuleika swore those silver orbs locked with hers, cold and gleaming like the edge of a blade.
The herald's voice boomed again, breaking the silence.
"His Imperial Highness, Prince Althurd Max Lavezki Revazkerio."
The birthday prince strode forward with youthful confidence, though his attire shouted for attention louder than his steps. He wore a coat of crimson velvet embroidered with golden flames that caught every flicker of chandelier light. His sash, braided gold and black, gleamed with polished medals pinned at his chest. A smile split his face, wide and unrestrained, his hair slicked back. He basked openly in the applause, waving to the nobles with the ease of one long accustomed to admiration.
And then—the doors opened for the last time.
The herald's voice trembled slightly, as though the very syllables carried weight.
"His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Maximiam Caeser IV Revazkerio."
All fell to silence. Nobles bent low, their jeweled garments pooling like rivers of silk at their feet.
The Emperor entered, and the hall seemed to shrink around him. His robes were black as midnight, lined with scarlet, the imperial crest stitched in threads of gold across his chest. A heavy mantle of white fur lay across his broad shoulders, clasped by a brooch of pure obsidian. Upon his brow rested a crown wrought not of delicate gems, but of hammered iron laced with blood-red stones—a reminder that Revazkerio's crown was not merely to adorn, but to command.
His hair, streaked silver at the temples, was bound back, revealing a face carved with age and willpower. His eyes—sharp, cold, unyielding—swept across the hall. Wherever they landed, silence deepened, as though none dared breathe in his presence.
He walked forward unhurriedly, every step deliberate, until he reached his throne at the head of the dais. With the faintest motion of his hand, the court rose as one, their obedience reflexive, absolute.
Zuleika felt her pulse hammer, though she forced herself to hold her posture, her smile faint but steady. This was the moment the Emperor would reveal her, the "jewel of Nexus," not as herself but as a piece upon Feltogora's board.
He did not rush to speak. Instead, he let the silence reign, his presence commanding enough to draw every breath tight in the nobles' throats. Only when he reached the dais beneath the colossal banners of the Empire did his voice thunder forth.
"Lords and Ladies of Feltogora Empire. Tonight, we celebrate the birth of my son, Prince Althurd." A roar of applause shook the walls, goblets raised high in glittering arcs. The Emperor lifted his hand, and the hall quieted instantly.
When silence returned, His Majesty's gaze sharpened, a predator surveying his prey. He spread his hands as though bestowing favor upon the assembly.
"Yet a stronger Empire is not built on sons alone. It is built on bonds, on ties that reach beyond borders. Therefore, tonight, before you all, I put forth a proposal—an alliance that shall secure both our dominion and our legacy."
The nobles stirred, murmurs rippling across the hall like restless waves. All eyes turned toward the dais where Crown Prince Matthew stood, still as stone, Princess Zuleika poised beside him.
The Emperor's gaze bore into her as he spoke the words:
"The union of my heir, Crown Prince Matthew of Revazkerio, with Her Royal Highness, Princess Zuleika of Nexus."
A collective gasp rose, shock and intrigue sparking across jeweled faces. Some nobles leaned eagerly toward one another, whispering of strengthened ties and new power. Others narrowed their eyes, sensing the Emperor's cruelty beneath the gilded announcement.
Zuleika felt the weight of every gaze pressing into her skin like needles. Her hand tightened on the folds of her gown, though her face betrayed nothing. She realized then—this was no celebration, no true offer. This was His Majesty's game, a public spectacle meant to force her compliance under the crushing weight of expectation. Refuse, and she would shame Nexus. Accept, and she would chain herself to the Empire.
The Emperor's lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile—mocking, cruel. "Consider this not merely a proposal, but a question asked before the Empire itself. And let the answer, in due time, reveal where loyalty lies."
The nobles erupted again, applause and whispers colliding into chaos.
Zuleika bowed her head, feigning grace, though her mind seethed. She saw it clearly now—the cruelty behind the announcement. This was no honor. It was a collar, gleaming in gold.