The palace of Arven glittered that night, bathed in gold and firelight. Chandeliers dripped crystal, music swelled through the marble halls, and nobles in jeweled finery filled the air with laughter that was too sharp, too hollow.
It was a night meant for display — and for hunting.
At the heart of the gathering sat the guest of honor: Prince Vanda Sanchez, heir to the Dragon Throne. He was thirty-four, broad-shouldered, with sharp, chiseled features that made even seasoned lords lower their gaze. His dark eyes carried a weight few could meet — eyes that had seen battle, blood, and justice.
The Dragon Prince was feared. Admired. Desired.
And tonight, he was being watched more closely than ever.
At the long table, Princess Rosa of Arven sat near him, her gown of crimson silk shimmering like flame. She smiled sweetly, her every word calculated, her every glance meant to charm. For months she had whispered to her father that she would be the one to claim the Dragon Prince. Tonight, she intended to prove it.
But fate had other plans.
Among the servants weaving through the crowd was Daya Roman. She wore the plain black and white of a palace maid, her hair neatly tied, her hands trembling slightly as she carried a tray of wine goblets. To the nobles, she was invisible — another shadow in a life of servitude.
Until her hands betrayed her.
As she leaned to serve at the high table, fear seized her. The goblet slipped, scarlet wine spilling across the Dragon Prince's dark cloak.
The hall froze. Music faltered. All eyes turned to the trembling maid.
"I—I'm sorry, Your Highness—" Daya stammered, her voice breaking.
Before she could finish, a sharp crack echoed. Princess Rosa's hand had struck her across the face, the slap ringing louder than the music.
"How dare you!" Rosa hissed, fury flashing in her eyes. "You clumsy wretch! Do you know who sits before you?"
Daya staggered, bowing low, her cheek burning, humiliation flooding her. The court watched in cruel silence, some smirking, some whispering.
But then — a sound cut through the air.
The scrape of a chair.
Prince Vanda rose to his feet. His gaze, sharp as a blade, pinned Rosa in place.
"No hand," he said, his voice low, carrying like thunder, "will be raised against her again."
Gasps rippled across the hall. Rosa's face drained of color.
"Y-Your Highness," she stammered, forcing a smile. "She ruined your garments—"
"And yet it is only cloth." Vanda's tone was calm, but cold enough to freeze. His eyes swept over the courtiers, daring anyone to speak. "But dignity, once taken, is not so easily restored. Remember that, Princess."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Daya, still trembling, dared a glance upward. For a heartbeat, their eyes met — her gaze wide with fear, his unreadable yet burning with something she could not name.
And in that moment, though neither of them knew it yet, the Dragon Prince's heart had been set upon a dangerous path.