Chapter 12: A Throne Thief (or Whatever This Is)
My mouth went dry in a way that had nothing to do with the ridiculousness of what was happening right now—but also everything to do with it. Don't ask me if that makes sense, because it doesn't. Nothing about this moment did.
The man sat sprawled on my father's throne like he didn't have a care in the world, but that wasn't what struck me as odd. No, what struck me was the impossible fact that he looked exactly like the man I had described to my father three days ago—the one I'd made up. The one I said I was in love with just to keep suitors away.
For a heartbeat, everything else went blurry—the chandeliers, the floating patisseries, the sea of embroidered collars—because my brain decided to focus on that one impossible image and nothing else.
He had long, straight black hair—hair that looked like it had drunk the shadows and kept the receipt—that fell past his shoulders, framing his face in soft, dark lines that looked both elegant and dangerous. His eyes were a deep, piercing red that normally wouldn't look good on anyone, but somehow he made it work. They weren't the dull red of sickness or fury; they gleamed like polished rubies, alive and terrifyingly vivid, burning with some unreadable emotion.
He wore two earrings on each ear, and each one held a jewel the same color as his eyes. The rubies caught the candlelight, winking mischievously every time he moved, as though mocking the stunned faces staring back at him. His skin was bronze—uncommon in our parts—and that, combined with the black of his clothes and the red of his eyes, made him stand out like a flame in the middle of all the pale, powdered nobles.
He was dressed in black the way a poet might describe midnight if the poet also happened to have excellent taste in tailoring. His shirt was loose and slightly open at the throat, his trousers fitted but not tight, and everything about him spoke of deliberate carelessness. He didn't wear the outfit; he owned it. A smirk sat lazily on his lips like it had been carved there by the gods themselves—arrogant, knowing, and far too distracting.
I could barely breathe.
What was going on?
The hall folded into a hush. Even the violins seemed to hold their bows in mid-air, if such a thing were possible for an enchanted orchestra. Everything stopped all at once… again.
The crowd turned in a ripple of confusion and awe. A few gasps traveled through the air like the flutter of birds. Conversations stuttered and died mid-word. I saw one of the dukes freeze with a canapé halfway to his mouth. Even the enchanted pastry trays that floated lazily around the ballroom seemed to hesitate, unsure if they should continue their rounds in the presence of this intruder.
And then—of course—a guard stepped forward.
He was one of the palace guards, stern and polished, standing tall in his full ceremonial armor. His sword flashed as he drew it from its sheath, the steel singing softly in the silence. It was completely unnecessary, but then again, guards loved drama almost as much as nobles loved gossip.
"Who are you?" the guard barked, his voice echoing sharply off the marble pillars.
It was almost comical, watching him glare up at the man from below the dais where my father's throne stood. The man didn't look the least bit threatened. In fact, he looked bored. Like the guard's blade was more of an inconvenience than a danger.
I folded my arms, trying to steady the flutter in my chest. Honestly, I was just as curious as everyone else. Who was he? And why did he look exactly like someone who had crawled straight out of my imagination?
The man didn't answer. Instead, he laughed.
Not loud, not mocking—just a small, amused sound that curled through the air like smoke. And I froze. Because I knew that laugh.
It was the same one I'd heard earlier on the balcony. The same smooth, velvet sound that had slid over my nerves and made me forget how to breathe for a few seconds. The voice of the man I had spoken to in the shadows. The one who had hidden his face and teased me about my father's obsession with dukes and decorum.
My brain short-circuited.
He leaned back in the throne like a cat taking an unearned nap, utterly at ease, his red eyes glinting with amusement. That smirk deepened—arrogant and impossibly sure of itself. The guard's jaw clenched in irritation, and from the crowd came a faint whisper: "Who is he?" Someone else hissed, "He's sitting on the king's throne!" as though the obvious needed to be announced.
And then my father, who had been standing a few steps away with the expression of someone trying to solve a puzzle he very much didn't want to understand, suddenly moved. To everyone's horror—including mine—he dropped to his knees.
"Your royal eminence," my father said, his voice trembling.
I blinked. My father—King Ariston Glitterbelly, ruler of Alvaris and eternal perfectionist—was kneeling. Kneeling to a stranger who had just crashed his ball and stolen his throne.
The world slowed down. The crown tilted slightly on his head, ridiculous and fragile. I saw the nobles' faces go pale, wide-eyed. A lady's fan snapped in two. A duke actually dropped his canapé this time. It rolled sadly under the refreshment table.
"Father?" I whispered, my voice small and brittle like glass.
The man on the throne sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if my father's sudden display of reverence was more exhausting than flattering. He didn't look surprised by it, either. If anything, he looked like he'd expected it. Like this was all part of a joke he'd written, and we were simply following the script.
"Stop with the false pretence, Glitterbelly," he said, his tone smooth and unhurried. His voice was exactly like I remembered—warm, dark, and dangerously charming. The kind of voice that could talk you into anything. "And besides," he continued, leaning slightly forward, "why are you kneeling to me when we're going to be family soon?"
The gasp that followed nearly shook the chandeliers. You could feel the air being sucked out of the room, every noble inhaling at once and forgetting how to exhale.
"Family?" my father croaked, his face turning the color of paper. His gaze flicked from the man to me and back again. He looked like someone who'd just discovered his wine had been swapped with vinegar.
The man's smile widened, slow and deliberate, both charming and cruel at the same time. He leaned forward, resting an elbow casually on the arm of the throne. His ruby eyes glinted with amusement. "Of course," he said lightly, as if the answer was obvious. "After all…"
He paused, and the silence stretched thin and tense.
"…me and your daughter are in love."
If silence could scream, it would have.