I had spent an hour arranging the silver tiara, and still it refused to sit perfectly. My patience thinned, but when I caught my face twisting in the mirror, I forced a calm smile. Father always said a smile suited my face better than a frown. Even now, long after his passing, I remembered. So, I smiled—not for anyone else, but for myself—satisfied, at least for a moment, that my reflection obeyed.
The knock shattered my fragile calm. I blinked at the mirror, realizing I'd been sitting there far longer than intended, trapped in the loop of fixing and refixing what no one else would notice.
"Your Highness," a lady called from the other side.
"I'm almost ready." My voice came out sharp, so I cleared my throat and tried again, gentler.
"His Royal Highness has summoned you."
"The Crown Prince?" I asked, though who else could it be?
"Yes, ma'am. His Royal Highness wishes to see you in the Tri-Moon Chamber."
I rose at once, sudden energy coursing through me. My hands flew to the tiara, adjusting it one last time, then to my gown. By the time I reached the door, the mask of composure had settled back over me like armor.
The corridors of Silverlight Palace gleamed as if polished by moonlight itself. My heels clicked against marble, echoing through the hall. Behind me, my maid scurried to keep up. The silence pressed on me until all I could hear was fabric whispering and my own heartbeat.
When I pushed the doors open, my brother was waiting. He wore white and silver, his sky-blue hair shimmering in moonlight filtering through the crescent-shaped glass above—the same hue as mine. Seeing him there filled my chest with warmth, that quiet comfort I only ever felt in his presence.
"Your Royal Highness…" I called softly.
"Velra, my sister," he said, voice gentle. "Come to me."
I approached with intentional grace, the way etiquette demanded, but my smile was genuine. "You called for me, brother?"
He turned to face me fully, that familiar patient look on his face—the one that used to make me feel small, but safe. "I did. You've been difficult to find lately. Every time I ask for you, I'm told you're either locked in your chambers or conveniently occupied elsewhere."
I clasped my hands before me, feigning innocence. "I've been… occupied."
"With what? Staring into your mirror again?" he teased, but there was an edge beneath the warmth.
I blinked, unsure whether to smile or frown. "You sound just like Father."
"That's a compliment, I hope." His tone eased, and for a moment, the tension wavered. He brushed a strand of hair back, his hand warm against my cheek. "You've grown more beautiful, Velra. But you can't hide in here forever. The court is beginning to talk."
"Let them talk," I said lightly, though the sting in my voice betrayed me.
His brows drew together. "Mother told me you've been avoiding Haeriath."
I froze. "Haeriath?"
"Yes. Your betrothed." His voice softened, coaxing. "She's worried you'll drive him away before the wedding's even announced."
I turned my gaze toward the stained glass, letting the shifting light dance across my expression. "He's a High Elf. He doesn't belong here. He doesn't understand us, our blood, our ways. Every word he speaks feels like it comes from another world."
He sighed. "You know the marriage was arranged for unity, not comfort. This is about more than just you or him. The High Enclave and our people have been divided for centuries—our union could change that."
I laughed faintly, bitterly. "So, I am to be the bridge, then? The offering?"
"You are to be hope," he said quietly. "You could bring peace, Velra."
"Peace?" I turned to face him, voice cracking. "Peace built on a cage? On my life becoming a spectacle for the court to praise and dissect?"
His expression faltered, but his tone hardened. "Velra—"
"You don't understand," I interrupted, trembling. "You have purpose. Everyone looks at you and sees the future of our kingdom. But when they look at me, all they see is decoration. Something to polish, to place beside a stranger."
"Velra, please." He stepped closer, tone gentler. "I'm only trying to protect you."
"Then stop treating me like a child."
A pause stretched between us, heavy and raw. He exhaled slowly, frustration and sorrow tangled together. "You're being childish."
The words cut deeper than he likely meant them to. For a moment, neither of us spoke—the silence more painful than any argument.
"I see," I finally said, bowing my head. "If that's all, Your Royal Highness… I'll take my leave."
His eyes softened immediately, regret flickering there, but I didn't give him the chance to speak. I turned away, skirts whispering across marble as I left the chamber with steady, practiced grace I didn't feel.
That night, a letter arrived in my chamber, sealed with his silver crest. His handwriting was neat, familiar. "Meet me in the forest at dawn. Let's forget the court for a while and watch the fireflies together." It was his way of apologizing.
I held the letter, staring at the delicate curves of his handwriting. Every stroke deliberate, careful, familiar. My chest ached. I set the letter down beside the silver tiara and turned to my reflection. The mirror waited, unjudging, yet somehow knowing.
I traced the edge of my gown, smoothing wrinkles no one else would see, adjusting the folds again and again. The tiara caught moonlight, and I tilted it, twisted it, tilted it again. Each adjustment followed by a quiet sigh. Time stretched as I brushed my silvery-blue hair, lifting, twisting, untangling, brushing once more.
I experimented with angles, studied shadows across my cheekbones, frowning when they fell wrong. I dabbed a fingertip to the corner of my lips, smoothed the crease of my brow, traced the curve of my jaw. Minutes bled into hours as I rehearsed expressions—the tilt of my chin, the subtle shifts of my eyes, the curve of my mouth. Sometimes I smiled, sometimes I frowned; sometimes I simply stared, letting my thoughts tumble across the glass.
The castle remained silent. Cold air pressed against my skin. I did not hear the wind, the distant owl, or the servants stirring. I was entirely trapped in this ritual, and the letter—once urgent—now seemed like a fragment of another life, waiting for a hand I could not bring myself to raise.
When first light stretched across my window, silver and pale, I realized I had lost track of hours. My chest ached as I stared at my reflection one last time. My hands trembled as they smoothed my gown. My eyes lingered on the tiara, catching a glint that could have been moon or sun—it hardly mattered. I could not leave.
Then the door burst open.
"Your Highness!" My lady-in-waiting's voice was sharp, panicked. "The crown prince—he… he's—"
Her words faltered, breaking against the still air. My hands froze mid-motion, the brush resting against my hair. I turned, but nothing moved fast enough to stop the sinking feeling curling through my chest. The mirror behind me rippled faintly, reflecting not just my image but the hollow, unanswerable fear spreading in my stomach.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. The letter lay untouched beside the tiara, a cruel testament to the choice I had made. My last chance—gone, slipping through my fingers like moonlight across marble.
I should have gone. I wanted to go…