The palace has not known silence in weeks.
Every hallway hums with preparations for tonight, the Choosing Ball, when Prince Alexander of Drakora will select his bride.
It's the kind of night that decides fates. For nobles, it's ambition. For servants like me, it's survival.
I've been awake since before dawn, polishing the marble floors until I can see my reflection in them. My hands sting, but I keep working. The ballroom must gleam by nightfall; not a trace of dust, not a shadow out of place. The nobles want perfection, and perfection has a price. Usually, it's paid in blood no one notices.
The scent of wax, iron, and damp linen fills the air. Light filters through the tall windows, pale and cold. When I move, I catch glimpses of my reflection—a girl with dark hair tied back too tight, skin too pale, and eyes too green to be ignored. My mother once called them beautiful. I learned quickly that beauty in a servant isn't an advantage; it's a danger.
By the time the sun starts to set, the palace is a storm of color and motion. Candles burn bright enough to hide the dusk, and the ballroom doors swing open to welcome the kingdom's most powerful families.
The Choosing isn't just a celebration—it's a spectacle. A prince's wife must represent all of Drakora: power, elegance, control. The nobles whisper names like weapons, each hoping their daughter will be chosen.
I walk among them, carrying a silver tray of wine. No one looks at me, which is a blessing. Servants aren't meant to exist when the nobles gather. We're background, we were taught to be silent, efficient, unseen.
Still, my eyes find the dais at the far end of the hall, where three princes sit beneath the crimson banners of Drakora.
Dimitri, the firstborn, carries his father's cold authority. Enzo, the second, wears his arrogance like perfume.
And then there's Alexander.
He's different from the stories I've heard. Taller now, sharper, his dark hair brushing the collar of his uniform, his gaze distant. He looks more like a shadow than a man. But when he smiles politely at some noble's greeting, I see it—the ghost of the boy who once snuck stolen fruit into the servants' quarters and laughed like the world couldn't stop him.
He hasn't looked my way. He wouldn't recognize me if he did.
That boy is gone, and I'm just another nameless girl on her knees cleaning up the world he walks on.
Music swells through the room. The noblewomen begin to present themselves one by one, curtsying and smiling with trained precision. Every step, every gesture is rehearsed. They sparkle under the chandeliers, voices sweet and eyes sharp.
I keep my head down, refilling goblets, clearing plates, careful not to draw attention. It's safer in the quiet corners.
Then it happens.
I'm stepping around a column when someone bumps into me. The tray slips, and a splash of dark wine stains the hem of a noblewoman's crimson gown. For a heartbeat, there's only the sound of dripping liquid and the faint shatter of glass.
Then her sharp cruel voice.
"You clumsy little wretch!"
My stomach twists. 'I've done it now. Why can't anything go my way. I wonder what punishment I'll receive.' I think to myself in fear.
"Forgive me, my lady," I say quickly, kneeling to gather the glass. "It was an accident..."
The slap comes fast. My cheek burns. Laughter ripples around us like heat.
"An accident?" she repeats, voice dripping with mockery. "You ruined my gown! Do you even know whose fabric this is? It costs more than your life."
I bow my head lower, forcing the words out. "I'm sorry."
Her tone hardens. "Look at me when you speak."
I don't. I've learned that lesson too many times. My hands tremble as I pick up the shards. One cuts deep into my palm; blood drips onto the floor, bright against the marble. The scent is metallic, and I know it draws eyes, vampires blood red eyes. My heart stumbles in my chest.
"Pathetic," the woman sneers. "You humans should be grateful we let you serve us."
Her words sting more than the wound. I press my hand against my skirt to hide the blood, praying she'll lose interest. Around us, nobles snicker behind jeweled fans. No one interferes. No one ever does.
Until someone does.
"Enough."
The word isn't loud, but it cuts through the room like a blade.
Every sound, even the laughter, music, conversation, everything dies instantly.
I know that voice.
It's deeper now, steadier, but unmistakable. I lift my head before I can stop myself.
Prince Alexander stands a few paces away, eyes burning like garnet under the chandelier's light. He looks at the noblewoman first, his expression unreadable. "She is under my protection," he says.
The woman stiffens. "Your Highness, she..."
"I said enough!."
The air in the room tightens. Every noble watches him. Even his brothers are silent. The music has stopped completely, the silence so heavy it feels alive.
My pulse hammers in my throat. He shouldn't remember me, but the way his gaze lingers makes me doubt everything I thought I knew.
He steps closer. The candles flicker as he moves, the faint scent of old iron and smoke trailing behind him.
"She will not be touched again," he says evenly. "Do I make myself clear?"
The noblewoman bows immediately, her voice trembling. "Y-Yes, Your Highness."
He doesn't look away. His attention stays on me, and I can't move.
Something flickers in his expression, there was a hint of recognition, maybe, or memory, but it's gone before I can name it.
And then, in the same calm, unshakable tone, he says it.
"She will be my bride."
For a heartbeat, I don't understand what I've heard.
Then the meaning hits, hard enough to take the breath from my chest.
The entire hall erupts in whispers. Fans snap shut. Goblets tremble in hands gone pale. Somewhere, someone gasps the word "human." Another voice hisses, "Impossible."
I'm frozen on the floor, blood still trickling from my palm, staring up at the prince who just destroyed every law of his kingdom with a sentence.
Alexander's gaze doesn't waver. He stands tall, calm, as if daring anyone to contradict him.
Around him, the world blurs—the nobles' faces twisting in disbelief, the chandeliers blazing brighter, the walls closing in. I can hear my heartbeat louder than their outrage.
My mind races. He can't mean it. This must be some cruel game, some act of defiance against his brothers. But the look in his eyes… it isn't cruelty. It's conviction.
"She will be my bride," he repeats, his voice low but final.
And in that instant, the world shifts.
I feel every stare on me, the weight of centuries of hierarchy pressing down like a hand around my throat. I've spent my whole life trying to stay invisible, to survive quietly, to never be seen.
Now every eye in Drakora sees me.
And there's no going back.