As she stepped into the hall, every eye seemed to snap toward her, an invisible tether pulling every gaze in her direction. Whispers flitted like shadows across the polished marble floors.
"She's… beautiful," one voice murmured, caught between awe and fear.
"Who is she?" another asked, leaning to glimpse her from behind a gilded column.
Then came the recognition, the sharp intake of breath that silenced many.
Tenebrarum's possession, his claimed, his dark jewel, she was his—no one dared speak further.
Some still admired the fluid grace of her movements, the way her deep red dress, embroidered with gold, clung to her form yet flowed like molten fire with every step, framing her like a living flame.
Her white hair was pinned high with golden pins, each twist and curl perfect, accentuating the sharp line of her jaw and the strength burning behind her gaze. But admiration was tempered by fear.
And then there were others who seethed, voices muttering curses under their breath.
Camilla, the crown princess, loomed near the center of the hall, her eyes narrowing as she measured this unexpected threat.
How could she endure sharing the spotlight with Tenebrarum's item.
She was his soon-to-be wife.
Aurelia felt it—the weight of every stare, the whispered judgments, the silent calculations—but she welcomed it. Let them look. Let them whisper.
She would give Tenebrarum his show, and then she would take it all back. Every gaze that lingered, every envious glance, fueled the fire simmering in her chest.
She walked with measured steps, each one precise, deliberate, letting the hem of her dress swirl just enough to draw eyes while keeping control.
Every tilt of her head, every subtle sway of her shoulders, was a weapon of poise and defiance, letting the world believe she was as compliant, as controlled, as Tenebrarum's prized possession.
Inside, however, her mind plotted, sharp and unyielding, every second a countdown to the moment she would reclaim what he thought he owned.
"Here, a chair," Sorana said, guiding Aurelia toward a gilded seat.
Aurelia sank into it, trying to calm the storm in her chest, yet Tenebrarum didn't even glance her way, his gaze fixed ahead, sharp and unreadable, as if she didn't exist. The chill of his indifference cut deeper than any words.
Then the King appeared, and silence descended like a weight pressing against every shoulder.
Aurelia's heart jolted.
He looked frail, she though he was ill and
yet somehow still commanding, still able to fill this hall with presence.
How could he, she was sure he was dying and yet he stood so firmly, spoke so forcefully?
The King's voice carried across the room, praising his son, Tenebrarum, boasting of his discipline, his intelligence, his unmatched power.
Bla, bla, bla.
The words slid past Aurelia like water over stone. She barely heard anything that king Mortifer said, her mind tangled with the sharp, cold awareness of Tenebrarum's gaze—or rather, the absence of it.
Every accolade felt like a reminder that this world was not hers, that she was a pawn, a spectacle meant to be admired, measured, and contained.
She clenched her hands in her lap, knuckles whitening, forcing herself to sit straight, to appear calm, even as her mind roared with plans and fury.
-----------------
Soon the ball began. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, spilling pools of golden light over the polished marble floors, each step of the dancers reflecting and scattering it like liquid fire. The harp and kithara strummed delicate, melodic lines while the deep resonance of drums, tambourines, and cymbals filled the hall with a flawless, commanding rhythm that made the entire space hum with elegance and power.
Tenebrarum moved across the floor with Camilla, each step precise, elegant, almost hypnotic, his hand firm on hers, every movement exuding a romance that made Aurelia's chest tighten and her jaw clench.
She hated it, hated seeing him so perfectly composed, so admired, and above all, hated that the lady who dared to take the spotlight from her in Tenebrarum's presence, this was the only way she would revenge and thus girl was spoiling her plot.
"Who is she?" Aurelia whispered, her eyes still fixed on the pair.
"Tenebrarum's soon-to-be wife," Sorana answered quietly, though her gaze lingered on the dancers for a moment longer.
Aurelia's eyes snapped wide in shock, disbelief coiling in her chest. What? The crown princess, here, dancing with Tenebrarum, and she had said nothing after that day she saw her and Tenebrarum sharing something forbidden.
Aurelia's hand flexed in her lap, nails digging into her palms, a fire of anger and jealousy igniting in her veins.
Every graceful movement, every controlled step, every glimmer of admiration directed toward Camilla felt like a personal insult.
Aurelia's lips pressed into a thin line, her mind racing with fury and strategy. She wanted Tenebrarum to look at her, to acknowledge her presence, but he didn't.
His gaze remained elsewhere, distant and unreadable, leaving her simmering with a mixture of irritation and longing.
Hungry, she picked at the dessert Sorana had brought, the delicate pastries and jewel-colored fruits a stark contrast to the storm building inside her.
Every bite felt like a small defiance, a way to remind herself that she was here, that she could endure this night even under Tenebrarum's indifferent stare.
She stole glances at him between bites, noting the way he moved with Camilla, each step precise, each gesture commanding attention.
The crown princess smiled too easily, laughed too lightly, and Aurelia's teeth clenched.
He should be looking at me, not her, Aurelia's thoughts hissed, sharp and restless.
Aurelia got up immediately, the chair scraping softly against the polished marble as she moved.
She didn't wait, didn't even pause a second, every step sharp, purposeful, a silent storm in motion. Sorana followed dutifully, her movements precise, almost too calm, but Aurelia didn't care—she needed space, needed to control the fire building inside her.
And in that exact moment, Tenebrarum turned, his gaze sweeping across the hall, settling where she had been seconds before.
If only she had waited.
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To be continued...