From across the ballroom, Crown Prince Vaelric observed the exchange with unreadable eyes.
He hadn't moved the entire dance—only sipped once from a crystal goblet, expression untouched by courtly flattery. But when Zareena walked away, shoulders straight and spine like a blade, something in him shifted.
"Who is she?" he asked one of his advisors, voice quiet, clipped.
The man hesitated. "Zareena Valeska ibn Serinova, Your Highness. The one from the northern post—Fort Vireloch."
Vaelric's lips parted in surprise, just slightly. "That's the girl from the border?"
"Yes, sire. She's… recently made quite a name for herself."
The prince watched her go with narrowed eyes.
"She doesn't walk like a noblewoman. She walks like a survivor."
And something about that made his blood stir.
Elsewhere: Rashid's Private Reflection
He remained at the edge of the ballroom, back to a marble pillar, wine untouched in his hand.
People talked around him. But their words were wind.
He could still feel the echo of her in his arms—her spine steel, her eyes frost, her words like poison-coated silk.
He'd thought her clever. Fierce. Uncommon.
But tonight… she was dangerous.
And gods help him, he wanted to see what she'd do next.
But then he saw the Crown Prince's gaze—sharp, measuring, intrigued.
Rashid's jaw tightened.
He's seen her now. Really seen her.
That was not part of the plan.
He took a sip of wine, but it tasted sour.
Zareena had always been unpredictable. But the prince's attention—that changed the game.
He didn't fear rivals.
He feared what he might do to them.
"Careful, Highness," he murmured to himself. "You've just noticed the ice. I've already seen the fire."