The Grand Hall of the Silver Court glittered beneath a thousand chandeliers, every crystal reflecting ambition. Nobles in embroidered silks murmured in huddled circles. Perfumed air, velvet lies. And in the middle of it all—Zareena Valeska ibn Serinova, daughter of the North, walked like frost given form.
She was dressed in black and silver, her House colors. Her cloak swept behind her like a shadow too proud to cling. Heads turned. Whispers followed her path. They expected quiet shame. Instead, she gave them a queen's silence.
From across the room, Rashid Alimov stood against a carved pillar, watching her with an unreadable expression. His tunic was dark green, lined in muted gold, and his eyes—deep-set and dangerous—tracked her like a hawk measuring distance.
But another had noticed her arrival too.
"Lady Zareena," said a voice of lacquered charm.
Crown Prince Vaelor descended from the dais like a lion on a marble hunt. He was taller than she expected. Youthful, but with eyes sharpened by courtly games. His smile was practice, his approach measured.
"A pleasure to see the ice of the North survive so far south. I feared you'd melt."
Zareena inclined her head just enough. "Your Highness. Ice tends to linger where fire cannot."
A flicker behind his eyes. Then a smile. "Perhaps I've simply never stood close enough to let it thaw."
The conversation turned to politics in disguise—weather in Vireloch, resource flows, idle court gossip. Each line a blade wrapped in silk.
When Vaelor offered his hand for a dance, Zareena accepted with a curtsy so precise it mocked protocol.
They stepped into the rhythm—her movements effortless, controlled. Around them, nobles watched with breath held. Some in awe. Some in calculation.
"I heard your outpost discovered new ore," the Prince murmured mid-turn.
"I heard some in court discovered new jealousy," she replied coolly.
His fingers tightened on hers for a beat—just long enough to betray interest.
On the edge of the dance floor, Rashid watched like a storm waiting to choose where to break.
The dance ended with applause, but the moment that lingered was not the waltz—it was the way Zareena stepped away from the Crown Prince as though he'd been a stepping stone, not a suitor.
She returned to her corner, unbothered, accepting a drink from one of her guards.
But it wasn't over.
A herald's bell rang—soft, ceremonial, deadly.
"Lady Zareena Valeska ibn Serinova," called the steward. "By order of the Court of Peers, you are hereby summoned to stand before the High Assembly at midday tomorrow on matters of civil and military conduct."
The music faltered. Nobles stared. Some smirked.
Zareena's fingers curled around her goblet. Not tight. Just enough to still them.
She stepped forward with perfect grace and gave a single nod.
"Then I shall attend," she said. "And I hope the Court is prepared."
Rashid's gaze followed her as she exited the hall, her cloak trailing like the edge of a sword.
In the balcony above, Vaelor stared after her, lips parted in something that might have been awe—or the birth of obsession.