"Are you going to stare at that box for ages?" Anord's voice cut through the silence, velvet-wrapped steel. His eyes met Liv's stunned face—eyes that missed nothing, framed by silver-threaded cuffs and a lean, impeccable silhouette. The grin he wore vanished beneath a sudden gravity.
"Take a swing. Take a chance."
Liv blinked, her breath shallow. She had never received a gift in her life—only favours, always with strings. This moment felt like a dream, and dreams were dangerous.
"Should I?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Be my guest." Anord maintained his posture, still as a sculpture, but inside, his thoughts churned. She hesitates. Good. She's not naïve. But she'll open it. They always do. He watched her with the quiet intensity of a man who had orchestrated too many outcomes to leave anything to chance. Your world has merged with mine, Liv. You just don't know it yet. And I love rebellion—especially when it wears a gown.
Liv's fingers trembled as she reached for the box. What is happening? Is the world playing tricks on me? Or am I dreaming? Her heart thudded against her ribs. If I'm not dreaming, then there must be a catch. There's always a catch. But the box sat there, inert and silent, daring her to believe.
She gathered her courage, drew near, and unwrapped it. The paper tore like a whisper in a cathedral. Inside, nestled in folds of black velvet, lay a gold satin gown—its surface embroidered with butterflies so intricate they seemed to flutter with each breath of air. The seams shimmered, catching the light in a way that made them look alive, as if stitched by something not entirely human.
Atop the gown rested a half mask, matching in hue and design, its edges kissed with gold filigree and tiny winged motifs.
Her eyes glimmered.
"What's the catch?" she asked, voice controlled, deliberate, laced with subtext.
Anord smiled, slow and knowing. "Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over..." His tone was smooth, poetic, layered with double meanings. "...shall men give into your bosom. For with the same measure that ye mete withal it shall be measured to you again."
He beamed. "Happy birthday, Liv. You and I were fated to meet this day. Go get changed in the bathroom."
Liv paused, her fingers still hovering over the mask. Tell me this is not happening. Tell me this isn't some elaborate trap. She looked at him, trying to read the truth in his eyes. But they were mirrors—reflecting only what she wanted to see.
"Shoes?" she asked, her voice a thread.
"Take a leap of faith," Anord said, now commanding.
Inside, he felt the thrill of the moment. She's stepping into the unknown. Into my world. And she'll never be the same. He didn't need her trust. Just her curiosity.
Off Liv strode to the bathroom, her steps quick, uncertain. She pushed the door open and locked it behind her with a sharp click—twice, just to be sure. The silence inside was thick, almost sacred.
She stood before the mirror. The thing she avoided at all costs.
Tell me, what do you see there?
A pale figure stared back—blonde hair tangled from neglect, eyes rimmed with doubt. An orphan. A servant. A shadow in someone else's story.
Then Nova's voice echoed, cruel and clear:
"Don't speak unless spoken to. You filthy thing. You have no beginning… and no future."
Liv flinched. The words had carved themselves into her bones. That's what I am. I can't be anything else.
She blinked back tears. What if the world doesn't accept me? What if it never will?
Her fingers tightened around the comb she'd been clutching for comfort. It was old, carved from some unknown wood, smooth and warm like it remembered her touch. She raised it slowly, brushing her hair back.
There was more to the figure in the mirror. More than the labels. More than the wounds.
What if the roles were reversed? What if the world had been different? What would I be?
She brushed again. The comb pulsed in her hand—then glowed. A soft golden flame flickered along its edges, as if awakening.
Liv gasped. "What the hell?"
She froze. The glow faded. She brought the comb back gently, cautiously. The moment it touched her hair again, it shimmered—alive.
What world have I awakened to? Is this magic? Or madness?
She paused, trembling. "Should I just go back to my world and forget this ever happened?"
The question hung in the air like incense.
She stood at a crossroads. The past was layered, familiar, cruel. The future—unknown, demanding, wild.
Going back would be easier. But the future needed more than courage. It needed transformation.
Liv gritted her teeth. "Alright. Let's go on with it."
She stroked her hair again. Each pass of the comb ignited a glow, turning her strands to gold—like sunlight woven into silk.
The girl in the mirror was changing. Not just in appearance, but in essence.
The banquet progressed with practiced elegance. Crystal chandeliers cast warm halos over polished marble floors. Laughter mingled with the soft strains of a string quartet. Nobles danced in pairs, their silks and satins swirling like petals in a breeze.
At the high table, Prince Ethan sat poised, his goblet untouched.
"Duke Oscar," he said with a courteous nod.
The Duke leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate. "Prince Ethan… how do you fare with my daughter?"
His tone was smooth, but beneath it lay calculation—like a chess master weighing his next move.
Ethan didn't answer immediately. He knew better than to rush. Duke Oscar was no ordinary noble. His influence stretched across Remo Desto's military ranks, its trade routes, and vast estates. The peace the kingdom enjoyed now bore his fingerprints—strategic, silent, and enduring.
What are you up to, Duke? Ethan mused, his smile polite but guarded.
He glanced across the table. Nova Oscar sat in a gown of midnight blue, her eyes locked onto his with quiet longing. She was beautiful, poised, and bred for diplomacy. But Ethan's heart didn't stir.
"She is…" he began, voice trailing.
Then he saw her.
A figure entered the hall—golden hair cascading like firelight, a gown of satin embroidered with butterflies that shimmered with each step. Her half mask glowed faintly, catching the candlelight like a living thing.
Liv.
She didn't walk—she arrived.
Ethan's breath caught. The room seemed to hush around her, as if the music itself paused to watch.
What sorcery is this? he thought. A goddess… or a rebellion in disguise?
Nova's gaze faltered. Duke Oscar's eyes narrowed.
And Ethan, for the first time that evening, felt the ground shift beneath him.