The week slipped by like water through her fingers.
Each day brought her closer to her birthday and to the grand ball that awaited, yet Jasmine spent most of it in bed, still recovering.
William had left for the North as planned.
Though the lingering fatigue clung to her, she was mostly well again. Her mana, once drained near to emptiness, had recovered to nearly full strength. Only a close inspection, a faint pallor beneath her eyes, a rare heaviness in her breath, would betray that she had been unwell at all.
The court healer had visited several times since, conducting her usual examinations with meticulous precision. She left each time with reassurances of her improving health.
Her father, Emperor Elowen, had surprised her with his presence more than once during those days. He came without warning, silent as always, his golden eyes taking in everything. He had even examined her mana core himself, his palm against her back, his brow furrowing when he found nothing amiss.
He never said what he was looking for.
After a few visits, he stopped coming.
The days blurred together after that, quiet, still, filled with the soft rustle of turning pages. Jasmine passed the time in reading, indulging in the collection Vivian had brought her: histories, treatises, and the occasional novel to dull the tedium of rest.
Outside her chambers, the castle stirred with growing activity. Guests from across the empire were beginning to arrive, dukes and duchesses, generals, envoys, nobles of every stripe.
The castle itself was vast beyond reason, built into the mountain range that loomed above the capital. From the city below, its silhouette dominated the skyline, all soaring spires and ancient stone. Monstrous, magnificent, a monument to human ambition.
Within its walls, five thousand souls could live comfortably, each with a room of their own. And soon, nearly all would be filled.
Carriages lined the courtyards in orderly rows, their banners fluttering in the mountain wind. The air hummed with the sound of arriving guests, the clatter of hooves, the murmur of attendants, the calls of heralds announcing names of prestige.
Time slipped by unnoticed.
Before she knew it, morning had come, the morning of her birthday.
Jasmine stood before the mirror in her room, studying her reflection in silence.
Her skin had regained its color, pale but steady. Her dark hair flowed like ink down her back, brushing the hem of her gown. Her eyes, deep and garnet-bright, gazed back at her with quiet resolve.
For a moment, she simply stared at herself, not the child the court saw, not the "wretch's daughter," but something else. Something sharper.
On either side of her, two servants moved with delicate precision, their hands steady as they adorned her in silk and jewels.
Jasmine stood before the mirror, silent, her gaze unfocused as they worked. The silver gown shimmered with every breath of movement, flowing like liquid moonlight over her lithe, small frame. It was the most beautiful dress she had ever worn, and yet, her expression remained unchanged, distant, almost indifferent.
The silk clung and fell in perfect measure, its loose folds whispering against her skin. The sleeves, sheer and translucent, offered fleeting glimpses of her pale arms beneath. Threads of platinum embroidery traced faint, intricate sigils along the hem, a craftsman's masterpiece, flawless in its artistry.
Lilian approached then, carrying a velvet box. Inside lay a necklace of impossible beauty, a slender chain of silver and starlight, set with a single gem that burned like frozen flame.
A ruby.
Its color mirrored Jasmine's own eyes, that rare, otherworldly shade of red that marked her as something not quite human.
Lilian's hands were gentle as she fastened it around Jasmine's throat, the gem resting just above her heart.
More ornaments followed. Bracelets gleamed at her wrists, each one intricate, absurdly expensive. Rings set with smaller jewels adorned her slender fingers.
Finally, the veil, a gossamer creation of silver thread, light as breath. It fell softly over her face, casting her features in a faint, dreamlike haze.
When the servants stepped back, they froze for a heartbeat, awed not by their craftsmanship, but by her.
The young princess stood like a vision from another realm: delicate, untouchable, haunting in her stillness.
Jasmine met her own reflection at last. The image staring back at her was immaculate, a doll carved from moonlight and shadow, perfect and hollow.
She sighed.
"So…Gaudy," she murmured under her breath.
But it was far too late for protest.
Beyond her chamber doors, the music of the court was already beginning, the first notes of the celebration rising like a tide.
The ball was about to begin.
...
The imperial ballroom was a palace within a palace, vast, glittering, and alive.
Hundreds of candles blazed from crystal chandeliers high above, their light refracted through faceted glass and polished marble until the entire hall shimmered like starlight trapped in stone. The scent of fine wine and spiced perfumes mingled with the faint sweetness of lilies arranged along the colonnades.
Music drifted from the grand orchestra at the far end of the room, a slow, lilting waltz that seemed to fill every inch of air, rising and falling like waves.
Clusters of nobles gathered beneath the golden arches, voices low and laughter practiced. Goblets of aged crimson wine glimmered in their hands, reflecting candlelight as they spoke of empire and ambition.
"…trade routes to the southern isles have been unstable since the blockade," one man murmured, his jeweled fingers tracing the rim of his glass.
"Unstable, yes," replied another, portly and red-cheeked, "but profitable if you have the right connections. I hear the Duke of Rassel has struck a new accord with the merchants of Myrath. Dangerous men, but their spices fetch a fine price."
A third man chuckled, swirling his drink lazily. "Politics and profit, the only dances that matter before midnight."
Laughter rippled lightly between them. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, one of the older lords, gray at the temples, with the insignia of a general on his breast, leaned forward.
"Speaking of midnight," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "tell me, has any of you ever seen her?"
The laughter stilled.
"Seen who?" another asked, though the question was unnecessary.
"The Emperor's youngest daughter," the general said, his tone wry. "The one whose birthday ball we're all attending, yet none seem to have laid eyes on the girl herself."
The group exchanged glances.
"She rarely appears in public," one noblewoman said, fanning herself lightly. "And when she does, it's brief; she leaves before anyone can so much as exchange a word."
"I heard she hasn't even attended the last two winter festivals," another added. "Her Highness lives secluded in the east wing, does she not?"
"Indeed," murmured a baron with a thin smile. "A ghost princess in her own castle."
"Ghost or not," the noblewoman interjected softly, "those who have seen her say she's… unforgettable."
Unconvinced snorts followed.
"Unforgettable?" one man repeated, his lip curling. "We're talking about a child, are we not? thirteen? Fourteen?"
"Thirteen this day," someone corrected.
"Thirteen, then." He laughed, a sharp sound against the music. "You speak as though she were some divine vision descended from the heavens. I've seen beauty, queens, duchesses, and courtesans of the eastern courts, and none left me haunted. What nonsense."
The noblewoman gave him a look that was almost pity. "That's what they all say. Until they meet her eyes."
The man raised a brow. "Her eyes?"
"Red," she whispered, lowering her fan. "A ruby shade. Not crimson, not scarlet, deeper. Like they burn from within."
The men around her chuckled again, though softer this time. Someone muttered, "Sounds like tavern gossip."
"Perhaps," she said lightly. "But I heard the same from a captain of the guard who escorted her during last year's solar procession. He said when she looked at him, just once, it felt like time stopped. Like he was being seen through."
"Ah, so now she's a sorceress, is she?" the skeptic scoffed, lifting his glass in mock salute. "A little girl with glowing eyes who freezes time with a stare. You people spend too long in candlelight, your imaginations are melting."
The others laughed, but uneasily.
For a moment, their conversation faltered, drowned out by the orchestra's swelling crescendo and the echo of clinking glass across the hall. The storm of chatter filled the air again, but something in that man's derision lingered like static before lightning.
And then, as though summoned by the whisper of her own legend, the music shifted.
The great doors at the far end of the ballroom began to open.
A hush rippled outward, like wind through a field of tall grass. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Fans stilled. Even the musicians faltered for a heartbeat before finding their rhythm again, softer now, slower.
At the top of the grand staircase, framed by the light of a hundred chandeliers, stood the Emperor's youngest daughter.
Princess Jasmine.
Her silver gown flowed like liquid moonlight, and every step she took glided rather than fell. The veil over her head shimmered faintly, concealing her face but not the aura she carried, an invisible gravity that bent the air around her, drawing every gaze and silencing every breath.
The skeptical noble, his goblet still raised, felt the sound die in his throat. His smirk faded, replaced by something he could not name.
"By the Lords... sh..."
And when Jasmine descended, her crimson eyes gleaming faintly from behind the gauze of her veil, glowing just enough to catch the candlelight, even the storm outside seemed to hold its breath.