The ballroom seemed to hold its breath.
Hundreds of candles burned from golden chandeliers above, their light flickering through the crystal prisms and washing the marble hall in soft, trembling brilliance. Music had died away moments earlier, leaving only silence, deep, waiting, fragile as glass.
Then the great doors opened.
From the top of the grand staircase, Princess Jasmine appeared.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to forget how to move. Every whisper fell quiet. Every fan paused midair. Even the flickering candle flames seemed to still, as if drawn toward her.
She stood there, framed by the golden arches and the ocean of light behind her. The silver gown shimmered like spilled moonlight, flowing over her slender frame in a way that didn't seem entirely natural. The veil draped over her face caught the glow of a hundred candles, making her features faint, dreamlike.
And her eyes, gods, her eyes.
Even from the top of the stairs, the faint gleam of crimson beneath the gauze was visible. It was like looking into a flame reflected in water, soft, but impossible to ignore.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
For many, this was the first time they had ever laid eyes on the Emperor's youngest daughter. Few in the capital had seen her in person. Stories about her appearance had been whispered for years: that she had eyes like rubies, that her beauty was unnatural, that she rarely left the east wing of the palace at all.
Now, those stories seemed almost too small to contain her.
One nobleman, a count known for his glib tongue, found himself speechless. Another, a duchess who prided herself on composure, felt her fan tremble in her hand. Servants and courtiers alike stood rooted where they were, unable to look away.
Even the orchestra, uncertain, waited for a cue that never came.
At the far end of the hall, upon a throne of polished obsidian and gold, Emperor Elowen watched in silence. His expression was calm, but his eyes softened as Jasmine began her descent.
He had expected the reaction. He had seen it before, years ago, when her mother entered the court for the first time. The same silence. The same stunned awe.
And yet this time it pained him.
She was so much like her mother, not only in beauty but in that same otherworldly stillness, that air of distance that drew people closer even as it warned them away. It was the look of someone never meant to belong to this world.
Elowen's hand tightened slightly on the armrest of his throne.
As Jasmine descended, her movements were calm, almost measured. She seemed unaware of the dozens, no, hundreds, of eyes fixed upon her. Her gaze didn't waver, her steps didn't falter. The hem of her gown whispered softly against the marble, a sound barely audible yet impossibly distinct in the silence.
Whispers began at the edges of the hall.
"She's real…"
"By the Saints…"
"She looks like she stepped out of a dream."
A group of noblewomen, resplendent in silk and diamonds, leaned close to one another near the columns.
"She's so young," murmured one.
"Thirteen, they say," another whispered.
"A child."
"Not a child anymore," said the eldest among them quietly.
"Look at her. The Emperor was right to keep her hidden. The court would have torn her apart."
Near the banquet tables, three dukes had gathered: Duke Rassel, Duke Myrien, and the aged Duke Corvane, who had served the Empire for nearly five decades.
Rassel, the youngest, let out a low whistle. "The rumors didn't do her justice."
Myrien frowned slightly. "Rumors never do."
Corvane's gaze was fixed on Jasmine as she glided down the last few steps. "That girl carries power in her veins," he murmured. "You can feel it in the air. It hums around her, quiet but dangerous. I've felt that only once before."
Rassel raised a brow. "When?"
The old duke's expression darkened. "When her mother first entered this hall."
A hush fell among them.
Even Myrien, ever the skeptic, said nothing. They all remembered the late Empress, a woman of gentle smile and terrible magic, who had died far too young.
Elsewhere, the high-ranking mages of the Imperial Academy watched from their corner. They stood out from the nobility, their robes lined with sigils of silver thread, their eyes faintly glowing from overuse of mana.
Archmage Halwen, head of the academy, squinted slightly as he observed Jasmine. "Her core burns bright," he muttered, more to himself than to the others. "Too bright for someone her age."
His apprentice, a sharp-eyed woman with white hair, tilted her head. "Perhaps it's just the light, Master."
"It's not the light." His tone was flat. "It's something else. Something deeper."
The other mages exchanged uneasy glances.
They had heard the same whispers that the young princess had been born under strange omens, that her mana was unlike that of ordinary humans. Now, seeing her, they wondered how much of that was true.
By now, Jasmine had reached the bottom of the stairs.
Standing there for a moment, she lifted her gaze. A faint, polite smile curved her lips beneath the veil, though her eyes remained distant. The crowd parted instinctively as Alaric, her elder brother, stepped forward to meet her.
He was tall, composed, his dark uniform gleaming with the insignia of the crown prince. Without a word, he extended his arm. Jasmine placed her hand upon it, and the two began walking across the hall toward the Emperor's throne.
Every step seemed to echo.
Every breath in the room seemed to wait.
At the dais, Elowen rose from his seat. His robes shimmered faintly as he moved, heavy with golden embroidery, the weight of rule upon his shoulders. His expression remained calm, but in his eyes, a flicker of emotion lingered, pride, sorrow, something quieter still.
When Jasmine and Alaric reached him, he took his daughter's hand gently.
"Lords and ladies of the Empire," his voice carried through the vast chamber, deep and clear. "You honor us with your presence."
The hall was utterly still.
Elowen's gaze swept over the gathered nobility, the generals, the dukes, the magisters and envoys, the princes of neighboring lands, and finally returned to Jasmine.
"This day," he said, "my youngest daughter comes of age. For years, she has lived in quiet study, away from the noise of the court. But tonight, I present her before you, not as a child of the palace, but as a daughter of the Empire."
He paused, letting the murmurs rise and fall.
"She carries the grace of her mother," he continued softly, "and the strength of her bloodline. I have no doubt she will grow into a woman worthy of this realm, and perhaps, one day, its future."
His tone shifted slightly, taking on the polished rhythm of a ruler. "Let tonight be a night of joy and renewal. Let the music rise once more, and may the Empire's bonds grow stronger."
He lifted Jasmine's hand once more, holding it aloft for all to see. "Behold, Princess Jasmine Elowen of the Imperial House."
The orchestra began to play again.
The sound of strings and flutes filled the air like the first breath after drowning. The silence broke into applause, hesitant at first, then swelling into thunder. The hall seemed to come alive again, but the awe had not faded.
Even as the nobles clapped and smiled, they could not shake the image of that girl, pale, radiant, unreal, standing beside the throne like something half divine.
Among the applause, whispers resumed like a current beneath the music.
"She looks nothing like her other siblings."
"Those eyes, are they red or glowing?"
"Do you think she uses enchantments to appear like that?"
"Careful, don't let her hear you. The Emperor might."
On the outer edge of the hall, a group of younger nobles stood together, sons and daughters of dukes and marquesses, dressed in fine silks and nervous excitement. They had grown up on tales of the Emperor's mysterious daughter, and now that she stood before them, none quite knew what to say.
A blond young man broke the silence first. He was tall, confident, dressed in white and gold. The insignia of House Valmere gleamed on his shoulder, a soaring hawk over a sunburst.
"By the stars," he whispered, half-laughing. "I think I've just fallen in love."
His friend beside him, dark-haired, sharper-faced, snorted. "You and half the hall, Arlen."
"I'm serious," said Arlen Valmere, grinning like a man possessed. "Did you see her eyes? And that veil, she looks like something out of an old song."
His friend shook his head. "And you think you've got a chance?"
Arlen lifted his chin. "Why not? My father's a duke. Our family commands the western fleets. I'm not exactly a nobody."
The other young man raised a brow. "She's the Emperor's daughter. You might as well reach for the sun."
"Maybe I will," Arlen said, a spark in his voice. "I'm going to speak to my father. If there's any chance—"
"Any chance of what? Embarrassing yourself before the entire court?"
But Arlen only smiled, watching Jasmine across the hall as she stood beside the throne, her posture perfect, her face unreadable.
"She won't even remember your name," his friend muttered.
Arlen didn't seem to hear him.
At the same time, two young women, both daughters of the eastern marquesses, whispered behind their fans.
"She's too perfect," one said. "No one looks like that. Not without magic."
"Maybe she's enchanted," said the other, her voice hushed. "I heard she was born under a blood moon."
"That's superstition."
"Then how do you explain her eyes?"
The first girl didn't answer. She only kept watching Jasmine, unease creeping into her gaze.
Across the hall, Archmage Halwen still hadn't sat down. His apprentices whispered anxiously beside him, but his attention remained fixed on the princess.
He could feel the mana in the air, subtle, cold, ancient. Not the pulse of a spell being cast, but something deeper, intrinsic. The girl's presence alone was shifting the balance of the hall.
"She's not casting," he murmured. "But her core is… resonating."
"Resonating with what, Master?"
Halwen's frown deepened. "With everything."
From his throne, Emperor Elowen watched the sea of faces, all of them enchanted, afraid, or hungry in their own ways.
He could read their thoughts as clearly as their expressions.
The dukes were already thinking of alliances. The generals were wondering what kind of weapon her power might become. The mages were already trying to unravel the mystery of her blood.
And the young ones, the sons and daughters of nobles, were lost in infatuation, in fantasy.
He knew this look. He had seen it before.
He leaned back slowly, his smile fading. For a brief moment, he saw not the hall but the memory of another woman descending those same stairs, laughing softly, her gown gold instead of silver. And he remembered the silence then, too. The same reverent fear.
His late wife had been too beautiful for this world. Too bright. Too cursed.
Now her daughter stood in her place.
As the music grew livelier, nobles began to move again, some to dance, others to speak, though their eyes kept darting back to Jasmine as if to confirm she was real.
The orchestra's melody swelled, filling the hall with warmth and motion. But around the dais, the air still felt cold, heavy, charged with something no one could name.
Jasmine stood beside her father, the faint smile never leaving her lips. But inside, her thoughts were quiet, distant.
All of them are staring. She could feel their gazes like heat against her skin. She could hear the half-whispered words — divine, ghostly, unreal.
She wasn't sure which she preferred.
From across the hall, Arlen Valmere raised his goblet slightly, his eyes fixed on her. His friend sighed, already knowing what that gesture meant.
"You're a fool," he muttered.
Arlen only smiled. "Maybe. But if she's out of reach, I'll just have to climb higher."
He took a slow drink, gaze unwavering.
And as the ball truly began, the first dance forming, the laughter returning, the music swelling, every person in that hall, from the lowest squire to the highest duke, knew one thing for certain:
The Emperor's daughter had arrived.And nothing in the Empire would ever feel quite the same again.