The bells of Valenor rang out in golden echoes, their sound spilling through the marble halls like light across water. It was a day of celebration — the coronation of Prince Darius Vayne, heir to the throne and heart of the kingdom's future.
For most, it was a day of joy.
For Lady Elara Vayne, it was the day her life would quietly begin to unravel.
She stood among a crowd of nobles in the grand ballroom, every jewel in her hair catching the candlelight. Her gown shimmered like midnight silk, stitched with silver thread. She looked every bit the noblewoman she was — graceful, calm, and perfect — though her heart beat too fast beneath her corset.
Her eyes followed Darius, the man she was promised to marry, as he knelt before the High Priest. He was beautiful in that cruel, royal way — dark hair, sharp jawline, eyes like stormclouds.
When the crown touched his head, the people cheered.
But Elara noticed something strange.
Darius didn't smile. Not even a flicker.
When he rose, his gaze swept across the crowd — and for a heartbeat, his eyes met hers. The look he gave her was not love. It was something colder. Something distant.
Elara's stomach twisted.
Was it nerves? Or something more?
---
As the ceremony ended, servants flooded the hall with wine and music. Laughter swirled like perfume. Elara made her way to Darius, weaving through noblemen bowing and whispering behind their fans. She reached him just as he dismissed one of his advisors — Lord Merek, a man with eyes too calculating for comfort.
"My king," Elara said softly, teasing. "Or do I still get to call you Darius?"
He smiled then — that charming, dangerous smile she used to love.
"For tonight," he said, taking her hand, "you may call me anything you wish."
They danced. The crowd watched. It should have been perfect.
But halfway through the waltz, Darius leaned close and whispered, "Do you trust me, Elara?"
The question froze her mid-step. "Of course I do," she said.
"Good," he murmured. "Then don't ask questions tonight."
Before she could respond, he let her go and stepped away as if nothing had happened.
Elara stood alone on the dance floor as another noblewoman swept in to take her place.
Something inside her — some quiet instinct — began to scream.
---
Later that night, as the moon rose high over Valenor's towers, Elara slipped into the castle gardens for air. The roses glowed pale silver, their scent heavy and sweet. She needed a moment away from the noise, from the eyes, from the unease crawling beneath her skin.
Then she heard it.
Two voices.
Whispering beyond the hedges.
She crept closer, the sound of her heartbeat louder than her steps.
"…the king dies tonight," one voice said.
Her blood ran cold.
"The poison is ready. At dawn, he'll be gone. And when the nobles demand order, Darius will rise."
Elara pressed a trembling hand over her mouth.
No — she couldn't have heard right. Darius would never—
Then she heard his voice.
Calm. Certain.
"Make sure Elara is nowhere near the king's chambers. If she learns anything… handle it quietly."
Her knees went weak. The night seemed to tilt.
He was planning it. He was part of it.
The man she loved — the man she was supposed to marry — was plotting the king's death.
And worse…
He was planning to use her as a shield.
---
When she stumbled back toward the ballroom, her eyes were wet, her breath sharp. She had to warn someone, anyone—but before she could reach the guards, a hand gripped her arm.
It was Lord Merek.
"Going somewhere, my lady?" he asked, voice smooth and venomous.
She tried to pull away. "Let me go!"
But his grip tightened.
"I'm afraid you've heard too much."
The next thing she knew, something sharp pricked her neck.
Her vision blurred. The music from the ballroom faded into a distant hum.
And as the world went dark, she heard Darius's voice one last time—soft, almost regretful:
"I told you not to ask questions."