By the next evening, the palace was unrecognizable.
Lanterns hung from every arch, strings of crystal lights caught in garlands of winter roses. Gold and crimson banners swept down from the balconies, and the air shimmered with the scent of perfumed oil and tension.
Servants scurried in silence through the hallways, polishing floors until they gleamed like mirrors. Guards stood in gleaming armor at every doorway — not to welcome, but to remind.
Elyon watched the preparations from her chamber balcony, the bustle below a blur of motion. The hum of the crowd reached her faintly — nobles from every province, ministers, merchants, foreign envoys. And somewhere among them would be Prince William of Ludia.
Her stomach tightened at the thought.
Behind her, Amara adjusted the final clasp of her gown. It was Ludian silk, as her father had commanded — soft silver-blue, the color of moonlight on still water. Delicate embroidery traced the shape of wings across the bodice.
"You look…" Amara hesitated, afraid to say the wrong word.
"Trapped?" Elyon offered, her voice faintly bitter.
"Radiant," Amara said quickly, though her nervous smile betrayed her honesty. "You'll take their breath away."
Elyon turned from the mirror. "Let's hope they're too busy breathing to notice me at all."
The trumpet call echoed from below — a bright, triumphant sound that made her heart pound.
"It's time," Amara whispered.
The corridor outside was lined with guards. Elyon walked between them, her gown whispering across the polished floor. Every step felt heavier than the last.
At the top of the grand staircase, she stopped. The ballroom opened below her in a flood of gold light — a sea of nobles swirling in silks and jewels. Music swelled from the orchestra, polished and cold.
And at the center of it all, on the dais beneath the royal banner, stood her father.
King Roland's expression was as rigid as the crown upon his head. On his right stood Prince Edric and Prince Lorian; on his left, an empty space — her place.
As Elyon descended the staircase, heads turned. The chatter softened, replaced by a wave of practiced admiration.
They don't see me, she thought. They see the symbol he made of me.
Her father's gaze met hers, approving but impersonal. He extended a hand; she curtsied and took her place beside him.
A herald stepped forward and struck the floor with a golden staff. "Presenting His Grace, Prince William of Ludia, heir to the Silver Throne!"
The doors at the far end opened.
And the room seemed to shift.
He entered not like a prince, but like a storm disguised in silk. His posture was composed, his attire immaculate — dark velvet trimmed with silver, a wolf's head clasp at his shoulder — yet there was something in the way he moved that unsettled the air around him.
His eyes found hers almost immediately. Grey, sharp, and too knowing.
Elyon's breath caught.
William bowed deeply before her father. "Your Majesty. I bring the greetings and friendship of Ludia."
Roland inclined his head. "Your journey was uneventful, I trust?"
"A quiet road, though quiet roads are often deceptive." His tone carried the faintest edge of amusement.
The king's lips tightened — uncertain whether to take offense. Elyon nearly smiled.
When William straightened, his gaze lingered on her again. "And this must be Princess Elyon. The honor, I fear, is mine alone."
"Prince William," she said softly. "Welcome to Nitchgard."
He held her gaze a moment longer than courtesy required. "Thank you, Your Highness. I hope the evening proves… illuminating."
Before she could reply, the orchestra swelled again, and the courtiers began to move toward the banquet tables. The great feast had begun.
Elyon sat beside the prince at the long table, surrounded by murmurs and laughter that felt painted on. Dishes of silver and gold lined the surface — jeweled fruits, roasted game, spiced wine — but she could taste none of it.
Every word, every glance was performance. Nobles praised alliances they didn't believe in, toasted kings they secretly feared. And above it all, her father watched, smiling the smile of a man who believed himself master of every piece on the board.
Elyon felt William's gaze again, quiet but intent. "You seem far away," he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
"Perhaps I am," she replied.
"Do you often wish to be somewhere else?"
She looked at him sharply, but his expression was unreadable — polite, even faintly amused.
"It's not wise to speak of wishing," she said. "In this court, wishes are dangerous."
William lifted his cup slightly. "Then perhaps I'll make one on your behalf. Something harmless."
"What would you wish for me, Prince of Ludia?"
His eyes glinted faintly. "Freedom, perhaps."
Her pulse quickened. "You speak boldly for a guest."
"And you listen too carefully for a captive."
Before she could answer, the sound of glass shattering somewhere across the hall drew every eye. A servant had dropped a tray — nothing unusual — yet the sharp crack seemed to echo longer than it should.
Elyon frowned. The candles along the far wall flickered. The air felt charged, as if the world had taken a breath and forgotten how to exhale.
She turned instinctively toward the balcony, where the curtains rippled despite the still air.
A whisper of unease slid down her spine.
William noticed her glance and leaned closer. "Something wrong?"
"I don't know," she murmured.
At the far end of the table, King Roland rose, raising his goblet high. "To unity," he declared. "To strength. To a future built on obedience and order!"
The nobles cheered.
But Elyon's eyes stayed fixed on the balcony curtains. Behind them, for the briefest instant, she thought she saw a shadow move — quick, purposeful.
The music rose again, bright and brittle as glass.
And somewhere above the banners, unseen, a bowstring drew taut.