Veronica made a small 'hmph' sound and sashayed away with swayed confidence.
I simply smiled and took a sip of wine.
That was fun. But I hadn't noticed the person staring at me from across the room.
The wine tasted sweet at first, then dry. Expensive.
A Solmar vintage if I had to guess. Light-bodied, floral. Not my favorite. Too pleasant. Too harmless.
I reached for another pastry instead.
Around me, conversation slowly resumed. Nobles who had suddenly discovered the architectural brilliance of chandeliers now found renewed interest in their companions. A violin swelled in the background, followed by the soft murmur of cellos. The ballroom shimmered under golden light.
Masks.
Laughter and perfume so thick it felt chewable.
I was considering whether to explore the balcony for fresh air when the atmosphere shifted.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't dramatic.
It was subtle.
Like the air pressure changing before a storm.
I had a bad feeling about it.
I turned lazily, pastry still in hand and the world stilled.
White.
Not pale-blond.
White.
Hair like snowfall under moonlight, catching the chandelier glow and reflecting it back in a cold halo. A silver mask concealed the upper half of his face, intricate and sharp-edged like a blade forged into ornament.
Tall.
Unyielding.
He walked forward without hurry.
Ministers shifted instinctively around him. Guards parted without command. Conversations quieted not out of obligation, but gravity.
The Crown Prince.
My breath caught.
Not because he was beautiful.
Though he was.
But because I knew him.
Stone beneath my knees.
Cold.
Rough.
A courtyard filled with people pretending not to enjoy the spectacle.
My hands bound.
My father's face rigid with controlled despair.
And him.
Standing above the steps.
Unmoved.
"Lady Elara Viremont," he had said, voice clear enough to slice through wind. "You are found guilty of treason."
The memory slammed into me so vividly I almost dropped my wine.
No.
Not me.
Her.
The original Elara.
But the terror felt intimate. Personal. A phantom pain beneath my skin.
The ballroom returned in fragments.
Music.
Perfume.
Glittering silk.
He moved further into the room.
His posture was flawless. Straight without stiffness, relaxed without carelessness. Authority radiated from him in controlled waves. Not flashy. Not theatrical.
I watched him like one studies a blade pointed at their throat. He kept approaching.
In the novel the original story he had not been cruel.
That was the problem.
He was fair.
Fair in a world where fairness could be manipulated.
Evidence had surfaced of House Viremont hoarding grain shipments from Solder during a minor border conflict.
Trade tariffs had been altered.
Letters had been discovered implying my father intended to leverage naval blockades against Calder for political concessions.
Damning.
Precise.
Irrefutable.
The Crown Prince had personally overseen the investigation.
He had personally signed the decree.
He had personally read the sentence.
He believed he was saving the kingdom.
He had never once looked uncertain.
My fingers tightened around the stem of my glass.
He stopped to talk to a minister then as if sensing the weight of my stare.
Silver eyes, visible through the mask's sharp cut locked onto mine.
Time thinned.
He did not look surprised.
He did not smile.
He assessed.
Recognition flickered. Not warmth. Not hostility.
Calculation.
He changed direction.
He was walking toward me.
Of course he was.
The universe had a twisted sense of humor.
I placed the wine glass down carefully.
Slowly.
Controlled.
Do not kneel.
Do not flinch.
Do not let the past bleed onto your face.
By the time he stopped before me, my expression was serene.
"Lady Viremont."
His voice.
Lower than I remembered.
Even.
Calm.
The kind of voice that delivered verdicts without raising its volume.
I dipped into a graceful curtsy.
"Your Highness."
When I rose, he was still watching me.
Not in admiration.
In scrutiny.
"You appear…" he paused, eyes narrowing slightly, "…unusually restrained this evening."
Ah.
So he remembered the old Elara.
Good.
"Should I apologize for composure?" I asked lightly.
A faint shift in his gaze. Almost imperceptible.
"You have rarely favored it."
There it was.
Direct.
Unvarnished.
No pretense of flattery.
I tilted my head slightly. "People change."
"Do they?"
His tone did not mock.
It tested.
I met his gaze fully now.
"Yes," I said softly. "But sometimes that's what they want you to see"
A beat of silence.
Something flickered in his eyes at that word.
Survival.
Was that too bold?
Too revealing?
He studied me as though searching for cracks in porcelain.
"I observed your exchange with Lady Valence," he said at last.
Of course he had.
Of course nothing escaped him.
"And?" I prompted gently.
"You chose your words carefully."
"And?"
"And you avoided open provocation."
I smiled faintly. "Restraint is a virtue, is it not?"
"It is," he replied evenly. "When genuine."
There it was again.
Suspicion.
He did not trust this version of me.
He thought it an act.
Manipulation.
Strategy.
He wasn't wrong.
But not in the way he believed.
I let the silence stretch.
He did not fill it.
Neither did I.
Around us, the ballroom subtly shifted. Nobles pretended not to stare. Ministers angled themselves closer without appearing obvious. The air between us felt like drawn steel.
"I trust House Viremont's trade affairs remain… transparent," he said finally.
Ah.
There it is.
Testing.
Probing.
Even now.
Even before any accusation.
"Yes," I replied smoothly. "Our ports are open. Our shipments accounted for. My father ensures efficiency."
"Efficiency," he repeated softly.
A word loaded with implications.
"Efficiency can become leverage," he continued.
"And leverage can become threat."
His gaze did not waver.
In the original timeline, leverage had become "evidence."
Fabricated documents.
Forged signatures.
Someone had fed him those conclusions.
Someone intelligent.
Someone patient.
Someone who understood how to weaponize righteousness.
I wondered, briefly, if that person was in this room.
Perhaps watching us now.
Perhaps smiling behind a jeweled mask.
"I imagine Your Highness prefers influence to remain evenly distributed," I said.
"I prefer stability."
"Stability," I echoed.
He inclined his head slightly.
"For the kingdom to endure, no single house may believe itself indispensable."
A warning.
Clear.
Measured.
He believed in balance.
And if House Viremont tipped the scale?
He would cut it down.
Just like before.
The memory of the execution courtyard pressed against my ribs again.
The crowd had been quieter than expected.
Disappointed, perhaps, that there had been no screaming.
I had not screamed.
The original Elara had.
I would not.
This time, there would be no kneeling.
I smiled.
"Indispensability is dangerous," I agreed. "Which is why wise rulers ensure loyalty is earned, not forced."
His eyes sharpened.
"You speak as though you advise governance."
"Should I not?"
"You have shown little prior interest in policy."
Ouch.
Fair.
I took a slow breath.
"And yet," I said softly, "I have always observed."
He studied me again.
Longer this time.
As though recalculating.
"You are different tonight," he said quietly.
Not accusation.
Observation.
"Yes."
A pause.
"What altered you?"
The question landed heavier than expected.
What altered you?
Death.
Execution.
Reincarnation.
Fear.
Memory.
I met his gaze.
"Perhaps I was never altered"
He looked confused.
But he did not press further.
Music swelled again as a new dance began forming at the center of the ballroom.
Couples gathered.
Hands extended.
Masks gleaming.
He glanced toward the floor briefly, then back to me.
"Will you dance?"
The question was simple.
The implication was not.
In the original story, the Crown Prince had avoided dancing with Elara publicly. It had been one of the many humiliations that fueled her descent into bitterness.
This invitation was unexpected.
Dangerous.
A dance was visibility.
Proximity.
Scrutiny.
Refusal could be interpreted as insult.
Acceptance would bind us beneath every watching eye.
I placed my hand lightly in his.
"Of course, Your Highness."
His grip was firm but not possessive.
Controlled.
We stepped onto the polished floor.
The orchestra shifted seamlessly into a waltz.
He led.
Effortlessly.
Of course he did.
His movements were precise without rigidity. He guided rather than forced, subtle pressure directing each turn.
Up close, I could see the faint scar near his jawline, half-hidden by the mask. I didn't remember that from the novel.
Interesting.
"You move differently as well," he noted quietly.
"I practiced."
"For what purpose?"
I met his gaze steadily.
"To avoid stepping on toes."
A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched his mouth.
Not quite a smile.
"An admirable goal."
We turned.
Silk brushed silk.
Gold glimmered.
Around us, whispers stirred like wind through tall grass.
"She seems calm…"
"They look almost… compatible…"
"Has something changed between them?"
Good.
Let them speculate.
Speculation was currency.
"Tell me, Lady Viremont," he murmured as he guided me into a spin, "do you intend to remain this… disciplined?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"As long as necessary."
His hand tightened slightly at my waist.
Barely.
Testing my reaction.
I did not stiffen.
Did not retreat.
"Necessary for what?" he asked.
"For survival."
There it was again.
That word.
His gaze sharpened.
"You speak as though threatened."
"Aren't we all?" I replied lightly. "Politics is rarely gentle."
His silence stretched.
"You imply awareness," he said slowly, "that I have not seen from you before."
"You have not looked."
The words slipped out before I softened them.
His eyes cooled slightly.
"Careful."
Ah.
There he is.
The future executioner.
But I wasn't going to back down.
I met his gaze and hummed a quiet 'hmm'.
He studied me for a long moment.
The music slowed.
The dance neared its end.
"House Viremont stands at a delicate intersection," he said quietly. "Trade. Military logistics. Continental diplomacy."
"I am aware."
"If mismanaged," he continued, "it could destabilize everything."
"And if managed correctly?"
His gaze locked onto mine.
"It becomes the backbone of the kingdom."
A beat.
"Or the blade at its throat."
The music ended.
Applause rippled softly through the hall.
He did not release my hand immediately.
Neither did I pull away.
In the original timeline, he had believed the blade narrative.
He had believed House Viremont chose ambition over loyalty.
He had believed the forged evidence.
Which meant someone had orchestrated that fall.
And if they succeeded once, they would attempt it again.
Slowly, he released me.
"Enjoy the evening, Lady Viremont," he said.
"You as well, Your Highness."
He stepped back.
But his gaze lingered.
Assessing.
Recalculating.
Good.
Let him wonder.
Let him doubt.
Let him question whether the girl he once condemned exists at all.
Because this time if searches for treason.
He will find something else.
Prepared ports.
Transparent ledgers.
Strategic alliances.
And perhaps…
The real traitor.
I stepped off the dance floor, pulse steady now.
The fear had settled.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But transformed.
Into resolve.
The execution courtyard was not inevitable.
It was preventable.
And if he stood in my way again.
I would ensure he had no evidence to raise.
Across the room, Lady Veronica watched.
Across from her, a masked minister I did not recognize leaned too close as they spoke.
Interesting.
Pieces were already moving.
Good.
Let them.
I picked up another glass of wine.
Took a slow sip.
And smiled.
This time.
I would not be the one kneeling.