The chamber was small and close, the air heavy with perfume and the rustle of silk. Servants flitted about me like moths, fastening clasps, tugging ribbons, setting pearls against my throat until my reflection in the mirror looked more doll than girl. My mother stood just behind, her presence cool and unyielding, her pale hands folded neatly as she watched the work being done.
“This is not for you,” she murmured at last, her tone sharp enough to slice through the nervous chatter of the maids. “This is for the house. For Everthorn. Remember that.”
I nodded once, though my throat burned with words I could not say.
When the last veil of chiffon was laid across my shoulders, my mother dismissed the servants with a single gesture. “Come.”
We stepped into the corridor, her stride precise and swift, mine caught between obedience and hesitation. The hall smelled of wax and stone, torches guttering low against the walls. I trailed half a pace behind her, the silken hem of my gown whispering over the flagstones, my pulse thrumming louder than my footsteps.
Midway down the passage, we met them.
My father stood waiting, a figure cut from steel, his cloak falling heavy from his shoulders. Emerson was beside him, chin tilted in practiced defiance, though the faint redness around his eyes betrayed long hours confined and unslept. His gaze darted to me first—quick, urgent, as if to prove he was unbroken.
“The carriage is ready,” my father said. His eyes swept over me, cool and measuring. For the briefest instant, something flickered there—pride, grief, fear—all tangled, before it was buried beneath the familiar iron mask.
We descended together, though not together at all. My mother walked ahead, regal in every step. My father’s presence filled the stairwell, weighty and sharp. Emerson lingered closer to me, our sleeves nearly brushing, his hand flexing at his side as if itching to reach for mine. But neither of us dared.
Outside, the carriage gleamed black in the lamplight, its silver fittings polished to a mirror shine. The horses stamped and snorted, their breath misting in the cool night air. A footman opened the door with a bow, and we climbed inside: my father first, then my mother, then me. Emerson followed last, sliding onto the bench opposite, his knee almost brushing mine in the tight space.
The door closed. The world beyond blurred as the wheels jolted forward, carrying us toward the glow of the palace.
I sat with my hands folded in my lap, the pearls at my throat cold as ice, my father’s silence pressing heavy against my skin. The road stretched ahead, and with it, the night that would change everything.
The air inside the carriage was thick with silence, broken only by the soft creak of leather and the faint snort of horses outside. My father sat rigid, his cloak pooling darkly around him, his jaw set like carved stone. My mother’s gloved hands were folded neatly in her lap, pale and still, her eyes trained on the curtained window as though the world beyond might bend to her will.
At last, the carriage slowed. Through the narrow gap of the curtains, I glimpsed lantern light flooding the palace steps, banners of crimson and silver billowing in the night air. Music drifted faintly from within, strings and horns rising and falling like a heartbeat. The world outside felt impossibly bright, impossibly loud.
The carriage lurched to a halt. The door swung open with a polished bow from the footman, and cold air rushed in, sharp with winter’s bite and the faint sweetness of garden blossoms carried on the wind.
Father stepped down first, commanding the space without a word. Mother followed, her skirt whispering against the stone. Emerson was next, and then me—the pearls at my throat catching the lamplight as I took the footman’s hand, stepping onto the gleaming steps that led upward.
The palace loomed above us, its windows ablaze with golden light, chandeliers spilling brilliance through every pane. The broad doors stood open, revealing the glittering hall within—columns draped with banners, a floor polished to a mirror shine, throngs of nobles gathered in clusters of jewels and velvet.
At the top of the stair, the herald waited. His staff was topped with silver, his voice carrying like thunder when he spoke.
“His Grace, Corwin Everthorn, Duke of Everthorn.”
Applause rippled through the hall as my father strode forward, every step measured and precise.
“Her Grace, Elira Everthorn, Duchess of Everthorn.”
A bow of respect followed, the crowd parting as my mother passed with cool elegance, chin lifted high.
“Their son, Lord Emerson Everthorn, heir to Everthorn.”
A murmur of approval, some even admiration, as Emerson descended with the poise Father demanded, his youthful defiance hidden behind perfect posture.
And then—
“Their daughter, Lady Alora Everthorn.”
The sound echoed from column to column, landing squarely on my shoulders. I took the final step down the marble stair, gown trailing behind me, the pearls at my throat gleaming like shackles under the lights. The crowd shifted, dozens of heads tilting subtly, eyes raking across me with the cold sharpness of scales weighing and measuring.
Some faces smiled, shallow and brittle. Others whispered behind lifted fans. A few frowned openly, their disapproval unmasked.
“She is the eldest, isn’t she?” a woman near the colonnade murmured, her lips painted like crushed berries. “And yet the boy holds the title of heir.”
Her companion gave a laugh like glass breaking. “There is talk. She was hidden away for years, was she not? Some say it was illness.”
“Or worse,” another voice hissed behind them. “Look at her eyes. Odd, aren’t they? Too bright, too green. Not quite natural.”
I fixed my gaze straight ahead, chin lifted as my mother had instructed, though each word fell on me like a stone. My ears burned; my hands curled within the folds of silk until my nails pricked my skin.
And then, across the crowd, I saw him.
Prince Evander of Theros.
He stood near the dais, flanked by tutors and guards, the place of honor given to the crown prince of our homeland. His dark hair gleamed under the lights, combed precisely back from a pale face that might have been carved from marble. His cloak was the deep red of Theros, clasped at the shoulder with twin silver serpents twined together. And his eyes—one pale gray, the other red as spilled wine—fixed on me with the weight of a blade pressed to the skin.
My breath caught. Memories rose unbidden: two children in a marble courtyard, separated by distance though their families feasted under the same roof. His gaze sharp and wary even then, his tutors always pulling him away before I could draw near. You must not linger with her, Evander. Do you understand?
Childhood had passed, but the distance had not.
Now, though, there was no hand dragging him away. And yet he still held himself apart, his jaw clenched, his expression as cold and perfect as the steel of a soldier’s blade.
For a heartbeat, I thought he might look away. He didn’t. His eyes tracked me as I moved through the crowd, burning with something I could not name.
The music swelled. My father accepted bows. My mother greeted the duchesses who pressed forward with rehearsed pleasantries. Emerson smiled stiffly at each lord who praised his posture and promise.
And I walked beneath the chandeliers, each step heavy, as the boy who had been my rival and shadow now stood crowned in a man’s silence, watching, as though he already knew what tomorrow would bring.
The air grew stifling with every bow, every brittle smile. My cheeks ached from holding the expression my mother had drilled into me—serene, polite, untouchable. But the whispers slid through the cracks like knives.
“Hidden away for years, wasn’t she?”
“They say she was sickly.”
“No, cursed, surely. Look at her eyes.”
“Pale. Fragile. A pity she isn’t half the heir her brother is.”
I kept my chin lifted, each step deliberate, though inside I was unraveling thread by thread. Emerson stood tall beside Father, fielding compliments with forced grace. I caught his glance once, quick and burning, but he dared not linger under Father’s eye.
Then she stepped forward.
A duke’s daughter, velvet skirt spilling across the polished floor like a wave of wine. She sank into a curtsey so deep it almost mocked the act itself, then rose with a smile sharpened into something cruel. Her jeweled fingers closed around my hand, cool and possessive, holding it just a little too long.
“You must be so proud to stand beside your brother at last, Lady Alora,” she said, her voice pitched low and sweet, a dagger hidden in sugar. “How rare for Everthorn to present both children at once.”
The crowd rippled with soft laughter, some muffled, some not.
Heat flared up my throat, my stomach twisting. My rehearsed smile faltered for the first time. I tried to free my hand, but she tightened her grip, her nails biting faint crescents into my skin.
Her eyes flicked briefly to Emerson—tall, calm, already praised as the perfect heir—and then back to me, lips curving higher. “You wear the silks beautifully. Almost enough to forget the years you’ve been… absent.”
The word sliced clean. Absent. As though I had chosen to be hidden, as though I had lingered in shadows for my own amusement. My chest burned, my mouth dry, but no words came.
My mother inclined her head faintly, her signal: bear it. Do not break.
I swallowed, forced my lips into something that might have been mistaken for a smile, and whispered, “Excuse me.”
I pulled my hand free at last and stepped back. No one stopped me; indeed, the circle closed as though I had never stood among them at all.
The music swelled behind me, horns triumphant, laughter glittering like glass. I slipped between two columns draped with banners, my skirt brushing the marble as I fled into the corridor beyond.
Cool air rushed to meet me, fragrant with damp stone and blossoms from the gardens. My lungs ached as I drew it in, bracing one hand against the wall. My heart hammered, too loud, too wild, as though the ballroom had drained me hollow and left me raw.
For the first time that night, I was unobserved. For the first time, I could breathe.