The last whispers of winter clung to the edges of the wind as February gave way to March, the Kingdom of Avalon caught in the delicate transition between seasons. Morning frost still kissed the cobblestones, and skeletal branches remained bare, but the light lingered just a moment longer each day. It was the kind of slow, subtle shift that often went unnoticed—until suddenly, everything had changed.
The shift in the calendar brought with it a renewed sense of urgency among the Nobility; With the social season in full swing, every passing week seemed to heighten the stakes of courtly intrigue.
The Mooresbane Estate gleamed like a gilded jewel beneath the deepening dusk, its towering spires and manicured gardens lit by strings of enchanted lanterns that shimmered gold and ivory against the cool March air. The grand gala of the season had drawn nobles from every corner of Avalon, and the night crackled with the electric hum of courtly speculation.
Then the black carriage bearing the sigil of the Magic Tower rolled into view.
Those gathered near the grand staircase paused mid-conversation as it approached—sleek, silent, unmistakable. The Crest of the Tower, wrought in burnished silver and violet enchantment, marked it as belonging to none other than the Tower's heir.
Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind across water.
Zypher stepped out first.
He was a vision of composed intensity, dressed in obsidian-black with a rose-gold silk shirt beneath—its collar slightly open, casual in a way that only confidence could pull off. The rose-gold caught the light at his cuffs and rings, cool and elegant. Heads tilted. Fans paused mid-flutter.
Then he turned—and offered his hand to the carriage.
What followed silenced even the whispers.
Delphia Vosswell emerged like the final stroke of a master's brush. Her gown matched his in deliberate contrast and harmony: a sweeping rose-gold creation that caught every flicker of lantern-light and held it. The fabric shimmered between dusk-pink and flame, sculpted into a silhouette both regal and bold. Her hair was swept up, pearls and gold leaves woven through the style, revealing the graceful line of her neck.
He did not release her hand, and together, they began their walk up the marble steps.
The murmurs returned—quieter this time, disbelieving.
"Is that… together?"
"Thorne and Vosswell? That can't be—"
"But they hate each other. Or—did."
"She looks like royalty."
"Did you see the way he looked at her?"
"They coordinated. They coordinated!"
Every step toward the grand entrance tightened the net of attention around them. Zypher walked without hesitation, gaze ahead, the picture of arcane nobility. But Delphia felt it all—each glance like a thread tugged too sharply, each whisper like a knife under silk. The scrutiny pressed in, sharper than she expected.
The herald standing inside cleared his throat as the double doors opened wide, and his voice rang out over the hall: "Presenting Lord Zypher Thorne, Heir to the Magic Tower—and Lady Delphia Vosswell, his betrothed."
The grand ballroom paused. Fans stilled. Cups halted mid-sip. A frozen beat of silence passed—and then the hum resumed, faster now, thicker, curiosity spilling into the high-arched ceilings.
Delphia hesitated. The swell of sound rose so quickly it felt like drowning. Every head seemed turned, every eye latched to their figures. Her name wasn't just in the air—it was everywhere. Then, she felt it.
A gentle squeeze at her fingers.
She looked up.
Zypher's gaze was already on her—focused, grounding. He nodded, just once. It wasn't reassurance, exactly. It was solidarity.
We're in this together.
Her breath eased and Delphia straightened, a real smile blooming on her lips—quiet, radiant, un-faked. She let herself feel the warmth of his hand in hers, the surprising steadiness in his presence.
Together, they stepped fully into the grand ballroom.
They became the gravity of the evening, whether they meant to or not.
Courtiers bowed, many hesitantly. Greetings were offered, awkward at first, then more confidently as the couple passed. Some addressed Zypher with instinctual deference—he was the Tower's heir—but Delphia was not ignored. Far from it. Attention swirled around her, curious and wary, like moths uncertain whether she was candlelight or wildfire.
But she smiled. She walked with her head high.
And Zypher never once let go of her hand.
So the grand ballroom was a spectacle to behold—crystal chandeliers casting a soft, golden glow over the room, marble floors reflecting the luxurious tapestries adorning the walls, the rhythmic hum of polite conversation filling the air, and the light strings of a quartet.
It was a dazzling display, radiating wealth and power in every corner. The rich tapestries that adorned the walls whispered secrets of past battles won and lost. The shimmering crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, adding to the opulence of the evening. As Nobles from all corners of the Kingdom mingled, their ornate gowns and tailored suits exuded an air of status and privilege. The aroma of rare perfumes and fine wines filled the air, enticing guests to indulge in excess.
But behind the facade of luxury and celebration, each guest was acutely aware of the political game being played. Every word spoken, every gesture made, was a carefully calculated move towards gaining or maintaining power. It was a dance of alliances and betrayals, hidden beneath layers of extravagance and artifice. She knew now what each flicker of a fan, what each carefully measured laugh meant—and it no longer felt like deciphering a foreign script. It felt like instinct.
Zypher offered his arm as they ascended into the ballroom, and Delphia accepted it with practiced grace. But what surprised the onlookers most wasn't the gesture—it was how comfortable she looked, standing beside him. Her hand lingered just a touch longer. Her smile was real.
She wanted them to see. To witness.
Zypher hadn't objected. If anything, he had offered her the space to decide. And so she had. Tonight, she wasn't a reluctant bride-to-be. She was staking a claim.
The Gala was bustling with influential Nobles, Mages, and Dignitaries, all of whom were eager to network and curry favor with those in power. The conversations surrounding them ranged from discussions of trade and alliances to whispers of magical research and military movements.
As the room slowly adjusted to their presence, the string quartet resumed with a lilting waltz. The central floor, already beginning to fill with couples, now gleamed brighter under the chandeliers, the tempo rising into something inviting. Delphia turned slightly, her gaze catching on the elegant sweep of silk and satin across the ballroom as dancers began to take their places.
"Would you care to dance?" Zypher's voice came low beside her, smooth as velvet and only meant for her. Delphia blinked, surprised for half a second—but the smile that followed was effortless. "I would love nothing more." He offered his arm, and she took it without hesitation. The crowd parted easily for them, as if instinctively knowing they were meant to be watched.
They stepped onto the dance floor just as the next song began. Zypher's hand found her waist; Her palm rested lightly in his. Their movements were fluid from the very first step—no awkward settling, no fumbling for rhythm. They simply moved together, in sync and in silence.
And the watching nobles noticed.
"They seem so… at ease."
"Have they always danced like this?"
"I thought they despised each other."
"It must be for show."
"No, remember at the Faremont celebration? They danced then too."
"Yes, but that looked more like civility. This—this is different."
Delphia let her eyes meet Zypher's and nearly forgot what music was playing. His maroon eyes, usually so unreadable, were softer now, warm in the light. He leaned slightly closer as they turned, and she laughed quietly at something he murmured—light, real, unguarded.
And that laughter echoed louder in the ballroom than the music.
The way she looked at him—with something that shimmered between affection and amusement—was not the expression of a woman acting a part. It was the expression of a woman who chose to be there, who claimed this moment as her own. And the way Zypher held her—steady, respectful, with a touch so attentive it verged on reverent—bellied all the old rumors of disdain.
They completed a graceful spin, the fabric of her gown fanning around them like liquid flame. Zypher's fingers barely flexed at her waist to guide her, as if he'd done it a hundred times before. They didn't seem like a couple forced together for power or duty. They looked like something far more dangerous to Avalon's noble circles—they looked like a partnership.
As the final notes of the waltz melted into silence, Delphia and Zypher slowed to a stop. Applause rose softly around the room—polite, measured—but it was clear where the attention lingered.
Delphia's cheeks were lightly flushed from the dance, but she didn't look away from Zypher even as they stepped back into the ebb and flow of the crowd. "Shall we find something to drink?" He asked, a quiet thread of amusement in his voice.
"Please," she exhaled with a small laugh. "I think I'm still recovering from that final spin."
They crossed the ballroom together, side by side, and though no one dared stop them, all eyes seemed to trail behind them like perfume. Whispers renewed as they passed. Delphia kept her chin high, her posture regal, but there was a lightness to her steps now—a looseness she hadn't carried at events like this before. Zypher didn't walk half a step ahead or behind. He matched her pace exactly.
The refreshments table was elegantly laid out beneath a gilded arch of ivy and golden lanterns. Footmen dressed in House Mooresbane's colors moved with precise efficiency, offering chilled flutes of wine and sparkling juices on silver trays. Delphia reached for a glass of pale rose wine, and Zypher accepted one of the darker reds. For a moment, they stood in easy silence, sipping and watching the dance floor rotate with newer couples.
"I think," Delphia said softly, "we've officially broken the court."
Zypher arched a brow. "Only cracked it. We'll need to dance at two more events to cause actual fractures."
She snorted delicately into her glass. "Cruel man."
They stepped away from the bustle, weaving toward one of the alcoves tucked beside a tall stained-glass window. The light filtering through it bathed them in soft hues—rose, sapphire, and violet. A tapestry of saints and starry skies loomed above them, a relic of an older Avalon. The murmur of the ballroom faded just slightly behind the stone colonnade. Delphia leaned one shoulder lightly against the wall, finally able to take a breath that didn't need to be measured.
Zypher glanced at her over the rim of his glass. "You handled the crowd well."
She gave a faint shrug, but her eyes were sharper now. "They weren't the hard part."
"No?"
"It's the weight of it," she said. "The way the narrative shifts around us. I keep wondering if this was how Delphia always felt; Watched; Dissected." Zypher didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered on her, not with courtly admiration, but something quieter, older. "You're not like her," he said simply. Delphia's lips tilted, not quite a smile. "I know. That's why I'm still standing." A pause stretched between them, soft and full of tension that wasn't heavy—but aware.
They lingered near the alcove, quiet observers once more. The chill of the stained glass behind them was a welcome contrast to the warmth of the crowd. Delphia took another sip of her wine and let her gaze drift lazily across the ballroom. The dancers had changed, though the music retained its elegance. Laughter lilted through the air like perfume, and beneath it, the ever-present pulse of politics thrummed beneath the gilded surface.
Her eyes found Calista across the room, the young woman glowing under the attention of the Crown Prince and the Nobles gathered around her.
Dressed in a light blue gown that emphasized her sky-blue hair and green eyes, Calista seemed to embody the very image of grace and charm. She laughed softly at something Alaric had said, her voice melodic as she navigated the social landscape with ease. Every gesture, every smile was perfectly placed, drawing the eyes of those around her.
Delphia couldn't help but feel a sense of unease at this caricature. Watching Calista manipulate her public image so deftly, Delphia could see the subtlety in her tactics. Calista knew exactly how to play the role of the humble yet enchanting noblewoman—the woman who had risen from common beginnings to the heights of aristocracy. It was the perfect narrative, one that made her untouchable, at least for now.
"She's careful," Delphia murmured quietly to Zypher, her eyes never leaving Calista.
Zypher gave a slight nod, his maroon eyes flicking briefly in Calista's direction before refocusing on the room at large. "Careful, but far from naïve. She's weaving a web, and the Crown Prince is just but one caught in it."
Her lips twitched in agreement as she returned her attention to the broader dynamics of the room.
She noticed that Sybil Mooresbane, standing a few paces away, had her eyes trained on Calista with thinly veiled disdain. The tension between the two was almost palpable, and it was clear to Delphia that Sybil's patience had worn thin. Over the past weeks, Sybil's attempts to undermine Calista had grown more aggressive, yet each attempt had backfired, isolating her further within high society. "Watch her," Delphia whispered, a note of warning in her voice. "Sybil's getting desperate."
Zypher's gaze shifted to Sybil, whose posture was rigid with barely concealed frustration. "She's going to make another move. And soon," he nodded before taking a sip of his drink.
As if on cue, Sybil glided across the ballroom toward Calista, her head held high and her voice loud enough to capture the attention of the nearby guests.
"Lady Calista," Sybil began with a falsely sweet tone, "How admirable it is that someone with such modest beginnings has managed to secure a place at the Crown Prince's side. Tell us, how do you navigate such a complex world with so little experience?"
The room stilled for a brief moment, the subtle insult hanging in the air.
The Nobles within earshot paused their conversations, waiting for Calista's response. Alaric, standing protectively by Calista's side, narrowed his eyes at Sybil, but Calista placed a gentle hand on his arm, stopping him from intervening. Delphia felt a flicker of admiration for the coolness Calista maintained under such thinly veiled insults. She's good at this.
With a serene smile, Calista turned to face Sybil.
"Oh, Lady Sybil, how kind of you to ask. I've always found that understanding people's intentions is far more applicable than any formal experience. After all, empathy and insight go a long way in making meaningful connections."
Her eyes gleamed as she added softly, "Even with those who may not initially seem," she paused, a smile crawling onto her face, "welcoming."
Sybil's expression faltered, and murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd. Calista had once again turned the situation in her favor easily, casting herself as the gracious victim of Sybil's jealousy while subtly undermining Sybil's own credibility.
Delphia could see the shift in the room's energy. The elite guests, who had been watching the exchange with keen interest, were now whispering amongst themselves. And Sybil, already on thin ice, had just taken another misstep. The once-formidable Mooresbane heir was becoming increasingly isolated, and the more she tried to fight against Calista, the deeper she sank.
"Sybil's digging her own grave," Delphia remarked softly to Zypher, "She's becoming a liability for her family."
Zypher agreed, his gaze hardening as he observed Sybil's growing frustration. "Her attempts to undermine Calista are only making her look desperate."
Indeed, Sybil's social standing was crumbling before their eyes. Her once-powerful position as a Mooresbane was slowly unraveling, not because of anything Calista had done directly, but because of Sybil's own inability to recognize that she had already lost.
Sybil, visibly rattled, attempted one final jab at Calista. "I suppose you'll have to rely on that 'empathy' when you find yourself out of your depth."
Calista didn't miss a beat, "I've found that empathy has a way of opening doors, Lady Mooresbane. You might want to try it sometime."
As the room erupted in soft chuckles, Sybil could feel her cheeks burning hot. She tried to shrink into herself and disappear as the peals of ridicule echoed around her. Her posture tightened, and she could hear the whispers of disapproval growing louder. Sybil retreated towards the back of the room, desperately trying to escape the overwhelming feeling of humiliation that enveloped her.
Delphia watched the scene unfold with a mix of fascination and discomfort.
Had she not died and transmigrated into Delphia's body, the original Delphia would have been in Sybil's position—a Villainess trying to hold her ground while everything slipped through her fingers. But, Calista had mastered the art of manipulation in a way that the old Delphia never had. She played the role of the innocent heroine while expertly steering public perception to her advantage.
Delphia spoke softly, her eyes still fixed on Calista. "She's good at this. No one can see through the mask she wears."
She set her empty glass down, then leaned into Zypher and gently laced her fingers with his.
"What's odd," she murmured, "is that in the book, whenever Delphia had a confrontation with her, someone always rushed in to defend Calista—always made sure Delphia looked worse. But no one's stepped in for Sybil. Why?"
Zypher paused, then gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and pressed a kiss to her temple.
"Because Sybil's a Duke's daughter," he said quietly. "Duke Vosswell is the highest-ranking among them, though. If Delphia had attacked her, Calista would've needed someone equally powerful to even the scales. And right now… Sybil and Calista are on equal footing."
She nodded, watching as Calista moved effortlessly through the crowd, her every gesture carefully calculated to maintain her image as the perfect noblewoman. "Not yet," Zypher said, pulling her thoughts back, his voice low and thoughtful, "But cracks are beginning to show." With her knowledge of the novel bleeding into the reality she now lived, Delphia could see behind the mask.
Calista was no naïve heroine—she was a strategist, a manipulator, and a rival in ways the novel had never portrayed.
The evening stretched on, and Zypher drifted from cluster to cluster like a shadow—never lingering too long, but always catching the right names, the right smiles. Delphia watched him from the corner of the room, noting how easily he deflected questions with a nod, or slid a stray comment into conversation like a blade between ribs.
He returned to her side with the same quiet grace, a faint crease between his brows. "I've heard everything I needed to tonight," he murmured. "Ready to go?"
She didn't argue. Her feet throbbed inside her heels, and she exhaled a quiet breath of relief as she looped her arm through his. "I thought you'd never ask."
They slipped through a side corridor, away from the chandeliers and shallow laughter, the muffled hum of strings fading behind them. The night air was cool on her skin, and the carriage awaited just beyond the gates, lanterns flickering gold. Zypher helped her up with a hand at her waist, then climbed in behind her. As the door shut, he tapped twice on the wall behind him.
"The Vosswell estate," he called to the driver.
The carriage jolted into motion. Delphia leaned into him, and without a word, he pulled her closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. For the first time all night, she let herself exhale fully, resting her cheek against the steady rise and fall of his chest.