Chapter One: A Gaze Beyond the Crowd
The night was still young, but weariness had already begun to weigh heavily on my limbs. The warm lights of the ballroom shimmered across the marble floors, reflecting the grace and wealth of a kingdom untouched by fear or sorrow. And yet, amidst all the splendor, I felt more like a shadow than a person.
I looked around and realized I was the only servant still standing amid the sea of nobles. Before I could retreat into the background—
SLAP.
A striking pain lit up my right cheek.
"Get out of my way!" came the icy voice of Princess Vaeloria.
"S-sorry, I'm sorry, milady, forgive me, I pray," I stammered, clutching my burning face.
Before I could fully gather myself, her hand struck me again, harder this time, and I crumpled to the polished floor like a discarded rag.
Heads turned. Whispers stirred through the hall like a slow wind through dry leaves. But amid the murmurs, one gaze held fast—piercing, unreadable, unwavering.
A hand, firm and gentle, extended toward me.
My name is Mirelleth. I have no surname, no known origin, no trace of kin. I belong to the house of Ashkaroth. At least, that is the name I serve beneath.
It was Friday morning, and I was already up before the rooster crowed. A headache throbbed dully against my temple as I sat up on the straw-stuffed cot that passed for a bed. My quarters were tucked in the servant wing of the Ashkaroth estate—cold, cramped, and quiet. I was accustomed to the chill.
Despite my title as handmaid to Princess Vaeloria, the firstborn of King Zeburel Ashkaroth, I had few privileges. If anything, my duties were more severe. Her disdain for me was not hidden. She took every opportunity to remind me that my place was beneath her feet. And today, of all days, was a special one—the royal ball hosted by the Elyrion royal family in their golden kingdom of Artherion.
I was not attending by choice. Vaeloria insisted I travel with her, not for honor, but humiliation. It was a chance to parade me like a blemish before Artherion's dazzling court. Still, duty was duty.
I rose and washed quickly in the icy basin, then slipped into the ash-gray uniform of a servant. The day was long and arduous. I attended to Vaeloria's morning bath, adjusted the lavender oils to her liking, laid out a dozen gowns for her to inspect—only to have her discard them all with a frown.
"Does my figure look too sharp in this?" she asked as she turned before the mirror in a crimson gown.
"No, milady," I answered. "You look radiant."
"Liar," she hissed, throwing the pearl necklace at me. It grazed my cheek.
I bent to retrieve it silently.
Midday brought more tasks—polishing her shoes, steaming the gown she eventually chose, arranging her hair with crystal-pinned curls, all while avoiding her volatile moods. Occasionally, her younger siblings, Princess Calliane and Lord Dareth, peeked into her chambers.
"Sister," Calliane said, "they say Prince Lucien himself will be there tonight."
Vaeloria's eyes gleamed. "Of course. Every kingdom will present its finest. And I shall be the most captivating."
She turned to me, smiling coldly. "Make sure of it. Or you'll regret it."
By late afternoon, the grand procession began. The court of Dravenguard, darkly regal, moved through the twilight with pride. The carriage we rode in gleamed obsidian, etched with the serpentine sigil of House Ashkaroth. I sat at the rear with the other servants, unseen.
As we crossed into Artherion's borders, I felt the atmosphere shift. Warm winds danced through silver pines. The sky above glowed with ethereal hues, neither dawn nor dusk. The kingdom of Artherion was said to have been carved by angels—its highlands a cascade of golden cliffs, glassy rivers, and towers that sang with wind.
When we reached the capital, my breath caught. The royal palace of Artherion rose like something out of an ancient dream—tall spires laced with silver vines, stained glass windows gleaming with celestial fire, and gates wide enough for giants. Its people dressed in silks and starlight, their laughter light as music.
And the ball—oh, the ball. Chandeliers of floating crystal cast dancing lights across walls lined with ivy and flame. Each step echoed like poetry on the marble floors. Nobles from every realm had arrived—envoys from Iskarvain, nobles of Halrendel, the twin lords of Moonmere.
But none shone brighter than the hosts: the Elyrion royal family.
They were clothed in white and sapphire. Their poise commanded silence. Yet among them, one stood apart—taller, more radiant, more sorrowful.
Prince Lucien Elyrion.
His silver-blond hair flowed like starlight over his shoulders. His red eyes held not arrogance, but eternity. He seemed untouched by time. Beautiful in a way that could make you weep.
When Vaeloria entered, all eyes turned. She reveled in it, smiling graciously. I followed a few steps behind, as instructed. I was not meant to be seen.
Yet, somehow, I was.
In one moment, I stumbled. Perhaps from fatigue. Perhaps from the weight of invisibility.
Then- SLAP.
A striking pain lit up my right cheek.
"Get out of my way!" came the icy voice of Princess Vaeloria.
"S-sorry, I'm sorry, milady, forgive me, I pray," I stammered, clutching my burning face.
Before I could fully gather myself, her hand struck me again, harder this time, and I crumpled to the polished floor like discarded rag
Whispers. Laughter. Disgust.
And then… silence.
As if time had stopped.
He stepped forward.
Lucien.
The crown prince of Artherion. The lion of the East. The heir of light.
He was not as I had imagined. He was more.
His hair flowed past his shoulders like strands of moonlight, each silvery strand catching the soft golden glow of the chandeliers. His skin was pale, almost translucent, like porcelain carved by divine hands. But it was his eyes—deep crimson, glowing faintly like embers in the heart of a fire that held me.
He saw me. Not the servant. Not the disgrace.
Me.
He crossed the room with grace and silence, like a tide no one could resist. Gasps followed his steps, but he paid them no mind.
And then, he knelt.
Before me.
My heart nearly stopped.
He extended his hand—not hastily, but slowly, deliberately, as though offering it to something sacred.
His fingers were long and refined, his nails clean and polished. His sleeves shimmered with gold-trimmed embroidery that caught the flickering lights.
I reached up with trembling fingers. His hand closed gently over mine, warm and steady. Electricity coursed through me.
He lifted me with ease, with care.
As I rose to my feet, our eyes remained locked.
In that moment, the whispers vanished.
Only the prince and I existed in that vast, glowing hall.
His face was perfection. High cheekbones, a straight noble nose, lips set with purpose, a jawline chiseled as though by divine fire. His expression was unreadable, yet his gaze held me in place, healing the wounded pieces of my soul.
He leaned ever so slightly forward.
And he spoke, his voice low and filled with quiet strength.
"Are you hurt?"
I could not answer. My throat was dry. My chest burned.
He looked at me, through me, like one who had been searching for something long lost.
And found it.
The hall, the nobles, the world around us... faded.
All that remained was his gaze, the warmth of his hand on mine, and the terrifying knowledge that my life had just changed forever.
But why?
Why me?