In the shimmer of candlelight, daggers masquerade as promises. One waltz may spark a war.
The grand ballroom of Lysandre's royal palace had not seen such splendor since the Winter Wedding, two decades past. Towering enchanted mirrors cast the glow of chandeliers into infinite cascades of light. Marble columns trembled gently to the rhythm of harps, viols, and lutes. Yet beneath the music and laughter, a far more dangerous melody was playing. Every guest wore a mask—some of silk, others of steel—and all concealed far more than faces: intentions, loyalties, ambitions.
This ball, supposedly held in honor of the late king's memory, was in truth a stage for the next act in the war for succession. And Kael, the forgotten son of the king, walked straight into the lion's den—one draped in pearls, poisons, and perfumed treachery.
"Never forget—dancing is simply lying with grace," Master Aridel had told him while handing him a mask of pure obsidian. It bore no embellishments, no gold, no crest—only the reflection of shadows. Like Kael himself: a prince with no title, no realm, but whose blood could topple a kingdom.
Clad in black and silver, Kael moved through the sea of dancers, his eyes scanning every corner of the hall. The nobles whispered in hushed tones, smiles sharp as razors. Dancers spun like serpents on the polished stone floor. Servants poured wine—some perhaps tinged with death.
He was looking for Ysara.
The crown princess was not hard to find. Cloaked in a crimson gown that contrasted with her pale skin, she wore a golden mask shaped like an eagle's wing—the sigil of House Lys. Her royal guard followed her like a blade in the dark.
Kael waited. To approach her openly would be suicide. He had to become a shadow among shadows—not a contender, but a ghost.
He danced with a sugary-scented dowager duchess, then with a maid disguised as a baroness—likely a spy. Every step measured. Every glance, calculated. Murmurs began to rise: Who is the man behind the shadowed mask?
Then, in one fateful turn of the waltz, she stood before him.
"You dance, or you hide?" Ysara asked without preamble, without asking his name.
"What if I do both?" Kael replied, his voice subtly altered by the enchantment woven into his mask.
Their hands met. Their feet found rhythm. The dance became dialogue without words.
"They say some came tonight with daggers under their gloves," she said.
"And others with promises of peace under their masks," he answered.
She studied him. Their eyes locked. Something unsaid passed between them—recognition, or perhaps suspicion. Ysara was not merely a princess; she was a reader of truths, trained to detect deceit as one reads secret scripture.
"You're no court regular," she noted.
"Shadows don't need routine—only a single moment to strike," Kael replied softly.
She smiled—not with joy, but with insight.
"Follow me."
She led him away from the ballroom, through a hidden corridor lined with heavy curtains and carved stone. Kael followed, every sense alert, ready to run, fight, or die. They emerged into a secluded inner garden, where the roses bloomed black and the air whispered old secrets.
"Tell me the truth," she demanded. "Are you the one they whisper about? The king's hidden son?"
"If I were, would you betray me?" Kael asked calmly.
She turned her gaze away, then said, barely above a whisper:
"I no longer trust bloodlines—only those who bleed for this realm."
Silence thickened between them. The roses seemed to listen. Then Ysara stepped closer.
"Aramon is planning something. This ball is a trap. At midnight, the palace gates will close. Any who have not pledged fealty to him will be arrested… or killed."
Kael's heart froze. He had walked into a net woven in silk and steel. But Ysara had just handed him a thread to pull.
"Why tell me this?" he asked.
"Because I'm tired of choosing between survival and loyalty. If you truly are the king's son… perhaps you have a better claim than the wolves now wearing crowns."
She hoped. He saw it in her eyes. She doubted, yes—but hope glimmered beneath her doubt. And in that hope, he could plant the truth.
Then came a scream.
Shouts exploded down the corridor. A hooded figure fell from a balcony above—dead, a dagger in his heart. It was Baron Thalven, a member of the High Council, one of the last who had remained loyal to the crown.
Panic spread through the ballroom like wildfire. Guards stormed in. Steel rang. Magic flickered. Guests screamed and fled. Then the doors opened, and Aramon entered—draped in purple, a mock-crown resting on his brow.
He raised his arms and declared:
"The traitor is among us! A pretender has defiled this court on the night of mourning! Seize him!"
All eyes turned toward the dance floor—toward Kael.
There was no time for diplomacy. Arrows flew.
"DOWN!" Ysara shouted.
Kael dove, ripping his cloak to deflect a blade. Chaos erupted. Flames ignited on velvet drapes. Spilled wine fed the fire. Screams rose above the music.
Kael rolled to his feet and ran. Guards gave chase. Chandeliers crashed. He barreled through the corridor, heart pounding like a war drum.
He knew the old servant paths—hidden by the Veilleurs' maps. Through secret staircases, tunnels, and stone mouths, he escaped the palace.
By the time he emerged in the old quarter of the city, dawn was still far away, but blood had already soaked the night.
He had failed to speak with Ysara at length.
And yet… he had not failed entirely.
She had helped him. That was no small thing. It was not mere curiosity—it was an act of defiance… or of belief.
That night, the court of Elsareth learned two truths:
Kael lived.Princess Ysara had danced with him.
The following day, black crows flew over the capital. The executions began.
Kael's name became both curse and prophecy.
But in back alleys, in whispered prayers, in quiet resistance, one phrase began to spread:
"The son of shadows danced with crowns. And he did not bow."
To be continued in Chapter 5 – Ink and Blood…
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