The grandeur of the ball had not waned, not even after the waltz that silenced hearts and breath alike. The sound of clinking goblets, the refined laughter of nobility, and the low hum of orchestras blended into a lavish symphony that echoed through the crystalline halls of the Kingdom of Artherion.
And yet, far from the opulent beauty of Elyrion's realm, a storm gathered.
Deep in the shadowed land of Dravenguard, in the heart of a fortress as ancient as time, a gathering took place beneath the earth. The stone walls of the dungeon-like keep trembled from the hum of arcane magic. Candles of black flame flickered on pillars carved with forbidden runes. Those seated in the darkness did not fear light, they merely rejected it.
Arrayed in a circle, they watched from a wide scrying mirror of obsidian. The mirror shimmered with images of the Elyrion ball, where Prince Lucien had dared lift a lowly servant, Mirelleth, and danced with her before the world.
No words were spoken. Yet the air trembled with silent rage.
There sat the dark monarchs of forgotten lands, fanged beings with eyes like obsidian shards, witches clothed in mist and crowned with horns, dragons with folded wings and smoke in their nostrils, and shadow-cast mages from the Isles of Mourning. Among them, cloaked in shadows and yet brighter than all, was the Firstborn of Dravenguard, Alaric Ashkaroth.
He stood, arms folded, a gold crown resting lightly on raven black hair, his eyes as crimson as judgment. The air around him distorted, refusing to remain still. Even among beings of ancient wickedness, Alaric's presence weighed heavy like the breath before a storm.
They had seen it, the prince of light dancing with that servant girl.
And they all knew.
The prophecy had begun.
"The least shall be called greater...as it was proclaimed," whispered one of the warlocks, voice gravel and ash.
"And she shall reign with him, co-heir to glory," murmured another, her voice lost in the black mist.
A skeletal mage watched with hatred. "Where does this leave us?"
Alaric spoke only once. "Then we shall stoke our own fire."
Back in Artherion, the ball continued like an undying flame.
I stood near a pillar of white marble veined with gold, my thoughts? a whirlwind.
Dancers spun across the glass-like floor, their gowns sweeping like waves. Crystal chandeliers shone like stars. Nobles from every realm had come, some I recognized by the embroidered sigils on their chests: the waterborne sigil of Nymrielle, the storm-marked banner of Varnoss, the sun-hawk crest of Solgrace.
All had gathered in Artherion, the pearl of the known world, for the Rite of Accord, a celebration held once every ten years to renew ties between the sovereign realms.
And here she was. Mirelleth, the handmaid, servant to a princess who despised her.
Vaeloria Ashkaroth stood nearby, laughing with shallow charm, flanked by her younger siblings. Mirelleth had been the one to fix her gown, to curl her hair, to ensure every clasp and jewel was flawless. She'd dressed her, bathed her, soothed her moods—all to make her the jewel of the ball.
And yet, when the prince's hand reached forth, it had been to Mirelleth that he turned.
Now, as Mirelleth stood quietly by a column of carved ivory, her mistress approached again, her expression unusually calm.
"Mirelleth," Vaeloria said sweetly, her voice dripping in venomous silk. "Come, stand by me."
Confused, I obeyed. The princess draped an arm over my shoulder with feigned affection and turned to a nearby noblewoman. "Have you met my dearest maid? She's like a younger sister to me. Such sweet manners. So pure."
The noblewoman nodded politely, her gaze flicking to Mirelleth with interest. I didn't deserve her notice but what happened earlier tonight got me her attention and awe.
Vaeloria continued, raising her voice enough for others to hear. "And so loyal. She's always dreaming of grandeur, our little dove."
M lowered my gaze. This was no kindness. This was performance, a calculated attempt to humiliate her under a mask of charm.
The prince noticed.
From across the ballroom, Lucien Elyrion watched, his expression unreadable. His white garments shimmered with silver embroidery, and his long, pale hair rested like moonlight upon his shoulders. His crimson eyes softened as they landed upon her. There was no amusement, no pity. Only intrigue, and something deeper, a quiet fury.
His presence alone stole breath. He walked like stillness before dawn. When he turned his head, time seemed to pause.
The crowd parted like the sea.
Lucien made his way toward her, and every step was a symphony. Whispers danced around them.
Vaeloria turned, her eyes glinting. "Your Highness."
Lucien smiled courteously, but it was not for her.
He looked towards me, "Would you step aside with me?"
Outstanded, I blinked. "I—"
Vaeloria's hand tightened on my shoulder. "She's quite tired, Your Highness. I've worked her so hard all day."
Lucien's smile did not waver, but his tone cooled. "And I've asked her."
There was no room for defiance.
He extended his hand. My heart is now seriously pounding, he reached out his hand and grabbed me softly as he led me gently away from princess Vaeloria.
I looked up.
His face was divine. High cheekbones, a straight nose, lips that could wound or heal, and eyes that held galaxies. He smelled faintly of myrrh and cypress. Every breath was reverent.
His presence aroused different emotions, different feelings and unknown knowledge...it was too much, it was intense. I looked away.
At the far end of the hall was where my eyes fell on next. King Elyrion sat atop a throne wrought of crystal and white gold. But beside it stood a figure.
There stood a knight besides the throne.
Clad in silver and gold, plumed in divine feathers, he stood motionless. A silent sentinel, towering, glorious. His eyes glowed softly beneath his helm, and his presence radiated awe and quiet terror. He was not merely watching. He was judging.
He who moved only when willed by the King. He who once struck down a horde alone beneath the moon. The breath of Elyrion's army. The spiritl of Artherion.
Suddenly, he raised his head slightly towards me. Frightened, I returned to admiring Lucien's face to escape the terror and strictness of the knight's gaze.
Lucien's eyes stayed deliberately on Mirelleth's face now she was looking at him as though she was finding solace from fright.
Now, he was entranced.
She stands like a vision from a dream painted in warm bronze, her tanned skin glowing softly beneath the ambient light, like sunlit amber kissed by the gods themselves. Her face is a masterpiece , delicate yet beautiful, with features so perfectly sculpted they seem drawn from a high fantasy painting or an artist's most inspired sketch.
Her eyes, large and luminous, are framed by thick lashes that curl like the tips of raven feathers. Their color , whether a soft gold, gleams with emotion, curiosity.
Her nose is petite and elegant, with a graceful slope that balances her face like the gentle arc of a blade's edge, subtle, precise, perfect. Below it, her lips are soft and full. There's innocence in her lips.
Her cheeks carry a soft flush beneath her tan, rounded just enough to lend her a youthful, doll-like cuteness. Her jawline is defined, but softened by the roundness of her cheeks and the femininity of her slender neck, which disappears beneath the folds of her cloak.
That cloak, an ash-grey maidservant's cloak, does well to conceal the truth of her form: a sensual hourglass shape, each curve more hypnotic than the last. The fabric hugged her narrow waist when they danced before flowing loosely around her hips and long legs, leaving so much to be desired of it.
She's a paradox of innocence, allure and danger, beauty crafted not just for admiration, but reverence , a living icon carved in shadow.
Lucien drew something from his sleeve, a single blue rose. He brushed aside her hair and tucked it gently behind her ear.
A collective gasp whispered through the hall.
Before I could speak, a voice broke through the silence.
"You dishonor us, Prince Lucien."
Alaric Ashkaroth strode forward, his cloak like a shadow trailing flame. The court tensed.
"I challenge you," Alaric said, his voice like thunder, "to a duel. In the name of my father, for the slight you bring upon our house."
Lucien turned, slowly. He looked to his father and to their knight and obtained their approval and grace.
"I accept," he said, his voice quiet, resolute.
And the eyes of heaven and hell turned to the girl with no name.