The air in my he dining hall was tight – not with warmth or welcome, but with caution.
Everyone knew something had shifted the moment Havynlee appeared at the top of the stairs – draped in crimson.
She made no attempt to smile. Her steps were slow, unhurried, a procession of stillness not performance.
She was not loud.
She was glowing – not in the way of giggling princesses with sunshine smiles and eager eyes. There was no soft charm, no need to please.
But somehow, she was unavoidable.
Her presence filled the hall without a single word. The kind of stillness that made people forget how to breathe. The kind of beauty that didn't ask for attention – it commanded it.
She didn't look like a girl walking into a royal lunch.
She looked like a secret everyone had just remembered they feared.
At the base of the stairs, four monarchs watched as she descended – along with prince Morven and other nobles.
King Alaric, her father, watched her with steady eyes. Beside him, king Cael of Adverland offered nothing but cool observation. Seated at the long table were the queens – Iridessa, in her haunting black velvet, eyes hard and unreadable, and queen Camilla, cloaked in green, posture poised, expression unreadable.
When Havynlee reached them, she curtsied slowly, perfectly.
"Your majesties."
Camilla's eyes narrowed slightly. There was no awe in her face – only an edge of something unspoken.
Before anyone could speak, Prince Morven rose from his seat and stepped forward, adjusting the chair beside his. A quiet gesture, yes – but it was seen by everyone.
Havynlee sat gracefully, neither flattered nor flustered. As if this was normal.
She hasn't even looked at Morven.
The silence that followed was brittle. Even the silverware sounded sharp.
Ivy was still absent – and her absence left a noticeable gap, one queen Iridessa felt deeply.
Servants glided across the marble floor with wine and pomegranate – glazed meat, placing platters like clockwork.
Still, Havynlee didn't touch her food. Her fingers rested quietly on the table, her silver spoon untouched.
Camilla observed her for a long moment. Then, with a smile too smooth to be sincere, she spoke.
"She's well-mannered," she said aloud, though her eyes never left Havynlee. "I assume the palace maid taught her how to golf a fork and curtsy properly. It's good, at least, that she knows how to sit still."
A faint chuckle, from one of the lesser nobles, but it died quickly.
The insult was delicate – but deadly. Everyone at the table understood it.
That Havynlee's grace wasn't noble, it was learned.
That she wasn't royalty – just a maid's child, trained to mimic it.
A girl molded into silence and etiquette like a doll, not born into elegance but coached into pretending.
"Of course," Camilla added, lifting her goblet delicately, "what else could we expect from a maid's daughter? You can dress a flower in silk, but it will always belong in the dirt."
Still – Havynlee didn't move.
She didn't flinch.
She didn't look up.
She simply reached for her spoon and stirred the honeyed syrup on her plate. Slowly quietly.
Her calm was unnatural.
It unsettled something in Camilla's chest, something sharp. Something irrational.
"She doesn't speak," Camilla said aloud, her voice as smooth as wine, though her gaze stayed fixed on the girl. "Has no one told her it's rude to ignore a queen?"
A sharp silence fell. One of he younger maids nearly dropped a tray.
What disturbed Camilla the most was. Most girls would weep. Most would bow their head. Most would try to defend themselves, explain, plead.
Not this one.
No fear.
No heat in her cheeks.
She didn't even seem to notice the humiliation.
And that –
That made her dangerous.
Camilla's face lingered.
A maid's daughter should tremble…yet she doesn't look at me.
There was something too still in her. Something unspoken. Something…..wrong.
Iridessa, on the other hand, wore a pleaded expression. Her smirk returned, her fingers tapping quietly against her wine glass.
She was enjoying every second of it.
Havynlee's hand paused – just for a second – then resumed stirring.
She still hadn't looked up.
Morven shifted slightly in his seat. His jaw moved, clenched, then relaxed again.
He didn't speak.
He didn't even look at his mother.
Camilla let the moment sit, her tone light, careless, as if she had merely stated a fact and not insulted a dead woman the king once loved.
But then –
"You speak too boldly queen Camilla. For a guest in my court." Came a voice – low, steady, and unmistakably royal.
All heads turned.
All but Havynlee's.
King Alaric had not risen. He didn't need to. His voice alone pressed against the lungs like weight.
Camilla turned her eyes toward him, slowly, a polite smile blooming across her lips like something poisonous.
"Boldness….or honesty?" She murmured, lifting her goblet to her lips. "Surely even you can appreciate that, your majesty."
The insult hovered in the air – pretty, polished, barbed.
But Alaric did not reply.
He did not flinch.
He didn't look at Camilla again.
He reached for his cup, untouched until now, and drank once – as if her words weren't worth more than a swallow.
Because king Alaric had learned long ago that not all battles are won through raised voice.
He could have spoken.
He could have put Camilla in her place. He could have stood and reminded everyone everyone whose court this was. Whose kingdom. Whose daughter.
But instead, he chose silence.
Because Adverland was powerful.
Too powerful to loose over a wounded ego.
Their kingdom was vast, overflowing with gold, influence, and a military that matched like thunder. And though Alaric's kingdom held its own, he knew the weight of alliances.
To cross them now – over pride – would be shortsighted. Unwise.
And king Alaric was never unwise.
He watched Camilla with a stillness that was almost cruel.
Let her speak. Let her sneer. Let her raise her chin while she still could.
Because soon, the same daughter she mocked for being a maid's child would be queen of Adverland.
And Camilla would bow.
So would the nobles.
The monks who whispered behind fans.
The women who once laughed when he claimed Seraphielle bore his blood.
One day, Havyvlee would wear a crown they couldn't ignore.
But king Alaric didn't know –
Fate had other other plans for his daughter.
Across the table, queen Camilla shifted, her mouth parting to speak again.
But her husband – king Cael – turned sharply.
His eyes cut into her with a deadly glare, quiet and final.
She said nothing more.
A hush slipped over the dining hall.
All eyes lifted.
Ivy.
Descending the grand staircase like it belonged to her, each step deliberate – slow and glowing with intent.
Her gown was sapphire silk, clinging and fluid, embroidered with golden thread that caught every flicker of light like it was hungry to be worshipped.
Her blonde curls were styled to perfection, polished and pinned to glimmer like glass under firelight.
She looked less like a girl, more like a jewel – a sapphire engagement ring brought to life. All sparkle. All sharp edges.
Meant to impress…..but never meant to reign.
Polished for display – not for power.
And for once, Ivy felt it – not admiration, but power.
The kind that came from eyes watching her – from maids pausing in awe, from a guard glancing twice. Even Camilla blinked.
Ivy had never felt so seen.
But only one person didn't look at her.
Havynlee.
Seated quietly at the table, still swirling honeyed syrup on her plate, fingers graceful, expression unchanged.
She didn't lift her head.
Didn't blink.
Didn't bother.
Like Ivy's shining entrance didn't exist at all.
Ivy froze at the last step, chest tightening.
All that glitter. All that gold. And the bastard girl didn't even glance.
She looked like a ring, yes – brilliant and bold – but a ring is still just a thing men pick out.
Pretty, polished…..and always waiting to be chosen.