The Great Hall dripped with false gold. Crystal chandeliers mocked the stars. Nobility swarmed – vampires in velvet, werewolves in silk, snake-kin draped in iridescent scales. The air reeked of perfumed deceit.
Linda stood frozen at the entrance.
with
A monstrosity of cast-offs. Seraphina's *eight-year-old* cerulean gown, hacked short at the knees. Sleeves ripped off. Hem clumsily re-stitched with coarse twine. Patches of burlap showed at the seams where Linda's growth had split the fabric. Her silver hair, usually hidden, was brutally braided – a concession to "decency" ordered by Queen Eleanor.
*"Try not to trip, *slum rat*,"* Seraphina hissed, shoving her forward. *"You shame Father's house."*
Linda stumbled. Laughter rippled.
**The First Dance:**
King Ezra approached. linda. Distant. A statue carved of ice.
*"Daughter,"* he stated, not *my daughter*. His hand clasped hers – no warmth, only duty.
They danced. Linda's bare feet (no slippers offered) scraped cold marble. Ezra's gaze fixed over her shoulder.
*"Father?"* Linda whispered, the word raw. *"Do you… remember Lucia?"*
Ezra *stopped*. Music died. Silence swallowed the hall.
*"NO ONE,"* his voice cracked like a whip, *"SPEAKS THAT NAME IN MY PRESENCE!"*
He released her as if burned. Linda staggered back. Tears, hot and humiliating, spilled down her cheeks. She stood alone in the center of the ballroom, exposed in her rags, trembling.
then a
White linen. Embroidered with a single, coiled dragon in silver thread. It appeared before her, held by a hand – long-fingered, elegant, yet radiating restrained power.
Linda looked up.
**Griffin.**
He was not handsome. He was *devastation*.
his Hair was like that of a Night-black, swept back from a blade-sharp widow's peak.
his Eyes held an Amber-green. Not human. Not vampire. *Ancient*. Like forest fire trapped in glass.
his Jawline was Carved obsidian into perfection
Lips was a cruel, perfect curve red and puffy
his Skin so Pale, but glowing with inner warmth, catching the light like polished pearl.
*"Tears are precious things,"* his voice was low, resonant, vibrating in her bones. *"Waste them not on those unworthy of their salt."*
He pressed the handkerchief into her palm. His touch sparked – not magic, but *recognition*.
*"I… I'm Linda,"* she stammered, wiping her face. The linen smelled of frost and distant thunderstorms.
*"Griffin,"* he inclined his head, eyes never leaving hers. *"A pure-blooded vampire… at your service, Princess."*
*Princess.* The word, spoken like a vow, silenced the hall's whispers.
**The Dance of Shadows:**
He led her back onto the floor. His hand settled on her waist – possessive, protective. Their bodies aligned.
*"You dance like moonlight on water,"* he murmured, guiding her effortlessly. *"Wild. Untamed."*
Linda forgot the rags. Forgot the stares. His amber eyes held her captive. He moved with predatory grace, a panther in human skin. She followed, a silver moth drawn to his flame. When his thumb brushed the bare skin of her back (where Seraphina's dress gaped), a shiver raced through her, sharp and unfamiliar.
*"Why?"* she breathed. *"Why are you kind?"*
His smile was a blade's edge. *"Kindness is irrelevant. Destiny is inevitable."*
The music ended. Griffin didn't release her. He turned, facing the dais where Ezra sat, rigid with confusion.
*"King Ezra,"* Griffin's voice carried, silencing the hall. *"I claim your daughter, Linda. As my bride."*
Gasps. Shocked silence. Then – outrage.
*"HER?!"* Seraphina shrieked, pointing a clawed finger. *"The scullery rat?!"*
*"Preposterous!"* Queen Eleanor spat. *"He means Seraphina! Or Lysette! Not this… creature!"*
Griffin's gaze swept the queens. Cold. Terrifying. *"I see only one creature worthy of my name in this den of serpents."* He looked down at Linda. *"Her."*
Ezra stood, brow furrowed, the forgetting spell clouding his judgment. *"Linda? But… she's…"* He struggled. *"Very well. If it is your wish… Vampire Lord Griffin."*
*"NO!"* The fourteen princesses wailed as one.
Griffin ignored them. He lifted Linda's hand – the one clutching his handkerchief – and kissed her knuckles. His lips were cool, firm. A brand.
*"In two years,"* he vowed, amber eyes locking onto her sea-blue, *"I return. And you, Silver Light, will be mine."*
He vanished. Not through the door. Into *shadow*.
Linda stood alone again, the embroidered dragon on the handkerchief burning against her palm. The court's hatred crashed over her like a wave.
Deep beneath the palace, the mirror ball **screamed**. A soundless vibration of pure, incandescent rage.