"Yes, the princess is here," Sorana confirmed, her voice hushed with a mix of awe and anxiety. "And they are arranging a perfect breakfast to welcome her as our culture."
"I am not to be there," Aurelia stated, the words flat and final. Her hands clenched in the rough wool of her blanket. "I am no nobility. I shouldn't even be in this wing." She looked at Sorana, her violet eyes sharp with a frustrated, almost desperate confusion. "Why is he doing this? Why put me at that table?"
Her question hung in the thick morning air, stark and unanswered. What did she expect? Sorana didn't have the answers to the Crown Prince's whims. She only had the consequences of them.
"My lady," Sorana said, her tone shifting to practical haste. She moved not to draw a bath, but to the washstand, wringing out a cloth in the basin of cool water. "You should not worry over his reasons. Here."
Aurelia took the cloth, pressing it to her face. The water was a sharp shock, scrubbing away the sweat of the nightmare but not the chill inside.
Sorana moved to the small wardrobe and pulled out not the usual grey wool, but an outstanding dress of deep amethyst silk. It was starkly beautiful, outlined with thread of pure silver that caught the morning light like trapped frost. A dress for a occasion, not a dormitory.
"You will dress,"Sorana repeated firmly, laying the gown across the bed. "You will look confident, and that will be that." She turned, offering a strained, encouraging smile. "You are lucky, you know. Many would die to be in your shoes."
The words were meant to comfort, but they landed like a door slamming shut.
Lucky.
To be paraded as a pet in purple and silver.To sit among wolves while pretending not to smell blood on the air. To wear the name Flavia like a collar to a family meal.
"I do not want to do this," Aurelia growled, turning her back to the dress, her body rigid with refusal.
Sorana did not argue. She simply stepped forward, the corset in her hands. She wrapped it around Aurelia's torso and began to pull the laces, methodically, ruthlessly tight.
The air rushed from Aurelia's lungs in a sharp gasp. The pressure was immediate, a vise of silk and bone that felt less like dressing and more like being bound.
"You have no other choice, my lady," Sorana murmured, her voice low and final, as she tightened another knot. The words were not cruel, but they held no comfort—only the heavy truth of their world.
---
Aurelia's boots touched the polished floor of the palace dining room with a soft, deliberate sound.
Conversation died.
Every head turned. Camilla's gaze was a razor cut.
Tiberius's eyes gleamed with open interest. The two queens watched, their expressions perfectly still, unreadable as carved cameos.
Her dress was stunning—the deep amethyst silk whispered with every step, the silver thread catching the light like captured frost. Her white hair had been curled and pinned with a severity that only heightened its otherworldly beauty, a silver crown against the purple.
Kaelen's chair creaked as he shifted. He didn't look away. His storm-grey eyes tracked her entrance with a focus that felt physical, a predator's stillness that everyone at the table could feel. The memory of their encounter in his room hung invisibly between them, charging the air.
Tenebrarum was not there.
The king Mortifer too had not yet arrived.
And then, Isabelle's eyes—sharp, observant, performing the role of Matrona—went straight to Aurelia. She leaned slightly toward Magnus, her voice a low, carrying murmur designed to be overheard.
"Who is she?"
"Nothing important to talk about," Magnus replied tersely, turning his attention pointedly to his goblet.
The dismissal should have been a relief. Instead, it was another layer of invisibility that felt like suffocation. Every protocol screamed at her, she wish she hadn't ask him that question earlier.
Aurelia in the other hand, shaking in the room as she struggled into a bow, her movements stiff and foreign.
She bent her knees slowly, the amethyst silk pooling around her boots as she gathered it, lowering her head in a gesture that felt less like respect and more like surrender.
Before taking her seat, her eyes accidentally met Camilla's.
The princess's gaze was a polished blade—cold, amused, and utterly dismissive.
"You do not belong here, harlot." The words slipped from Camilla's mouth, soft enough for only Aurelia to hear, yet they seemed to echo in the sudden quiet of her mind.
Perhaps Aurelia wanted to answer back, but a greater terror had already seized her.
Her heart hammered against the cage of her ribs. A sickening wave of anxiety crashed over her, drowning out the clink of cutlery and the low hum of resumed talk.
You're not okay. You're the only one overdressed.
The realization was a splash of ice water.
She looked around, truly seeing them now. The queens in elegant, subdued silks. Camilla in a sleek, dark gown. Even Isabelle, in her practiced role, wore something finely made but not shouting. They looked powerful in their simplicity.
She was like a jewel thrown onto a bed of charcoal—vivid, fragile, and utterly misplaced.
This is not good. This is not good.
Beneath the table, hidden by the damask cloth, her right hand found the skin of her left wrist and dug in.
Her nails pressed sharp, desperate crescents into her flesh. The pain was an anchor, the only real thing in a room that was tilting.
No. No.You should have dressed normal.
She dug harder, her breath shallow behind a carefully still face.
She pressed hard until her skin gave way.
A sharp, painful sting radiated from her wrist, a hot thread of agony pulling her focus inward.
Ouch!
She flinched, her eyes flicking down instinctively.
A tiny, perfect bead of crimson welled up from beneath her nail, vivid against her pale skin, quickly followed by another.
The sight of her own blood in the gilded dining hall sent a jolt of panic through her.
Hide it.
Her hand shot out, fingers fumbling for the heavy linen napkin beside her plate. She pressed the fabric hard against the wound, her movements swift but clumsy under the table.
The immediate, absorbent white turned a shocking pink, then bloomed into a deeper red. She pressed harder, her knuckles white. But the blood didn't stop.
It seeped steadily, stubbornly, through the layers of cloth, a warm, insistent pulse against her palm.
Then, slowly, one drop of blood touched the marble floor.
It fell from the soaked hem of her napkin, a dark, perfect sphere. For a moment, it quivered on the polished white stone, catching the chandelier's light like a tiny, terrible ruby.
----------------------------
To be continued...