Year 1856
The dining hall of House Ravenwyn glowed beneath the soft shimmer of chandeliers, their crystals scattering light across the long oak table where the family gathered. Velvet curtains of deep burgundy framed the tall windows, and the air carried the faint scent of candle wax and rosewater.
At the head of the table sat Lord Alistair Ravenwyn, a man of imposing presence and cold aristocratic grace. His dark hair was streaked with silver, his steel-gray eyes sharp and unreadable, as though he were carved from stone rather than flesh.
Beside him sat his wife, her evil stepmom, Lady Celestine Ravenwyn, whose beauty was famed in every noble circle. Her hair flowed like spun gold, cascading in elegant waves down her back, and her eyes were a clear, piercing blue, eyes that rarely held warmth, only calculation. Her lips curved in a polite smile that never reached her gaze.
To her right sat their cherished daughter, Isolde Ravenwyn. Isolde was breathtaking in a way that captivated every room she entered.
Her hair was brunette, long and silken, and her eyes shimmered a pale sapphire, bright and lively. Her features were delicate, doll-like, and her laughter, when she chose to laugh, was sweet as bells. Many whispered that she was the most beautiful maiden of her generation.
And yet, even across the table opposite the younger sister, such splendor, Noctelle Ravenwyn was impossible to ignore.
She sat quietly across from them, her posture graceful, her presence commanding in silence alone. Her hair was a deep, glossy ebony, thick and cascading down her back like a raven's wing, framing a face so pale it seemed sculpted from marble.
Her eyes, hazel, just like her mom's, bottomless, and unsettling, held a depth that made others uneasy, as though they concealed secrets no one was meant to uncover. Where Isolde was radiant and angelic, Noctelle was haunting, ethereal, beauty touched by shadows.
But this beauty level descended to number zero when the witch of a stepmother started using her as the rag instead of using a cloth, she used her to clean the floor and everything in the house but her father never said a thing, it made her cry every single day and she was forced to live with it.
Her lips, naturally tinted like crushed roses, were rarely curved in smiles, yet when they were, they were devastating.
She did not look like someone who belonged to warmth or laughter. She looked like someone born for tragedy. The clinking of silverware was the only sound until Lord Alistair finally spoke.
"In a two days," he announced, his voice calm and authoritative, "we shall be traveling to the royal palace, for a ball hosted by the king."
Isolde's eyes widened, sparkling with excitement. "The palace?" she breathed. "Father, truly? I can't wait to see the palace, I heard rumors that the king is heartless, he kills whoever he felt like killing and that no one has seen his face."
Celestine chuckled softly, brushing her daughter's hair affectionately. "Every young lady dreams of the palace," she said.
Lord Alistair's gaze shifted, slowly, deliberately, until it settled upon Noctelle.
"You," he said, voice lowering, "will be undertaking a mission." The room fell silent.
Noctelle's fingers tightened around her goblet. A mission. From him. Her father never gave her anything that was not burdensome.
"We will discuss the details after dinner," he added, dismissing the matter as though it were of no consequence.
Noctelle bit the inside of her lip, questions burning through her mind. Why her? What mission required the palace? Why not Isolde, whom he adored?
But she nodded, lowering her gaze. "Yes, Father."
---
Later That Night
In the corridor beyond the dining hall, Celestine leaned toward her daughter, her voice a whisper. "What do you think he intends?" she murmured.
Isolde frowned, curiosity flickering across her perfect features. "A mission? For her? I do not like that," she said, crossing her arms. "I want to know."
"You must not pry," Celestine replied, though her own curiosity gnawed at her. "Your father dislikes eavesdropping."
But Isolde's lips curved into a mischievous smile. "Then we shall not be heard."
After a brief moment of hesitation, Celestine sighed. "A little eavesdrop wouldn't hurt. Very well. But quietly."
They crept down the dim corridor, stopping outside Lord Alistair's study. The door was not fully shut, and the low murmur of voices drifted through the crack.
Inside, Noctelle stood before her father, hands clasped before her.
"You will go to the palace," Lord Alistair said. "Your purpose is to make King Drevanox to fall in love with you and ensure he takes you as his wife, use whatever method you want to use, I am sure it is going to work."
The words struck like lightning. Noctelle's mouth ran dry. Her heart lurched violently against her ribs. Her fingers trembled, and a cold wave rushed through her body, settling into her bones.
Her pupils dilated, her vision narrowing, the world spinning.
"To… to make him fall in love with me?" she whispered.
"Yes," her father replied without hesitation. "Only as his bride will you be close enough to accomplish your task."
"And the task is…?"
"To kill him."
Noctelle's breath caught in her throat. Her feet felt frozen to the floor, as though the earth itself had claimed her.
Outside the door, Isolde's eyes widened, and Celestine's lips parted in shock.
Inside, Noctelle stood still, her fate sealed in a single command.
Noctelle's mind reeled, the words echoing like a death knell. Seduce the King… take him as my husband… kill him. This doesn't make any sense. What are the chances that these would work.
Her lips trembled as she tried to form a question, her voice barely a whisper. "Father… why?" she asked, her dark eyes burning with disbelief. "Why would you do this to me? Sending me to a place I've never been… to seduce a man impossible to sway… a monster who… who wouldn't even bat an eye before he beheads me? Why not send any other girl but me?"
Lord Alistair's gaze remained unflinching, as cold as polished iron. "If he kills you," he said calmly, "I have another daughter. One far more… suitable. I am confident she will succeed where you may fail."
Noctelle's heart thudded violently. The room felt suffocating. She sank onto the edge of a chair, her hands clenching the fabric of her skirt. "And… what if I do not agree to this?" she demanded, voice breaking with anger and fear.
Her father leaned forward, his eyes blazing with a fire that was equal parts wrath and calculation. "Then… I will sell you. For coin. For influence. For anything. Is that acceptable to you?"
Noctelle's head fell, shaking with silent fury. She could barely breathe. "N… no," she whispered, every syllable trembling under the weight of betrayal.
He straightened, dismissing her with a subtle flick of his hand. "Go," he said, his tone final. "Prepare yourself. We have two days to the ball, and you are going to do any means iright away."
As Noctelle rose, the door creaked, and behind it, Celestine and Isolde recoiled from their eavesdropping, stumbling back into the corridor.
"That is supposed to be me!" Isolde's voice rang with excitement and envy. "I am the one who should go to the King. I am the right person for this!"
Her mother laughed softly, but there was calculation in her smile. "Do you think he would spare you if you tried?" Celestine said. "He is sending her down a dangerous path. And if she succeeds" she emphasized the word as though savoring it..."we will simply remove her and place you as Queen. You are more beautiful than she, I am certain it will happen."