One, two, three, four—
Alastaira rose onto her toes, extending one leg in a slow arabesque. Her back arched just slightly more than necessary before softening as she lowered with deliberate control.
Her foot brushed the floor as she turned, a smooth pivot flowing into a slow spin; her hips lagged a fraction behind, catching up only as she came to a sudden stillness.
She stepped forward, slower now, her heel hovering. Her weight shifted, her hips following in a measured sway—deeper this time—while her upper body remained composed, teasing in its restraint.
Her arms lifted a breath apart, wrists folding and unfolding with languid precision. Her fingers traced the air, pausing at their peak before gliding down the line of her body without quite touching.
Two steps forward. One. Two. Left. Right. Soft. Silent.
Alastaira was remarkably beautiful, and she knew it. She had always used her allure to bend others to her will—a strategy that had earned her a place among the chosen concubines of the Royal Cathedral. She felt no regret for using alchemy to further her ignoble goals.
The Sovereign was known for a particular taste, one Alastaira did not quite fit. Her frame was svelte and her features—brown hair, brown eyes—seemed common at first glance.
And Yet, her feline beauty was striking. Her long hair flowed like silk, its curled ends catching the light. There was nothing extraordinary in her features alone, yet together they formed something undeniably divine.
She performed in the Grand Hall before the most extravagant banquet in Zenon's history. Every eye followed her, drawn in without resistance. Men swayed unconsciously with her rhythm, caught in the subtle rise and fall of her breath and the echo of every soft laugh.
But she noticed only one gaze.
The Sovereign's eyes followed her relentlessly—sharp, burning, and filled with a simmering anger. She had always loved that. To be honest, she provoked it; the cat-and-mouse game allowed her to get away with far too much.
Every turn and every measured breath was a calculated move to draw a reaction from the man who rarely gave anything at all.
She had chosen this gown for that exact purpose.
The darker his mood became, the more anticipation coiled within her. She thrived on that edge—on the risk, the tension—moving as though consequences were nothing more than a distant thought.
The bodice was dark—deep violet, almost black—adorned with intricate silver filigree that climbed toward her neckline and spilled down into the skirt. The plunging sweetheart cut framed her collarbones and throat, drawing the eye without effort.
The skirt was layered and voluminous, its outer veils sheer and luminous, catching and scattering the light with every movement. It never fully concealed her—only hinted, revealing the shifting silhouette of her legs as she moved.
Detached sleeves of translucent fabric flowed from her arms, fading from soft lavender to pale pink. They trailed behind her like mist, their ruffled edges trembling with each motion, catching the air as if reluctant to settle.
As she spun, the sleeves billowed outward, weightless, while the skirt followed a heartbeat later—rippling, parting, revealing, then hiding again. Light clung to the fabric wherever it brushed her, pulsing faintly with each step.
She turned once more—and caught his eyes. They burned with fire of jealousy. And in that moment, she knew she had him.
He was dressed in dark, ornate layers with heavy gold detailing that coiled across his chest. A high-collared, ruffled white shirt sat beneath an intricate waistcoat, stark against his pale skin. His hair was a shimmering, moonlit silver, and his eyes—the metallic silver of the royal bloodline—were fixed on Alastaira with a smoldering intensity.
The sharp clink of a ring against crystal shattered her thoughts.
A man stood at the high table, his grin wide and expectant. The music faltered and died; the chatter of the place collapsed instantly. Every head turned towards him.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the man called out, his voice carrying through the vaulted hall. "I see the question in your eyes. You have marveled at this opulence, yet you remain unaware of its purpose."
He paused, letting the tension settle over the room.
"Tonight is a prelude to a new era for Zenon," he continued. "A surprise for most, but a victory for all. It is my honor to announce that the crown shall no longer stand alone. This is a profound opportunity for an alliance between the Royal Crown and the Seven Courts of Zenon."
The reaction was immediate. A sharp collective breath swept through the hall, followed by a low, frantic murmur. Guests traded shocked glances, looking between the triumphant father and the stoic, silver-eyed King. The atmosphere, once thick with the tension of the dance, was suddenly replaced by the overwhelming euphoria at the news.
Everyone was enthusiastic except for one person. Alastaira stood on the stage in total disappointment and shock. All of her plans had crumbled before her; every fantasy and illusion of grandeur destroyed in an instant. Finally, she felt like the failure she had always been.
It was like opening her eyes to the truth for the first time, like waking up from a deep slumber, amidst different ruins, lost, deceived : it was never possible to be united with Darius. She ignored all of her friends warnings, she would be played and then discarded at the first sign of her youth withering.
Cheers, music, and dancing surrounded her. She was literally the banquet's clown at that moment. Life began to move in slow motion; a surreal, numbing sensation that held until her emotions exploded all at once. Sadness and grief took hold, accompanied by a deep, red rage she could no longer contain.