The Grand Hall of Ravelle Palace gleamed like a dream woven from gold and glass. Candlelight shimmered across a thousand crystal goblets, and the marble floor beneath velvet shoes mirrored the spectacle above. The kingdom's nobility filled the ballroom in shimmering silks and brocades, each one more opulent than the last. The air was thick with perfume, politics, and poorly concealed envy.
Marcus stood near the head of the banquet table, his crimson-lined cloak draped elegantly over one shoulder. He wore the ceremonial sword of his house, a decorative thing he hated, far too fragile for real battle.
He could feel every gaze in the room press into him like knives—some admiring, others measuring, all waiting to see if he'd be the next corpse in a royal tomb.
At the far end of the hall, Erin entered quietly, unseen by most. She wore a gown of deep green, simple but elegant, clearly borrowed. Her hair was twisted up with just a hint of rebellion, and her eyes scanned the room like someone hunting more than observing.
Marcus caught her from across the room. His lips curved faintly. She did not belong here, not really—and yet, somehow, she looked more regal than half the ladies in attendance.
She found him before the crowd swallowed her, and made her way to his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Look at them," she murmured, taking a glass of wine from a passing tray. "They cheer for you, toast your name… and none of them would dare stand too close."
Marcus didn't look at her. "They think I'm cursed."
"They're not wrong."
"Cheerful as ever."
She tilted her head. "Would you prefer I lie?"
"I'd prefer you stop being right so often."
He glanced at her then, and for a heartbeat, the laughter in her eyes softened into something else. Something that made his chest tighten.
Before either of them could speak, a trumpet sounded.
Lord Ashwell stepped forward, flanked by guards. "As tradition dictates, His Highness shall now select the Blade of Ceremony—his symbolic weapon of leadership, forged centuries ago."
A velvet-draped table was wheeled forward, upon which lay seven blades, each different. One glowed faintly blue with moonstone inlays. Another had a gold hilt shaped like a phoenix. They shimmered under the lanternlight like jewels, deadly and divine.
Marcus moved forward slowly, aware of every eye on him.
Erin followed a few steps behind, unease prickling up her spine.
Marcus extended his hand over the blades, his fingers hovering, then reaching for the sword with the crimson hilt—the blade of his forefathers, the one tied to the bloodline.
As soon as his fingers touched the metal, a flash of pain tore through his hand. He recoiled instinctively.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Blood ran down his wrist, crimson against white cuffs.
Marcus gritted his teeth and picked up the blade anyway, even as it burned his skin like molten fire.
"A test," he said loudly, gripping the blade tighter. "A test of strength, not superstition."
He raised it overhead. The nobles cheered, but their eyes whispered doubt.
Erin stepped forward quickly, grabbing a napkin from the table and pressing it to his palm. "You're bleeding," she hissed. "Badly."
"It's nothing."
"It's a sign," she whispered urgently. "The curse is responding. You've drawn blood too soon."
Marcus met her gaze and, for a moment, everything else fell away.
"I'm not afraid," he said.
"You should be."
They stood close, too close, their faces inches apart. For the first time, Erin saw past the royal mask to the fear buried beneath.
Before either of them could speak again, a noblewoman let out a small shriek.
A man in dark armor had appeared near the archway—uninvited, unannounced.
An elite from House Aereth, known rivals of the Ravelle crown.
"Your Highness," the armored man said with a bow, voice like gravel. "I bring a gift. A token of… ancient debts."
He held out a scroll, sealed in wax with a symbol Erin recognized instantly—an ancient family sigil, one believed extinct.
Erin's blood turned to ice.
It was her family's crest.
House Elyria.
The room held its breath as Marcus took the scroll, unaware of the past he had just touched—and the storm he had just invited inside.