The grand ballroom, which had been a spectacle of glittering wonder, felt thick and heavy, stealing my breath. The sweet, heavy scent of a thousand perfumes and roasted meats clung to my skin, making my throat feel tight.
Every laugh and shout from the crowd pounded in my head, a constant, high-pitched wave that swallowed my own quiet thoughts. The polished marble floor, so smooth and grand, felt like it could trip me at any moment, sending me sprawling among the swirling gowns and stiff suits.
I didn't need anyone to look directly at me to feel their judgment. It was a silent hum, a pressure in the air. A feeling that I simply didn't belong.
Every elegant turn of a dancer, every casual flick of a bejeweled hand, every whispered word exchanged between these guests, screamed how different I was.
My simple dress, which had felt fine moments ago, now felt like a rough sack. It was too plain, too poor, too real for this place. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Just being here felt like a mistake.
Beside me, though, Leofric was a different person. The small flush of embarrassment from earlier, when I'd stopped him from dancing, had completely vanished. He wasn't talking to anyone, not really.
He was just taking it all in, eyes wide and bright. He'd found a spot near a table piled with sparkling drinks and tiny pastries, and he was simply watching.
His head tilted back, a wide smile on his face, as he took in the ceiling, the glowing chandeliers, the way the light caught on every gem. He even managed to snag a glass of frothing cider.
He wasn't mingling, but he was enjoying the sheer view of it all, captivated by the spectacle. He didn't seem to care about our plain clothes, or the cruel whispers that still occasionally reached us. For Leo, this was simply an experience to be savored, a grand adventure.
He moved with a rhythm all his own, a natural ease that let him just be here. He was leaning back now, a soft whistle escaping his lips as he watched a couple twirl across the floor.
"How can he be so... free?" I wondered, a mix of awe and frustration bubbling inside me.
He was oblivious to the looks, the casual disdain that felt like a physical weight on my shoulders. I heard a snicker from a group of women near us.
"Still standing like statues, those two," one murmured, loud enough. "Did they think this was a museum exhibit?" Another giggled.
Leo just tilted his head, watching the dancers, a faint smile playing on his lips. He heard them, I knew he did. He just didn't care. That was Leo. Adventure was all that mattered, and right now, the grandeur of the Lahorei Palace was the biggest adventure he'd ever seen.
The air grew heavier, the music louder, the crowd denser. Every passing stranger felt like a potential threat, every casual glance a probing interrogation. My lungs ached, and my head pounded from the incessant noise.
I felt myself shrinking, becoming smaller and smaller in the vastness of the ballroom, a tiny, insignificant speck. The thought solidified: I had to get out. My gaze darted to the nearest archway, a silent promise of escape.
I just needed air. A moment of silence. A space where I didn't have to pretend to be someone I wasn't, where the walls didn't feel like they were closing in.
With a quick, silent nod to Leo - who was too engrossed in the ceiling frescoes to notice - I began to weave my way through the throng.
It was surprisingly easy to disappear.
The crowd was a swirling, vibrant current of distraction, too focused on their own conversations and dances to notice one quiet girl slipping away.
I kept my head down, my gaze fixed on the gleaming marble, until I reached one of the enormous arched doorways leading out of the main hall. Stepping through it was like breaking the surface of water after being held under too long. The roar of the ballroom instantly softened, fading to a distant murmur.
A wave of cool air, crisp and fresh, washed over me, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat I'd just escaped. I breathed deeply, filling my lungs, and for the first time since we'd stepped through the palace gates, I felt a genuine sense of relief.
The scent of sweet perfumes gave way to the faint, earthy smell of wet stone and something vaguely floral, carried on a gentle breeze. I found myself in a long, wide corridor.
It wasn't as brightly lit as the ballroom, but it wasn't truly dark either. Ornate wall sconces, shaped like golden branches, held flickering flame-like lights that cast a soft, shimmering glow along the polished stone walls.
The pathway was smooth, unblemished, reflecting the light in long, wavy streaks. It was a dark but shiny path, exactly as I'd imagined. Footsteps echoed here, but they were my own, quiet and deliberate.
No hurried murmurs, no forced laughter. Just the whisper of my dress against my legs and the soft hum of my own thoughts.
This was what I'd truly craved. Not the crowd, not the dazzling spectacle, but this quiet corner of grandeur. I could finally see the palace, not just feel its overwhelming presence.
I ran a hand lightly over the cool, carved stone of the wall, tracing the intricate patterns of vines and fantastical creatures. Every detail was exquisite, a testament to craftsmanship I'd only ever dreamed of.
I noticed a subtle, almost hidden archway to my left, leading into what looked like a smaller, enclosed garden. The corridor opened up into a series of smaller alcoves, each with a velvet bench and a small, potted tree.
I chose one, sinking onto the plush fabric, and simply looked. Through a tall, arched window, I could see glimpses of a sprawling garden, dark under the stormy sky but hinting at hidden paths and distant fountains.
The rain had slowed to a gentle patter against the glass, a soothing rhythm that calmed my frayed nerves. I felt a sense of awe that was pure, uncomplicated by shame or fear of discovery.
This was the palace of my dreams, after all, and here, alone, it felt like it was finally showing me its true, quiet beauty. I reached out a hand, pressing my palm against the cool windowpane, a small, private moment of connection to a world so far beyond my own...
Unaware of the quiet escape happening in the corridors below, Prince Adam stood beside his father, King Damien, on the raised dais at the front of the ballroom.
His posture was rigid, almost stiff, a silent rebellion against the celebration unfolding around him. The polite applause for the short, bald man's speech, the cheerful music, the excited murmur of hundreds of voices - it all seemed to wash over him, leaving no impression.
His crimson eyes, so vivid and striking, were fixed on some distant point, utterly devoid of warmth or interest. He didn't even pretend to smile, didn't offer a polite nod to the guests.
His face was a stark, unreadable mask of cold indifference, betraying no hint that this elaborate affair was supposedly in his honor. He was a statue carved from shadow and ice, draped in dark, royally embroidered silks that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it.
Seated beside him, Queen Katherine, his stepmother, watched him with a thin, almost imperceptible line of displeasure etched between her brows. Her usually serene expression was taut, her lips pressed together.
She shifted slightly in her opulent chair, a barely audible rustle of silk, and her gaze hardened as it swept over Adam's unyielding profile.
The public display of his apathy was clearly grating on her nerves. She had likely envisioned a grander, more engaged reception for the birthday prince, an opportunity perhaps to orchestrate certain introductions or to subtly reinforce her own position.
His aloofness, his complete disregard for the performance, was a public snub she could not openly address. He was denying her the chance to direct the narrative, to even offer a well-placed, backhanded compliment.
A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips, a wisp of annoyance quickly swallowed by the surrounding revelry.
Adam, feeling the familiar prickle of his stepmother's unspoken disapproval, simply turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the vibrant crowd below him.
The faces blurred into a swirling, vibrant current of eager smiles and bowing heads. He had no interest in their superficial admiration, their calculated pleasantries.
This entire spectacle felt like a beautifully crafted prison, gilded and adorned, but a prison nonetheless. His attention drifted towards the periphery, seeking anything that might offer a moment of genuine quiet, a sliver of escape from the suffocating demands of his birthright.
His eyes, sharp and perceptive despite their detached expression, caught a flash of movement near one of the distant archways.
A single figure, dressed in plain, unassuming fabric, was slipping away from the main crush of guests.
They were moving with a quiet grace, almost blending into the background, seeking the shadows of the corridor.
Adam's gaze followed, a flicker of something akin to curiosity stirring within his usually impassive demeanor.
He watched as the figure reached the doorway, paused, and then seemed to melt into the less-lit passage beyond. He didn't know why, but something about their silent retreat, so utterly unlike the boisterous energy of the party, caught his attention.
He was bored from his elevated perch, tired of the pretense, and this unexpected deviation offered a faint pull of intrigue.
Silently, almost as if he were a shadow detaching from the wall, Adam turned from the dais. No one noticed his departure. The King was momentarily engrossed in a conversation with a foreign dignitary, and Queen Katherine was still directing a disapproving stare at the empty space Adam had just occupied.
He moved with an effortless, almost supernatural quietness, his dark robes flowing around him like deeper night.
He bypassed the main thoroughfares, using a network of less-frequented service passages and stairwells, a shortcut known only to the palace's oldest residents and those who sought to avoid attention.
He wanted to see where the figure was going. He wanted to know why they, like him, had sought refuge from the dazzling, empty celebration.
He emerged onto a higher level, overlooking the very corridor he'd seen the figure enter.
Below, on the ground level, a lone figure stood by a tall, arched window. Her back was to him, her simple dress a stark contrast to the opulent surroundings. She stood perfectly still, one hand pressed against the cool glass, seemingly lost in quiet contemplation of the storm-swept garden outside.
She was completely oblivious to the powerful gaze fixed upon her, the crimson eyes that watched her every subtle movement from above.
It was the girl he had seen earlier, the one who had entered with the overly enthusiastic boy, the one who seemed to shrink under the ballroom's light.
Her solitude, her quiet absorption, was a stark contrast to the performative gaiety he had just fled. And it drew him in.
I sighed, a long, quiet breath that seemed to carry all the tension out of my body.
Here, by this window, the palace felt less like a trap and more like the wondrous place I'd dreamed of.
The soft patter of rain against the glass was a gentle lullaby, and the faint, earthy scent of the garden was a balm to my senses. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the peace settle over me, enjoying this fleeting, perfect slice of stolen solitude.
A sudden shift in the air, a whisper of movement too swift and silent to be a draft, made my eyes snap open.
A figure detached itself from the deeper shadows of the corridor, growing impossibly tall and broad. My heart surged into my throat, thrashing against my ribs. Standing just a few feet away, as if he had simply stepped out of the palace walls, was Prince Adam.
His presence was like a shockwave, freezing the blood in my veins. He was even more imposing up close, his dark clothes a stark void in the soft glow, his face a severe, unreadable mask of cold indifference.
Those striking, vivid red eyes, like embers in the dim light, were fixed on me. They held no warmth, no curiosity, only a piercing, almost unnerving intensity.
It was the same deadly cold expression he'd worn in the ballroom, only now, it was directed solely at me. I took an involuntary step back, bumping into the velvet bench.
My breath hitched. This was the birthday prince, the one I'd only seen from a distance, the one whose aura had commanded the entire ballroom. And he was here, looking at me.
Every instinct screamed at me to run, to apologize, to somehow make myself invisible. He didn't move, didn't even blink. Just those eyes, burning into mine. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, far worse than the noise of the party.
It felt like an interrogation, an accusation. Finally, a voice, deep and resonant, cut through the silence. It was low, almost a rumble, yet it sliced through the quiet corridor with an undeniable authority that made me flinch.
"You're wandering off limits." His words weren't a question, but a stark declaration. They were sharp, cold, and utterly devoid of emotion, like chipped ice.
The accusation hung in the air, echoing the very fears I had just managed to escape. His gaze didn't waver, boring into me, demanding an answer I didn't know how to give.
The peace I had found moments ago shattered, replaced by sheer panic. I was caught. By the very person who this whole party and unsettling night was all for.