The royal palace sparkled under the twin moons of Velaria as servants darted through corridors, decorating the grand ballroom for the occasion that had all of Rythvale buzzing — the Queen Regent's Midwinter Masquerade. Invitations had been sent only to the noblest bloodlines and wealthiest merchants, though rumors said a few mysterious guests were invited too — ones whose names were whispered, not written.
Arielle stood before her mirror, her gown an ethereal creation of flowing sapphire silk and embroidered gold leaves. The mask she held trembled slightly in her hand — half from excitement, half from dread.
Tonight wasn't just a ball. It was a test.
She had received a secret letter sealed with the sigil of House Draventon, her mother's bloodline, long thought extinct. The note had only said:
"Come to the ball. Wear the crescent moon. We'll be watching. Your future begins tonight."
Arielle tucked the letter inside her bodice, where her heartbeat thudded against it like a drum of war. Tonight, she wasn't just a ward of the palace. She was a contender.
The ballroom was a cathedral of opulence — chandeliers of moon-crystal hung from carved ceilings, golden vines wrapped each pillar, and fountains spilled liquid light into enchanted pools. Nobles in vibrant masks danced and drank, laughed and schemed.
Arielle's entrance was almost too quiet to be noticed, but silence followed her like a trailing shadow. Her gown shimmered like moonlight on deep water. Her mask — shaped like a crescent moon — glinted as she moved, elegant and enigmatic.
Prince Kael noticed her first. His eyes narrowed behind his dragon-shaped mask, recognizing the figure though not the persona. There was something different about her tonight. She walked not like a servant girl, but like a queen.
He approached slowly, eyes fixed on her.
"You wear mystery well," he said, bowing.
"And you wear arrogance like a second skin," she replied smoothly, voice veiled but sharp.
Kael blinked, surprised — and delighted. "Do I know you?"
"That depends on whether you see with eyes or heart," she said cryptically, slipping past him into the crowd.
Kael chuckled, but his gaze lingered. He wouldn't let her disappear so easily.
Behind pillars and beneath the layers of dance and wine, power shifted. Whispers floated from masked lips to listening ears.
A man in a midnight-blue cloak with a golden lion mask approached Arielle. He offered no name, only a hand.
"I believe this dance was promised."
Arielle hesitated but took it.
They danced not as strangers, but as if their steps had been choreographed in fate.
"I remember your mother," he murmured, just above the music.
Her heart froze. "You knew her?"
"She was the fiercest woman I ever met. And the most loyal. Her blood sings in you."
Arielle wanted to ask more, but he stepped away.
"Tonight," he said, "watch the Queen closely. She lies with every smile."
And then he vanished.
The Queen Regent stood at the top of the stairs, her mask feathered in crimson, her gown a river of fire. She clinked her glass for silence.
"Let us toast," she purred, "to Rythvale's enduring legacy and the loyalty of its subjects."
Arielle's breath caught. There was something sinister in her tone. The way her eyes flicked over the crowd, calculating… hunting.
A scream pierced the air.
All heads turned. A masked guest — a lord from the eastern isles — collapsed, convulsing.
Poison.
Panic erupted.
Kael leapt to the man's side, shouting for guards. But Arielle noticed something else — a shadow slipping through the curtain behind the dais. She followed on instinct.
She found herself in the hidden corridors of the palace, the scent of smoke and old secrets thick in the air.
Footsteps ahead. She gave chase.
The figure spun, blade drawn — a masked woman in black.
"Why are you following me?" the stranger hissed.
"I should ask you the same," Arielle snapped.
The woman paused. "You're not like them. You don't reek of greed."
"What do you want?"
"I want justice. For the murdered. For the silenced. For the true heir."
Arielle blinked. "True heir?"
The woman leaned close. "Not all bastards are born in the gutter. Some are born in palaces, then buried in lies."
Before Arielle could respond, a loud boom shook the corridor.
An explosion. Back in the ballroom.
They both ran.
Smoke clouded the crystal chandeliers. Screams echoed against the stone. Guards rushed in all directions.
The Queen was being escorted out, shrieking for her protectors. Kael stood near the crumbled fountain, shielding children and servants.
"Arielle!" he called, spotting her.
But she had no time. A wounded man clutched her skirt.
"They wanted the prince dead," he rasped. "But they mistook the wrong cup…"
His eyes glazed over.
She turned sharply — who would dare attempt Kael's life? And why tonight?
Everything snapped together like puzzle pieces dipped in blood.
This ball wasn't a celebration — it was a trap.
And she was one of the bait pieces.
Later, when the flames were out and the royal family locked away, Arielle stood alone in the ruined ballroom.
She clutched a charred scrap of the letter from earlier. The sigil of House Draventon barely visible.
Had they lured her here to test her? Or to kill her?
A soft voice spoke behind her. "You passed."
She turned to find the lion-masked man again.
"The court now sees you. The real you. Some will want to use you. Others will want to destroy you. Be ready."
"Who are you?"
"I'm no one," he said, removing his mask to reveal a weathered face with haunted eyes. "But you… you are the storm that breaks the chains."
And then he disappeared into the smoke.
That night, Arielle didn't sleep. Her hands trembled as she remembered the dance, the poison, the explosion — the silent war waged beneath velvet and perfume.
But she wasn't afraid.
She was awakening.
And the world would soon remember her name.