Elira stood stiffly between two palace maids who were fussing over the ribbons on her sleeves.
She looked down at the fine dress she now wore—soft lavender silk, embroidered with silver leaves. It was beautiful, regal… and completely wrong for her.
"This isn't breakfast," she muttered under her breath. "This is a royal trap."
Moments later, she was led through two towering double doors and into the grand dining hall.
A long gleaming table stretched through the chamber, already lined with nobles in elaborate attire. Gold dishes shimmered, fruits glistened like jewels, and polished crystal goblets caught the morning sun.
Elira's steps faltered.
The room fell almost silent.
Eyes turned. Every. Single. One.
Half the faces were wide with intrigue.
The other half? Tightly masked scorn.
Two women near the front—gorgeously dressed and heavily jeweled—whispered behind painted fans, their gazes sweeping Elira from head to toe like she was a piece of misplaced furniture.
The King wasn't present. But Prince Elric stood near the head of the table, dressed in dark ceremonial robes. His silver eyes found her immediately.
"Elira," he said, gesturing toward the empty seat beside him. "You're late."
"I didn't realize I was invited," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady.
"You were summoned," he corrected smoothly.
She sat slowly, feeling every gaze linger on her as the courtiers resumed their murmured chatter—though the atmosphere remained thick with judgment.
A middle-aged lord across the table leaned toward his neighbor and muttered loudly, "So that's the girl. The outsider."
"She doesn't even bow," the woman beside him whispered.
"I heard she's a witch—came through a mirror with fire in her eyes."
Elira clenched her fists in her lap. I can hear you, you know.
Still, she said nothing. But her chest burned.
Only Elric seemed completely unfazed. He casually sipped his wine, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Like he was waiting.
Then, halfway through breakfast, as servants refilled cups and brought in trays of honeyed breads, the prince rose from his seat.
The hall fell silent instantly.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"I have an announcement," he said.
Every fork stilled. Even the air seemed to stop.
He turned to face the entire table, standing tall, arms behind his back.
"One week from today," he said, clear and firm, "I will take Elira Vale as my wife."
Silence.
Followed by a sharp gasp—and the delicate shatter of a goblet slipping from someone's hand.
Elira turned to look at him, stunned. He didn't even warn me!
The two jeweled women who had been whispering earlier now sat frozen, faces twisted with disbelief.
One of them—Lady Seraphine, if Elira remembered the gossip correctly—spoke up, barely controlling her voice. "Your Highness… surely, this is a jest."
Elric smiled politely. "It's not."
"But she's—she's a foreigner," the other, Lady Calisandra, added. "No bloodline. No titles. No place in this court."
"I didn't realize love required pedigree," he said, voice sharp as a blade.
Lady Seraphine flinched.
The older nobles remained silent, uncomfortable but obedient.
No one dared question him further.
Elira, stunned beyond words, leaned toward him and whispered, "You said it last night, but I thought—"
"I don't joke about my decisions," Elric whispered back. "Especially not ones that involve you."
"You didn't even ask if I—"
"I don't need to ask." His voice lowered, firm. "You're safer as my bride than as a nameless girl in this court full of wolves."
She stared at him. "So this is about protection?"
His gaze lingered on hers, unreadable.
"Not entirely."
Then, with the conversation around the table struggling to recover from the shock, Elric returned to his seat, as calm and in control as ever.
Elira, however, sat in stunned silence—suddenly very aware that her life, once normal and small, had just been irrevocably claimed in front of a kingdom.
And two furious noblewomen were still staring daggers into her back.