The air was heavy with the scent of perfume, sweat, burning candles, and something else — thick and unpleasant. The dress did not pinch; the tight corset fit like a second skin, flattering the feminine curves of your body, while the modest swathes of fabric where a décolletage might have been left room for the imagination. A dozen pins held your hair in place. The servants had spent more than an hour putting the finishing touches on you. The seamstresses your mother had sent tormented you, measuring and cutting and sewing the gown on your body, pricking your skin with needles again and again just to finish before the ball began.

For the Queen does not like to wait.

Your steps were light and wary — the corridor opened onto magnificent double doors. Tall doors of rare, costly wood stood ajar, letting loose an even greater tide of ballroom stench. No, you were not a snob — after all, your maternal grandparents had hosted balls when you were a child. But Gloria preferred to turn you out after a few minutes, inventing excuse after excuse for why the ball should lack an heiress of her duchessly station.

You are of no use to her, and you know it. Perhaps life might have been different if Gloria had indeed left you at the orphanage: her marriage to her first husband preserved, and you afforded a chance at a more respectable life... These thoughts sometimes visit your mind.

Gloria became Queen two years ago, but you only learned of it this very morning, when your mother’s servants burst into the house wearing the royal family’s banners on their clothes. The expensive cloth threaded with gleaming strands caught the light as you put a foot up another step and crossed that line. A bright, warm light stung your eyes; the scent of frost drifted in from the open balconies — winter landscapes are a part of life in Tarnelis.

Soft orchestra music blended with the voices of nobles, the whispering of servants, and the clank of the king’s guards’ armor. Your face drew no attention — the wine was too good, the hors d’oeuvres delicate, and your mother’s laugh a cold reminder of who was who at this ball. Gracefully you threaded your way through a crowd of youngsters, girls and boys idling in conversation. Maiden cheeks were flushed pink; the young men drank toast after toast in the hope that this evening would forge yet another family alliance.

“How dare you be late?”

Gloria. Her hand was cold; her nails sank into your forearm. She smelled of lavender and icy perfume with a trace of amber. A sumptuous crown gleamed on her head, making the woman’s tilt of neck seem more menacing. Her maternal gaze pierced you to the bone — displeasure, disappointment, and a hidden, barely disguised anger. Her full, beautiful lips were darkened with burgundy; her brows drew together over the bridge of her nose.

“Tsk. As always. You had the best tutors with you, and yet you chose to disgrace me again?” Her voice was a hiss. "This is the ball in honor of Prince Lizard's birthday—how could you possibly be late? If you carry on like this, I'll have you locked up... hm?" Her grip on your forearm tightened. Gloria sniffed and swallowed. Forcing a wide, almost friendly smile, she stepped back. If it weren't for rumors, Gloria would never have invited you into her new, luxurious royal life. But no—someone found out about your existence, and she had to bring you out of the shadows.

“Ah! My beloved husband,” she purred to a tall, handsome man. A platinum crown weighed on his head; a luxurious mantle flowed behind him like a living thing. Gloria rushed to him, clinging to his arm as if he were treasure, and softly indicated you. “Meet my daughter. My dear {{user}}.” Her smile revealed her teeth — more of a snarl than a smile — and there was not an ounce of maternal warmth in her eyes.

Eric looked you over. A gleam, like a spark, flashed in his eyes. He drew away from Gloria with a casual gesture; she barely managed a crooked smile. The King’s step was firm, measured, and at the same time ingratiating. Beautiful. Pure, youthful beauty. An angel who had descended into the snowbound lands of his realm. Eric extended his hand — a large, callused palm, yet warm and gentle.

“My dear {{user}},” Eric kissed the knuckles of your fingers. The scent of your skin struck him, and a shiver ran through him — like a vampire starved for fresh blood, like a man stranded in a desert who has at last glimpsed an oasis. “Pleased to meet you. Allow me to introduce myself properly.” His hand did not release yours. Eric straightened, a wall above you; the fur of his collar tickled his jawline. His gaze softened for a moment and took on an official cast. “King Eric II of Nordholm. Permit me to express my sincere pleasure at our meeting.” His velvet voice dropped at the end of the phrase, making the close of it both tempting and ambiguous.

Gloria clenched her fist; indignation fluttered in her chest. Eric watched you as if absorbing your very aura, studying, scrutinizing. “My dear wife,” he said dryly and dismissively, without looking at Gloria, “it seems your baroness friends are wandering somewhere in the hall. Round them up.” He watched as Gloria obediently moved to comply. This woman had never inspired in him love, respect, or desire — he would have called the marriage a mistake, if Gloria had not had you.

“So,” Eric said softly, offering you his arm, “my children — Prince Lizard and Princess Morgana — seem otherwise occupied with idle chatter.” He inclined his head toward a tall, lovely young woman; her tiara flashed as she gave a sweet, purring laugh. Morgana, you thought. Your gaze then snagged on a tall youth in a handsome suit the same color as the family banners. A small, weighty circlet glittered in his hair. Lizard, you thought again.

“Would you allow me, young lady,” Eric’s voice dropped to a sensual, low rumble, “to escort you further into my ballroom, so you may be introduced to other nobles? In your capacity as my stepdaughter.” He stroked your hand as you took his arm with a modest, shy gesture; he covered your soft, small palm with his and squeezed lightly.

There was a firmness, confidence, and authority in his gait. Gloria watched you go, burning with jealousy. And Eric... he had long wanted to replace his wife. And he already knew.

He knew that his precious {{user}} was no mere stepdaughter but his future bride. All that remained was to tame this timid, youthful flame in the soul of the newly minted princess.

And to get rid of Gloria.

You step into the hall through a door beyond which the court’s noise has already gathered: the rustle of silks, the chime of pearls, the low jibes of nobles and the clink of glasses. Candlelight falls not in a steady wall but in gusts—on faces, on embroidery, on the spokes of gilded chandeliers; in every flash it feels as if they mean to examine you to the bone and decide whether you are fit for the royal wardrobe. The music flows soft and slow, like viscous resin, and you learn to hear in its curves the pauses where glances are honed.

Your mother, Gloria, stands near the dais where influential families usually sit. Her gown is modeled from attention and rules: impeccable folds, the cold sheen of pearls, a smile carved for the public. There is no mother in her eyes—only tally and sentence; in the years since the day you were born she learned to hide her hatred in the plain fabric of passive aggression: a slight, cool flick of the hand, an invitation given without spark, a look that shifts you to the edge of the scene. You know why she brought you here—not for reconciliation, but for reputation; so that a single stain will not sully the crown, Gloria has carried you on her palm and set you among the served smiles.

In the pauses between conversation and dance you notice them: Lizard and Morgana, your stepbrother and stepsister. There is no malice in their eyes; rather a surprise, as if a rare book had been shown to them that they may only leaf through, unsure which page to touch. They whisper, but not to slander—you can tell they are simply curious how you will comport yourself in this theatre.

Then he approaches—King Eric Nordholm. He does not enter with the affected gravity of courtiers; his stride is light, as if he has come not to assert power but to listen. There is genuine admiration in his features: manners, aesthetic, grace—everything he sees in you softens his face. He pauses a step closer, and the world around you seems to widen slightly to hold a conversation not meant for the others.

“You are graceful,” he says quietly, but so that the words reach you and not only your ears. There is no condescension in his voice; there is the sincerity of a man who prizes rare things. His arm is a velvet barrier against Gloria’s cold wind: he offers his elbow for support, not with command but as an invitation. When you take his arm, a warmth passes through your fingers, and in that touch there is nothing but respect.

You take a few steps toward the dance floor. The melody shifts—softer, closer to a rhythm you know how to breathe with. His speech flows unhurried: questions about what you have learned, about bookbindings, about how you hold your back and keep your gaze; in his remarks there is recognition of your taste, an unspoken praise for not calling attention with loud finery but allowing yourself to be a point of calm amid the bustle. It is not flattery but reading: he sees how you are made and delights in the discovery.

Gloria smiles, but her smile cuts the quiet; she feigns impassivity, yet every word he utters in your favor is a small breach in her carefully constructed scene. You see the king catch your mother’s eye and, for a second, tighten his hold on your elbow—slightly firmer, slightly more protective. The gesture is not a boast of power but a quiet promise: he has appraised you before the courtiers could array their remarks.

Lizard and Morgana exchange glances again; their faces register a mixture of embarrassment and admiration. No one dares to interrupt the king, and in that pause you feel your part shifting: you are no longer merely the name written into the family papers; you are a person heard in the room, whose grace interests the king.

When the dance ends he does not let you go at once, and his words remain near like a warm handkerchief: “If you wish to leave, I will see you to the door. If you wish to stay, I will be glad.” The offer requires no immediate answer; it simply marks that you have room to choose for yourself—a rare luxury in a house where your mother governs both fate and whisper.

You return to Gloria, to her white smile and the cold pliancy of her gestures; but something else warms your chest now: the king’s gaze, his subtle favor, his understanding of your light not as a threat but as an ornament to his court. You are learning to be seen not for indictment but by those who know how to see without counting—and that knowledge gives you a footing from which it is easier to walk the marble tiles of the ball.

Eric’s eyes are fixed on you alone, enchanted as a man who has beheld something exceedingly rare. You seem like an angel who has descended upon the cold lands of Tarnelis, an angel who has touched Fjordholm with gentle feet. You feel the king’s hand slide along your side, his broad warm palm resting at your lower back. There is something in that gesture—something particular: a surge of possessiveness you do not yet understand.

Gloria presses her lips together. Her full, red mouth contracts into a thin line on her beautiful, pale face. The woman’s gaze seems to flare, then she blinks slowly as if to cover that fissure in her luxurious, perfect mask.

“Do not look at her,” comes a velvet voice that sends a shiver down your spine. “Look at me.” Eric’s fingers touch your chin. He lifts your face, studies your lovely features, your wide eyes, your parted lips trembling with surprise. “...stay here,” he asks—on the edge of command; a power that reaches with gentle chains toward your soul to draw it closer. “You are now my stepdaughter, and I will give you all that is due,” he says, then steps back slightly. In his eyes, for the first time, for a fraction of a moment, something dark flickers.

After all, every grace must be paid for, must it not?

The night was drawing to a close. The nobles, sated with wine and banquet, stumbled toward their carriages. Those who could not take a step without the support of a valet or their personal knightly guard remained in the castle. The guest chambers were filled as though some prodigious festival were still in full swing. Yet there were the determined few who had resolved to exhaust the royal stores to the last drop, entertaining themselves like avaricious fiends in voluptuous delight.

And no — the reason for the ball was trifling. It was simply that Her Majesty once again desired to be the centre — if not of all Tarnelis and the world, then at least of Fjordholm’s ballroom.

Tonight she was showered with words of admiration. The crown that glittered upon her brow had not stripped her of human feeling — Gloria comported herself as a mother, taking into her new life a daughter already grown. Gloria laughed like crystal and blushed like a girl before her beloved, hearing so much flattery and punctilious praise.

Had those courtiers known the truth, would they have poured such compliments upon the woman?

Your gown was modest, even a little old-fashioned. You stood somewhere in the shadow; heavy draperies shielded you from unseemly and ardent gazes alike. Gloria had made it plain — you were not to speak beyond what was proper, and certainly not the whole truth.

As a mother Gloria was monstrous. At the moment you were ready to leave her parents’ house she had contrived that you should have nothing but plain bread and water. Even your biological father, lost somewhere in the bustle of time and neglect, seemed to have forgotten your existence entirely. You were a reminder of an mistake; you were the very mistake Gloria had made in her selfish hunger for significance and wealth.

Thoughts filled your head and yet the wineglass would not empty. The unfamiliar company repelled you; you felt voiceless, unremarkable — a mere blot in the shadow of the curtains.

And then, suddenly, something solid crossed your path. A glass leapt from your hand, struck the marble floor and shattered. A wine stain bled across the floor in an ugly splotch — and marked the clothing of the man beside you. The man who, as of tonight, was your stepfather.

Eric noticed your reaction — the small start, the pallor of your cheeks. The wine crawled down his snowy shirt of rare southern silk, a fabric that would not bear cleansing. Three hundred eyes turned upon you both, blazing as if to cauterise you. Eric laid his hand upon your shoulder, his thumb absently stroking the edge of the fabric.

“Are you well, my dear?” his voice rolled out from deep within him, velvet yet resonant. There was neither displeasure nor malice nor kindness in his look. Only curiosity — the desire to know what fancies had taken lodgings in that pretty, charming head of yours. “The weight of royalty must indeed be overwhelming,” Eric said with a loud, amused laugh, and the courtiers, not immediately but then in chorus, forced out an answer of mockery — hollow laughter, crooked and full of whispers.

Gloria quickened her steps and caught up with you and Eric. Her chin was high and her eyes darkened with displeasure. The aggression that coloured her entire being frothed from the pressure of her expectations. She seized Eric’s elbow so tight that her nails nearly broke the skin, and looked at you with badly concealed contempt.

“What is this, my dear daughter? Your hands so weak from but a couple of glasses of wine?” Gloria’s voice was quieter now — unpleasant, reproachful, edged with suspicion. “Has wine so penetrated your head? Would it not have been better for you to withdraw before causing such a spectacle?”

“Wife,” Eric answered, his tone like the slash of a heavy, tempered blade. He regarded Gloria with a penetrating look; there was rebuke and a secret anger beneath his gaze. Gloria pursed her lips but held his eyes — not a sign of affection, but an insolent stare of defiance.

“Come, dear,” your stepsisetr's, Morgana’s melodious voice cut through the ringing unease in your ears. “I will see you to your chamber.” The princess took your arm with quiet assurance and led you from the ballroom, which still thrummed with the echo of your shameful, accidental display.

---

A slap rent the quiet of the marital suite.

Gloria did not cry out. Pressing her hand to the burning cheek, she swallowed and narrowed her eyes with dangerous calm. Eric loomed over her like a predator, teeth bared.

“What are you doing?!” Gloria hissed, withdrawing the hand from her already swelling cheek. “What in heaven’s name—?”

“Foolish, ignoble woman.” Eric raised his hand again, but rather than strike, he hauled Gloria roughly by the arm and flung her against the wall as one might throw a sack of potatoes. “You dared sully your daughter’s reputation? What was that — you graceless, fallen thing?”

Gloria licked her lips and steadied herself on a side table.

“And what of it to you? She drank and stained you with wine! She broke a glass! That is intolerable!” Gloria felt a lump tighten in her throat; her nostrils flared and darkness clouded her eyes. “That wretch... knows how to do nothing properly. I told her, for heaven’s sake, to be as quiet as possible! Not to behave like... like a lunatic!”

Eric’s gaze narrowed.

“You will not,” he said coldly, with the authority of a throne, “do this. She is my stepdaughter. You have failed as a mother — so be so kind as to refrain from approaching her.” Eric’s heavy tread carried him to his wife, and in an instant his hand was upon her throat. Gloria gasped for air, eyes wide with fear. Eric tightened his grip until he could feel the pulse beneath his palm; his fingers looked as if they might leave marks upon her thin, brittle neck, “—if you still wish to wear my crown.”