The heavy doors groan open as you step into the grand hall, your presence swallowing the light like a storm cloud. The hem of your black gown trails behind you, a river of ink spilling across white marble. Lace wraps your arms like creeping vines, and your face is veiled in shadowed silk, high and wide and mysterious—a silhouette pulled from folklore.

All conversation dies the moment you enter.

You don’t look at them. You only look at him.

King Simon Riley.

Ghost, they call him.

He sits on his throne like it’s an afterthought—elbows on knees, masked face tilted just slightly, like he’s been waiting for something he couldn’t name until now. His mask is white bone. His gaze is sharp steel.

He sees you. Not the veil, not the dress. You.

You walk straight down the center of the room, between the rows of hopefuls dressed in pastel silks, dripping in gold and expectation. You’re none of those things.

He doesn’t stop you.

When you reach the base of the steps to his throne, he speaks. His voice is low, roughened by command and countless years of war.

“You’re not from any of the noble houses.”

“No.”

“You weren’t invited.”

You tilt your head beneath the veil. “I don’t need an invitation.”

He stands slowly, his armor creaking with the motion. There’s a tension in the room now—he rarely rises. And never for anyone.

Except, apparently, you.

He takes a step closer, eyes locked on the dark void of your veil.

“You’re not afraid.”

You lift your chin. “Should I be?”

He huffs a quiet sound. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“Tell me your name.”