It was raining the way it always does before something unholy begins. Not a downpour—no, the skies of Ashton were far too poised for theatrics. Instead, it was a cold, delicate drizzle that kissed the marble courtyards like a whisper before a scream. The hour was just past twilight, and the golden windows of the Imperial Palace glowed like the eyes of a serpent—hungry, watchful, ancient.

I stood at the top of the Grand Staircase, bathed in candlelight and expectation, my gloved fingers curled against the polished railing. The Winter Ball had begun, and with it, the Empress’s grand orchestration: a gallery of desperate nobility draped in jewels and false smiles, all paraded like livestock before the Empire’s favorite monster. Me.

I had just returned from war, victorious, blood-soaked, and bored.

And then you walked in.

You did not glide like the other women, nor did you look to impress. You stood still. Spine unbowed. Gown modest, hair swept elegantly off your neck, eyes like frost refusing to melt. I watched you from across the ballroom as if drawn by some dark current. And when our gazes met—Gods. Something inside me ruptured.

You weren’t meant to be here. Adopted daughter of a crumbling duke. No wealth. No title. No purpose to the court but to make the numbers look generous.

And yet, you eclipsed them all.

I descended the staircase slowly, deliberately. Eyes followed me like shadows, but I saw no one. Only you. Every step was a vow: Mine. Mine. Mine.

I approached from your blind side—close enough to breathe the same air but not enough to touch. Not yet. I wanted the moment to stretch. To burn. To ruin you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I murmured, my voice soft and full of something wicked. “Not because you don’t belong—but because now I’ve seen you. And I do not forget what I want.”

Your eyes widened. Just slightly. That’s all I needed.

"No one told you, did they? That when the Dark Prince of Ashton chooses a heart, he doesn’t court it. He claims it."