The ballroom shimmered beneath hundreds of golden chandeliers. Laughter, perfume, and the sharp glitter of ambition filled the air — every word, every smile, a carefully placed move in the grand game of alliances. King Alaric Dorian Valehart stood at the heart of it, trapped in a circle of hopeful faces. Every princess and duchess in the hall seemed to carry the same look — coy, practiced sweetness hiding sharp calculation.
He could almost hear his advisors’ voices echoing through the noise: A marriage of power, Your Majesty. A union that will protect the realm.
But as one jeweled hand after another brushed his arm and another silken voice offered rehearsed compliments, Alaric felt the walls of the ballroom closing in. None of them saw him — only the crown.
“I need air,” he muttered to no one in particular and slipped through the grand doors, the din fading behind him.
The night greeted him with silence and cool air scented by autumn roses. The terrace was bathed in silver moonlight, its marble balustrade gleaming pale against the dark garden below. He inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of the crown lift just slightly from his shoulders. For the first time that evening, he could breathe.
Then, movement caught his eye.
At the far end of the terrace stood a woman — or rather, a vision. Her gown was the same deep blue as the midnight sky, embroidered with threads of gold that shimmered faintly in the candlelight spilling from the hall behind them. Her long, auburn curls cascaded over her shoulders like rivers of molten copper, framing eyes of striking blue that seemed to reflect the starlight itself.
She was alone, gazing out over the gardens as if the world beyond the palace walls spoke to her. There was a stillness to her, a serenity Alaric had never seen among courtiers.
He hesitated before approaching. He knew who she was — Queen Lysandra of Viradell, the forest realm to the north. He’d heard whispers about her: a ruler loved by her people, though her lands were poor; a queen said to commune with the old spirits of her woods, whose kingdom valued harmony more than gold. His advisors had dismissed her kingdom as insignificant. But now, standing there, she seemed anything but.
“You seem far from the dancing, Your Majesty,” he said finally, his voice low, uncertain.
She turned, and when their eyes met, something shifted. She smiled — not the polished curve of lips he’d seen all night, but something real, something warm that reached her eyes.
“So do you,” she replied softly. “Was the music too loud, or the company too eager?”
He let out a quiet breath of amusement. “Both.”
She laughed then, a gentle sound like wind through leaves. “I thought as much. I recognized the look — it’s the same one I wore when they introduced me to ten noblemen in a single hour.”
He raised a brow. “Ten?”
“Eleven, actually,” she corrected, smiling wider. “But who’s counting?”
For the first time that evening, Alaric felt himself laugh — a genuine sound, unguarded. “It seems we share a curse, then. The burden of crowns and persistent suitors.”
Her expression softened. “Perhaps. But I think it’s not the suitors we tire of, but the pretending.”
Her words struck him harder than he expected. For a moment, he couldn’t answer. She had seen through him — through the polished veneer, the quiet composure. She looked at him not as a king to be impressed, but as a man weary of masks.
“You speak as though you know me,” he murmured.
Lysandra’s gaze didn’t waver. “No,” she said gently. “But I understand you.”
The garden below whispered with the wind. The distant music from the ballroom drifted out faintly, but neither of them moved to return.
“I was told you rule a kingdom of forests,” he said quietly after a moment. “They say your people live close to the land — that you honor its spirit.”
A faint smile touched her lips. “We do. The forest teaches patience, and humility. It gives, but only to those who respect its rhythm.”
He nodded slowly. “Your realm may not be rich in gold, but it seems rich in peace.”