The next morning dawned pale and quiet, the kind of light that seemed hesitant to touch the world after a night steeped in dreams.
The palace corridors buzzed faintly with activity, the soft rush of servants, the rustle of silk gowns, the echo of hurried footsteps all in preparation for the grand banquet to be held that evening.
Inside her chamber, Clara sat before the tall gilded mirror, her attendants bustling around her.
The scent of rosewater and powdered perfume filled the air as pins and ribbons clattered onto the vanity table.
"Hold still, Your Highness." one of the maids whispered nervously, carefully arranging the delicate lace around her neckline.
Another adjusted the corset laces at her back while a third brushed through her cascading chestnut hair until it gleamed like spun amber.
But Clara wasn't really there.
Her eyes, soft and distant were fixed on her own reflection, though what she saw wasn't her face at all.
It was his.
That man from last night.
The memory of his gloved hand around hers lingered like a ghostly warmth she couldn't shake off.
The way he'd moved, every step perfectly timed with hers, every motion deliberate yet gentle it was unlike anything she'd ever experienced.
And that voice… deep, low, threaded with something both commanding and tender.
"It's too lonely to watch Her Highness dance alone."
The words echoed in her head, maddeningly vivid.
"Your Highness? Are you unwell?" the head maid asked, noticing Clara's unfocused gaze.
Clara blinked, forcing a small smile. "No… it's nothing. I'm just tired."
But it wasn't nothing.
All morning she found herself distracted when they placed the pearl earrings on her, when they fastened the sapphire pendant around her neck, when they laced up her silver-blue gown that shimmered like the night sky itself.
Every gesture, every touch felt distant compared to the haunting memory of his hand guiding hers in the dark.
She could still remember how he vanished.
Not a sound, not a trace only that faint warmth fading from her palm.
It had to be real… didn't it?
And yet, she couldn't recall a single detail about his face.
Not his eyes, not his hair, not even the shape of his mouth.
Only the mask, smooth, cold, and white as porcelain.
Her frustration built like a storm beneath her calm expression.
"He felt so familiar..." she thought.
A maid approached with the finishing touches, a small silver tiara encrusted with tiny blue crystals.
"You look radiant, Princess Clara!!!" she said proudly, stepping back to admire their work.
But Clara barely heard her.
She rose slowly from the chair, her skirts sweeping the floor, her gaze still distant as she looked out the tall window.
The sun was setting now, its golden light pouring across the marble halls where, only last night, she had danced with shadows.
Her fingers unconsciously curled, remembering the feeling of his hand in hers.
"Who are you…?" she whispered under her breath, the question lost in the noise of preparations outside her chamber.
As the palace bells tolled, announcing the nearing of the banquet, Clara inhaled deeply and tried to compose herself.
The night was meant to be one of the celebration of light, music, and nobility.
Yet all she could think of was the darkness of the ballroom, the silent dance, and the masked man who vanished with the dawn.
And deep in her heart, she couldn't tell if she wished to see him again or feared that she truly might.
-----
That evening, the palace came alive in full splendor.
Golden chandeliers blazed above the ballroom like captured suns, their light spilling across polished marble floors and shimmering gowns.
Strings of crystal garlands draped from column to column, catching every flicker of candlelight.
The air was rich with the mingled scent of jasmine, wine, and anticipation.
Musicians played in the corner, their instruments weaving a soft prelude that fluttered through the air like silk ribbons.
Nobles from every corner of the realm filled the hall.
Dukes, ministers, and ambassadors adorned in the finest velvets and jeweled collars.
Laughter and conversation rippled through the vast chamber like gentle waves, yet beneath the harmony of sound, Clara's pulse beat with quiet unease.
Her gown, a masterpiece of silver-blue satin threaded with moonlit shimmer, trailed behind her as she walked beside her father, King Matthias and her mother, Queen Isabella.
Each step echoed softly, commanding subtle attention from the crowd.
Her composure was perfect, her posture a study of grace yet her mind refused stillness.
Her thoughts lingered on the masked man from last night.
His phantom presence haunted her more deeply than she dared admit.
Every face she passed, every stranger's glance, drew a flicker of futile hope
'Is it you?'
"Your Highness..." one of the courtiers whispered with reverence, "the guests from Valmorraine have arrived."
The King's eyes brightened, and with a gesture, the great doors at the end of the hall swung open.
From the entryway, a procession stepped in, guards dressed in black and silver, bearing the sigil of a soaring hawk against the rising sun.
Behind them came a tall man draped in a white coat trimmed with gold, his presence cutting through the room.
He moved with effortless poise, the kind that drew every gaze without demanding it.
His hair, the color of pale sunlight, gleamed softly beneath the chandelier's glow.
His eyes, a deep, vivid green edged with flecks of gold seemed to take in the world with both warmth and calculation.
There was a quiet strength in his jawline, a grace in the curve of his smile that felt almost too polished, too practiced, yet undeniably magnetic.
And when he bowed before her father, there was an elegance that could only belong to someone born to rule.
The King raised his goblet, his voice carrying easily over the murmuring crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen..." he began, his tone both regal and proud, "tonight, we welcome a guest of honor, one who stands at the threshold of a new era."
A hush fell over the hall.
"This is Prince Lucien Évariste of Valmorraine!" the King declared.
"He is soon to ascend as the ruler of his kingdom, a land known for its artistry, its silver craftsmanship, advanced weaponry, and its unyielding honor."
Applause broke out like a rolling tide, elegant and measured.
Clara's gaze flickered toward Lucien again, and to her surprise, he was already looking at her.
His expression softened, a faint smile curving his lips, gentle, knowing, almost as if he could read her thoughts.
The King turned toward her, his eyes glinting with quiet pride. "And this, Your Highness..." he said to Lucien, "is my daughter, Princess Clara of Vandenberg."
Lucien took a few steps forward, every motion fluid and deliberate.
He bowed deeply, the gesture perfectly poised.
"An honor, Princess Clara." he said, his voice smooth as silk yet edged with quiet strength. "Your name and grace are known even in Valmorraine."
Clara lowered her head politely. "You honor me, Your Highness."
The King chuckled warmly, lifting his goblet once more. "Ah, I imagine you'll get to know her better soon enough...Once the arrangements are done."
The words fell like a pebble into still water, rippling through Clara's heart in a silent tremor.
'Arrangements.'
The word echoed with heavy implication.
Her smile didn't falter, but her fingers tightened against the folds of her gown.
Around her, courtiers whispered with barely contained curiosity.
She didn't need to ask what her father meant.
The truth was already settling like frost in her chest.
Prince Lucien's expression shifted barely perceptible but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, a quiet understanding, perhaps even sympathy.
When the music swelled again, he extended his hand toward her.
"May I have this dance, Princess?"
His voice was calm, confident, carrying a tone that left little room for refusal but no trace of arrogance.
For a moment, Clara hesitated.
The image of another hand, another masked stranger, flashed before her eyes.
That same hand that had guided her in the dark, warm and sure, vanishing with the dawn.
But she lifted her chin and placed her hand in Lucien's.
The hall seemed to blur as they stepped onto the dance floor.
Lucien's hand settled lightly at her waist, his other holding hers with a practiced gentleness.
He led her effortlessly into the rhythm, his movements as smooth as water, his gaze steady and composed.
The nobles watched in admiration as the two figures glided across the marble, silver and white, moonlight and gold.
"You seem distracted, Princess." he murmured as they turned, his breath brushing her ear.
Clara blinked, her composure flickering. "Do I?"
He smiled faintly. "Only those who carry heavy thoughts dance with such guarded grace."
Her lips parted, but no words came.
His tone was not teasing, it was observant, perceptive, almost too perceptive.
She managed a polite smile. "Perhaps I'm only nervous. It's been a long day."
Lucien's eyes softened. "Then I shall hope to make this evening less burdensome."
His words were gentle, yet beneath them, Clara felt the weight of inevitability, a fate that was being decided before her eyes.
As the music swelled and the dancers spun around them, she forced herself to meet his gaze.
He was everything a prince was meant to be...
Handsome...
Noble...
And kind.
And yet, even as the hall shimmered with gold and laughter, her heart yearned for the one who had danced with her in the dark, unseen, unspoken, unforgettable.
As the night deepens, the palace comes alive in full splendor.
Princess Clara with Prince Lucien stood beside her parents, her father, the King, radiant with authority, and her mother, Queen Isabella, a vision of regal serenity in her emerald gown.
The queen's presence commanded quiet admiration; her voice, calm but resonant, carried through the hall as she welcomed the gathered guests from both kingdoms.
"May this night mark the beginning of lasting harmony between Vandenberg and Valmorraine!" Queen Isabella declared, her eyes shining as she looked toward Prince Lucien. "Let friendship guide our kingdoms toward prosperity and peace."
Polite applause followed.
Wine glasses clinked, laughter swelled, and conversation resumed.
Clara felt the weight of a hundred gaze upon her each one measuring, assessing, and comparing.
She'd grown accustomed to such scrutiny, yet tonight it pressed heavier than usual.
Perhaps it was the mention of arrangements, the uncertain shadow behind her father's smile.
Or perhaps it was the lingering ghost of a masked man's touch that refused to fade, even beneath the ballroom's warmth.
Queen Isabella, ever the gracious hostess, took her daughter by the hand and began leading her through the crowd.
"Clara, dearest." she said softly, "there are many who've waited to see you again. It would please your father if you greeted them personally."
Clara inclined her head in quiet obedience, though her heart fluttered with unease.
They approached a cluster of nobles, ladies adorned in pastel silks, young lords with eager smiles and perfumed confidence.
Clara recognized them instantly.
Lady Mirelle...
Countess Faye...
Lord Edmund...
Their laughter used to fill the palace gardens like birdsong, light and melodic until she remembered what she read in her journal.
The old Clara, the one she'd become through time's strange turn, had written about these very faces.
The ones who had smiled sweetly before the court, yet whispered cruelly when no one else was listening.
"Princess Clara!" Lady Mirelle exclaimed, curtsying with exaggerated grace. "It's been ages since we last saw you. We were just speaking about how… different you seem tonight."
Her tone was honeyed, but Clara heard the poison laced within.
Countess Faye giggled behind her fan. "Indeed, my lady. I almost didn't recognize you. You're… glowing, I suppose. Has something changed?"
Clara smiled faintly. "Perhaps I've simply learned how to hold my head higher."
The words slipped from her lips with quiet poise, but the subtle edge in her tone was unmistakable.
A flicker of surprise crossed their faces.
"Oh." Lord Edmund said, clearing his throat awkwardly, "it's just that you always seemed… gentle before. Shy, even."
"Gentleness and weakness..." Clara replied smoothly, "are not the same thing, my lord."
A few nearby guests paused to glance their way, sensing the tension laced beneath her civility.
Lady Mirelle's fan faltered in her hand. "Of course not, Your Highness." she murmured, a nervous laugh breaking her composure. "We only meant—"
"I'm sure you did." Clara interrupted softly, her gaze steady.
For a heartbeat, the nobles were silent as they were caught off guard, uncertain how to respond.
They bowed clumsily, murmuring excuses before retreating with forced smiles.
The moment they were gone, Clara exhaled quietly, her posture unshaken though her pulse fluttered in her wrist.
Behind her, Queen Isabella smiled approvingly, pride flickering in her eyes. "Well handled, my dear. You've grown more than they expected."
Clara's lips curved faintly. "Perhaps they mistook me for someone I no longer am."
As the Queen was soon swept away by another circle of dignitaries, Clara found herself momentarily alone.
The air inside the ballroom felt thick...too perfumed, too loud, too alive.
She slipped through the crowd and stepped onto the balcony, the night air washing over her like a sigh of relief.
Outside, the world was quiet.
The moon hung low, veiled in silver mist, and the distant sound of fountains echoed faintly from the gardens below.
Clara gripped the marble railing, gazing into the dark horizon.
Her mind drifted back to the dance under the unseen stars, the masked man's voice murmuring words she couldn't forget.
"It's too lonely to watch Her Highness dance alone."
That same voice replayed in her thoughts, each syllable stirring something she couldn't name.
"Who are you…?" she whispered again to the night.
"Perhaps the better question." came a voice behind her, "is who you wish him to be."
Clara turned sharply.
Prince Lucien stood there, the moonlight tracing his features in silver.
His white and gold attire gleamed softly, his expression unreadable but kind.
There was no arrogance in his presence, only calm curiosity as if he'd been watching her without judgment.
"I didn't mean to intrude..." he said gently, stepping closer. "But I understand the urge to escape. These banquets… can feel like cages dressed in candlelight."
Clara blinked, caught off guard by his candor. "You, too?"
He smiled faintly. "You'd be surprised. The next in line is rarely given a choice, even in celebration."
His gaze drifted toward the ballroom doors. "Every face expects something... words, gestures, perfection. It's exhausting pretending to be what everyone wants."
His honesty disarmed her.
There was something about him, his voice softer here, without the weight of the ceremony that made him seem almost human, not a symbol of alliance or expectation.
"I suppose..." Clara said after a pause, "that makes two of us tonight."
Lucien leaned slightly against the railing beside her, his expression thoughtful. "Then perhaps we can pretend just for a while that we're not a prince and a princess. Just two people seeking a bit of peace before the next performance."
Clara allowed a small, genuine smile to surface. "That would be… nice."
The orchestra inside swelled again, faint through the open doors.
The sound of laughter drifted on the wind, golden and distant.
For a moment, silence wrapped around them not uncomfortable, but fragile, like the calm before the world demands something more.
And as she turned her gaze back to the gardens below, the moon's reflection shimmered in her eyes, mingled with a single, unspoken thought.
No matter how kind Lucien was, no matter how perfect the night appeared,
her heart still beat the memory of that masked man's voice in the dark.