Chapter 37

The ballroom glittered like a thousand fractured stars, chandeliers spilling golden light across polished marble. Serenya Vale tightened the laces of her gown with trembling fingers, her reflection in the tall mirror both familiar and alien. She no longer looked like the seamstress’s ward from the outskirts of the kingdom. Tonight, every movement, every glance, every word carried the weight of her hidden birthright.

Her heart beat in a quickened rhythm. This was no ordinary feast. The Duke of Veynor’s gathering was more than a celebration of alliance — it was a trap veiled in silk and song. Serenya could feel it in the way the guards’ eyes lingered, in the hushed whispers that slid like daggers through the corridors.

Kaelen appeared at her side, dressed in dark velvet, the silver clasp at his shoulder catching the light. He looked every bit the mysterious protector, but tonight his mask was thinner than usual. His eyes flicked across her face, studying her with unspoken worry.

“You know the stakes,” he said quietly, his voice low enough to vanish beneath the hum of violins beyond the doors.

Serenya met his gaze, a spark of determination rising within her. “Then we dance carefully. One misstep, and everything falls.”

The great doors opened. Trumpets sang their welcome, and the crowd turned. Serenya stepped into the ballroom on Kaelen’s arm, her chin high though her pulse thundered. Noblemen and women, cloaked in silks and suspicion, bowed slightly as she passed. Some with politeness. Others with narrowed eyes.

At the head of the hall, Thalric Veynor sat upon his gilded chair, his smile sharp and cold. “Ah, Lady Vale,” he drawled, voice carrying like a serpent’s hiss. “And your ever-present shadow.” His gaze landed on Kaelen, heavy with disdain.

Serenya curtsied. “Your Grace is too kind to receive us.”

His chuckle scraped across her nerves. “Kindness is for poets, my dear. Tonight is for politics… and pleasure.”

Music rose, violins weaving a melody that was both haunting and enchanting. Dancers glided onto the floor, skirts swirling, boots striking rhythm against stone. Kaelen bent toward her ear.

“He’s watching you,” he murmured. “Every breath.”

“Then let him watch,” she whispered back, stepping onto the floor with calculated grace.

Their dance began. The waltz was fluid, practiced — but beneath its elegance, danger simmered. Serenya felt it in the sharpness of glances thrown her way, in the way conversations paused whenever she passed too close. Daggers were hidden here, not in hands but in words and intentions.

Kaelen spun her, their faces inches apart. His voice was soft, but urgent. “Thalric suspects you. He wouldn’t risk hosting this ball unless he had a plan.”

Serenya’s lips curved into a faint smile, one meant to deceive those who watched. “Then let’s unravel his plan before he plays it.”

They twirled past Darian Crestfall, the knight who had once sworn his loyalty to the crown but now stood uneasily at the edges of allegiance. His eyes flickered with recognition — and guilt. Serenya caught it, her heart twisting. Darian knew something.

A sharp cry cut across the hall. A goblet had shattered, wine staining the marble like spilled blood. All heads turned as Eloria Thorne, rival princess and venom-cloaked rose, lifted her chin. Her voice was silk drawn tight over steel.

“Surely,” she said, “we should not waste our time with endless dancing. Perhaps we should hear a toast? Or better yet, a revelation.” Her eyes burned into Serenya, daring her to flinch.

The hall went still.

Thalric rose from his chair, applauding slowly. “A revelation, yes. The lady has the right of it. For what is a feast without truth unveiled?”

Serenya’s chest tightened, but she forced her breath steady. The music had stopped, but the dance had only grown sharper.

Before she could speak, Darian stepped forward, his voice strained. “Enough games, Thalric. If this is about Lady Vale, then it should be spoken plainly.”

Gasps rippled through the court. Serenya froze, Kaelen’s grip tightening around her hand.

Thalric’s grin widened. “Ah, brave Crestfall. Then let me speak it plainly.” He descended the dais, each step echoing like a drum of war. “The woman you all know as Serenya Vale is no mere ward. She is the lost daughter of House Vale, rightful heir to the crown you thought extinguished.”

The ballroom erupted into chaos — gasps, shouts, accusations. Serenya’s blood turned cold, yet fire burned through her veins. The secret was out, and not by her choice.

Kaelen drew her close, whispering fiercely, “We must leave now.”

But Serenya’s eyes locked on Thalric, who basked in the storm he had unleashed. His trap had sprung — but not yet closed.

“No,” she said firmly. “If I flee, I am guilty. If I stand, I am queen.”

Thalric raised a goblet in mock salute. “Let us see if the court will kneel, then. Or will they draw their daggers?”

In an instant, steel glimmered. Several nobles unsheathed hidden blades, while others backed away in fear. The feast had become a battlefield, masked only by chandeliers and music now cut short.

Kaelen’s hand brushed the dagger at his belt, but Serenya touched his wrist, stopping him. “Not yet. Violence will crown Thalric, not me.”

Eloria stepped forward, eyes narrowed. “If she is queen, then she must prove it. Claim the crown, or die forgotten.”

The challenge hung heavy in the air.

Serenya felt every gaze pierce her. Kaelen’s, filled with fierce loyalty. Darian’s, torn with regret. Thalric’s, sharp with victory. And somewhere, hidden in the crowd, she thought she saw Cyrion Duskbane — the heir of ashes — watching, waiting.

The violins began again, softly, eerily. Someone had commanded the musicians to play, as though to mock the tension. And so the dance continued — not of silk and smiles, but of survival and revelation.

Serenya lifted her chin. Her voice rang out across the hall. “If it is proof you want, then let us have it. Not with steel, but with truth. My blood carries the mark of the crown — and the crown itself will answer to me.”

Whispers exploded. Some scoffed. Some nodded.

Thalric sneered. “And how, my dear, will you summon a crown you do not possess?”

Serenya’s heart hammered. She didn’t have the crown — but she had something Thalric had overlooked. Maelis Rowan’s prophecy. The seer had whispered of this night, of a symbol hidden where shadows and starlight met. Serenya slipped her hand beneath the folds of her gown, fingers brushing the pendant Maelis had given her — the sigil of Vale, etched in silver and obsidian.

She lifted it high. Light struck it, shattering into a thousand sparks across the ceiling. Gasps rose, some in awe, others in fear. The pendant pulsed faintly, as though alive.

“The line of Vale does not die,” Serenya declared. “And tonight, it awakens.”

For one breathless moment, silence ruled. Then, from the back of the hall, a voice rang out — low, commanding, undeniable.

“I will kneel,” said Darian Crestfall, dropping to one knee. His sword struck the marble with a ringing vow.

Shock rippled outward. A knight’s allegiance was no small thing.

Others hesitated, torn between fear of Thalric and the pull of destiny. The Duke’s smile faltered, but his eyes gleamed with malice. “So the game begins.”

And in that moment, Serenya knew the night had only sharpened its daggers. The dance was far from over.