The dark oak of the grand ballroom doors felt like a tombstone beneath my clammy hands. Each thud of my heart against my ribs. I drew a breath, the perfumed air thick and cloying, and let it out in a slow, controlled stream. It will be okay. A smile is your armor.

Two young ladies, their laughter like the tinkling of wind chimes, fell into step beside me. One’s eyes, wide with the thrill of the evening, fixed on me in recognition. “Good evening, Crown Princess,” she breathed, sinking into a curtsy as fluid as poured cream. Her companion, a beat behind, hastily mirrored the gesture.

“Good evening,” I returned, my voice a silken forgery of the calm I desperately sought. “May your night be filled with joy.” I gestured for them to precede me. “Please.”

“Thank you, Crown Princess!” one whispered, her gaze already darting into the glittering throng. “Do you think Lord Dolion will choose a bride tonight?”

The other practically vibrated. “Oh, I pray he does!”

A cold wave of pity washed over me as I watched them disappear into the dazzling sea of courtiers. They saw a fairytale prince; I saw the monster that haunted my waking moments. That poor, hopeful girl, I thought, a shiver like a spider’s legs tracing its way down my spine.

The guards at the entrance straightened, their attention snagged by my approach. One offered a stiff, “Greetings, Crown Princess,” while his partner’s gaze slid over me, a silent, contemptuous dismissal. The doors groaned open, and a booming voice ripped through the ballroom’s gentle hum, announcing my arrival to the entire, glittering assembly: “Presenting Her Royal Highness, Crown Princess Thalia!”

I forced my spine to steel, my lips to curve into the most elegant smile I could conjure. It was a fragile mask of glass, and I hoped the cracks wouldn’t show.

Every head in the ballroom swiveled in my direction. I felt their stares like physical touch—some offered soft, sympathetic smiles, others leaned in to whisper behind gloved hands, and a few glared with an open disgust that burned. I ignored them all. My focus was fixed on the dais at the far end of the room, on the three thrones awaiting the royal family. Blair’s stare was a physical weight, dissecting me from across the expanse, making the fine hairs on my arms stand on edge. But it was my father’s placid, almost bored smile that truly sent a sliver of ice into my veins.

I moved with grace I did not feel, gliding down the center of the room until I stood before him. The murmur of the crowd died away, leaving a heavy, expectant silence. Reaching down, I gathered the rich fabric of my gown and sank into a low, formal curtsy. “Princess Thalia greets you, Your Majesty. May your reign be ever prosperous.”

“Rise,” he said, his voice calm, regal, a performance for the court. He stood and descended from the dais, closing the space between us. For the benefit of the onlookers, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders in a brief, stiff embrace, but his mouth was at my ear, his breath a foul warmth against my skin. “I trust you are prepared for tonight, daughter,” he whispered, his tone turning to ice. “This will be the last time anyone addresses you as Crown Princess, you useless thing.”

My mask fractured, the smile tightening into a grimace. For a dizzying second, the world tilted on its axis, but then a familiar, steadying voice echoed in the chambers of my mind. Cassius. Breathe. You are not what he says you are.

Instantly, the composure slammed back into place. My father pulled away and offered his arm, the benevolent king for all to see. Together, we ascended the stairs. I took my seat beside him, acutely aware of the sea of confused faces watching us. His disdain for me had always been a poorly kept secret, but this public display of affection was a chilling new tactic. A warning, my mind screamed. But for what?

I watched Blair lean in, their words a secret poison whispered into my father’s ear. The wicked, knowing smile that spread across his face confirmed my deepest fears. He was savoring this. Time seemed to stretch and warp as I stared out at the glittering assembly. Lords and ladies chattered, plucking delicacies from silver trays and sipping from crystal flutes offered by silent servants. It was a perfect, beautiful tableau of power and privilege, and I felt utterly detached from it, a ghost at my own execution.

Then, the guards’ voices boomed once more. “Announcing the arrival of Lord Dolion!”

He swept into the ballroom, draped in fabrics so fine they seemed to shimmer with a light of their own. A collective, wistful sigh swept through the young women in the crowd; each one of them, no doubt, picturing herself on his arm. He strode directly to the dais and executed a flawless, confident bow. “Lord Dolion greets you, Your Majesty. May you be blessed.”

My father beamed, a predator who had just cornered his prey. “Rise, my boy.” He gestured to the empty throne on his other side. “Come, sit beside me.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Dolion replied, ascending the steps to take the seat that had remained vacant since my mother’s death. He glanced my way, a smirk curling on his lips — smug, satisfied, revolting. A roar of whispers erupted through the room. My blood ran cold, turning to slush in my veins. I ignored the noise, ignored the stares. I knew what was coming, and the knowledge was a suffocating weight.

Servants approached, presenting each of us on the dais with a crystal glass of deep red wine. My father’s gaze swept the room before it landed, with deliberate cruelty, on me. “Crown Princess Thalia will honor us with the toast tonight.”

Every eye in the room locked onto me. My movements felt stiff as I stood, my glass held in a trembling hand. “May… Lord Dolion be blessed on this joyous day.”

My father cleared his throat, a sharp, critical sound that cracked through the silence like a whip. His glare was a physical blow. “My apologies,” I forced myself to say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “May Crown Prince Dolion be blessed today.”

The whispers were no longer whispers; they were a rising tide of shock. “Crown Prince?” The question echoed from every corner of the ballroom. A sea of confused, astonished faces stared back at me. I turned my gaze to Dolion, who sat there basking in the attention like a lizard on a hot rock. “May you bless the kingdom of Tirilla and its people,” I finished, pretending to take a sip of the bitter wine. The room, after a moment of stunned hesitation, hesitantly followed my lead.

My father rose to his feet, standing beside me, a towering figure of absolute authority. “As you have now heard, Lord Dolion is the new Crown Prince of Tirilla. You will all address him as such,” he announced, his voice purring with satisfaction. “Unfortunately, Princess Thalia has proven to be a profound disappointment, utterly unfit to lead you.” He paused, letting the humiliation hang in the air, a thick, choking smoke. “I trust you will all give your blessing to Crown Prince Dolion and treat… the princess… accordingly.”

Every eye that now met mine was filled with a chilling mixture of contempt and pity. I felt physically ill, but the smile remained frozen on my face. My father leaned in close, his voice a low hiss meant only for me. “Now you may join the others. Your place is no longer here. Go dance, or eat… or simply disappear. You are no longer needed.”

As I stepped down from the dais, the whispers followed me like a pack of starving wolves. Every negative comment, every venomous word about my failings, was a fresh wound. Each look of disgust cut deeper than the last, but I refused to let them see me bleed. I held my head high, my posture a silent, desperate act of defiance.

I made my way to a table laden with exotic fruits and glistening pastries, determined not to flee like a scolded child. But as I reached for a small, silver plate, someone slammed into me, nearly sending it crashing to the floor.

“Oh, my deepest apologies, Crown Princess,” a young woman sneered, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “Whoops, I mean Princess.” She let out a high-pitched, cruel giggle, delighting in my public disgrace.

I set the plate back down, the very thought of food turning my stomach to lead. Finding a secluded alcove shrouded in shadow, I tried to melt into the darkness and simply watch, my presence a ghost at the celebration of my own erasure. Time drifted, each second an eternity of silent torment. Why am I even still here? The question pulsed in my mind, a frantic, desperate beat.

I cast one last, lingering look at the dais, at the triumphant, laughing trio of my father, Dolion, and Blair, then turned and walked away. The echoes of music and chatter faded behind me, a distant, mocking backdrop to my retreat. I didn’t stop until I reached the heavy, oaken door of my chambers.

The moment I pushed it open, a revolting, unnatural force slammed into me, sending me stumbling forward to catch myself on my hands and knees. The air was frigid, the familiar comfort of my room replaced by an eerie, suffocating darkness that I knew with an instinctual terror. It wrapped around me, tight and menacing, a shroud woven from pure malice.

My head snapped up. A figure emerged from the gloom, its silhouette sharp against the blackness.

“Hello,” Blair’s voice echoed in the chilling silence. “Did you think the worst was over, Thalia? How sweet.”