Chapter 1 – The Ball of a Thousand Eyes

The grand chandeliers of the Imperial Palace glittered like fallen constellations, casting golden light across a sea of silk gowns and polished boots. Music swelled from the royal orchestra, strings weaving with flutes in a melody as intoxicating as the perfumed air. Laughter and gossip rippled through the crowd, every maiden fluttering their fans as if to draw the Crown Prince’s gaze toward them.

Amber wanted none of it.

She moved with practiced subtlety, her steps light and precise, blending into clusters of noblewomen as though she were one of them. Her gown—a modest beige silk that glittered faintly as tiny gems caught the chandelier light—was chosen carefully to be elegant but not ostentatious. It clung and flowed in the right places, refined yet quiet, a gown meant to let her pass like moonlight in a storm of colors.

Her appearance, however, had always betrayed her attempts to remain unseen. Pale white skin, unblemished and porcelain-like, reflected every stray light. Her hair—long, curly, cascading in black and streaked with deep red—looked like fire burning through the night. It was the one feature she could never tame. Standing taller than many of the ladies present, she knew she stood out even in stillness.

Amber, she reminded herself silently, the reluctant guest at a queen’s command. A nobody trying to be invisible in a ballroom full of peacocks.

She walked in rhythm with the crowd, fanning herself idly, every gesture measured to appear unremarkable.

If I can just make it to the doors without anyone noticing, she told herself.

Slipping behind a gaggle of ladies gossiping about dowries. Then I can breathe again. This whole ordeal is just the Queen’s decree, nothing more. Attend the ball, curtsy, and disappear.

But fate, as always, had a sense of humor.

As she neared the edge of the hall, the orchestra abruptly shifted to a livelier tune. The crowd’s movement changed—pairs forming, ladies twirling, skirts swishing in brilliant arcs. Amber tried to slip sideways, but the surge of dancers swept her back into the throng. Her fan snapped shut in frustration.

“Smile, dear,” whispered one lady beside her, mistaking Amber’s grimace for nerves. “This is the moment he chooses!”

Amber nearly groaned. Moment he chooses? I choose to be anywhere else but here.

She ducked her head, weaving through the twirling couples. For a second, it worked—until a sharp tug yanked her backward. One lady’s jeweled slipper had caught the hem of Amber’s gown. Her balance faltered, and with an ungraceful gasp she stumbled forward, crashing to the polished marble floor.

The music faltered.

Eyes turned. Whispers surged like wildfire. Fans froze mid-wave. Every lady in the room seemed to glare daggers, as if her fall were some scandalous attempt to upstage them.

Amber stayed down for a heartbeat longer than necessary, cheeks burning. Wonderful. The perfect disappearing act—straight onto the floor.

And then, before she could scramble up, a hand extended into her vision. Strong, elegant, unmistakably royal.

“Are you hurt?” The voice was warm, concerned. She didn’t need to look up to know it was him—the Crown Prince himself.

Every maiden in the hall inhaled sharply. The orchestra had gone utterly silent.

Amber kept her gaze on the floor, refusing to meet his eyes. No, no, no, this is the exact opposite of blending in.

She forced the faintest smile, her voice tight. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

As he helped her up, Amber’s thoughts spun furiously. Great. Not only did I fall, but now I’ve dragged the Crown Prince into my humiliation. Perfect. Just perfect. Why don’t I go ahead and trip into the royal cake while I’m at it? Or maybe set fire to the drapes with my hair—it already looks like a torch.

She kept her head bowed, forcing herself not to look into his eyes. Don’t look at him, Amber. If you look, you’ll encourage him. And encouraging a prince means endless dances, endless questions, and endless daggers from every lady in this room. No thank you.

Yet her hand lingered in his just a moment too long. His grip was steady, warm, grounding. And it made her heartbeat stutter in betrayal.

This is going to be the longest night of my life.

Crown Prince’s POV

From the dais where he had stood, Crown Prince Red had been bored. Every maiden’s smile looked rehearsed, every gesture polished to perfection. They sparkled, yes, but like cut glass—beautiful, yet hollow. His eyes skimmed the crowd again and again, waiting for something, anything genuine.

And then, a ripple of commotion.

A young woman fell—gracelessly, honestly, disastrously—onto the polished marble floor. Gasps echoed, fans froze, and the crowd held its breath. For a moment, she did not scramble to correct herself. She stayed there, cheeks flushed, frustration clear in the tilt of her shoulders.

Something about her struck him immediately: not the stumble itself, but the utter lack of pretense in her fall. She hadn’t engineered it for attention like so many others might. No, she wanted nothing less than to be seen.

And yet, he couldn’t look away.

Red found himself moving before thought caught up. He pushed through the gathering whispers, knelt before her, and extended his hand.

“Are you hurt?”

When she hesitated—hesitated!—to take his hand, his intrigue sharpened. What maiden would not seize such an opportunity? But she lowered her eyes, her voice clipped and polite: “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Red’s lips curved faintly as he drew her up. His gaze lingered on her face, pale but striking, framed by a cascade of black and red-tinged curls that gleamed like embers in the chandelier light. She looked fragile at first glance, but there was something… iron beneath the surface, a fire he could almost sense.

And just like that, the ball no longer seemed dull at all.

Prince Vlad’s POV

From the far corner of the hall, cloaked in shadow and half-forgotten by the crowd, Prince Vlad watched. Unlike his brother, he had no throngs of ladies vying for his hand. He preferred it that way—unnoticed, unbothered.

But his sharp eyes missed nothing.

He had seen the girl before anyone else reacted, the way she tried to shrink, to vanish, to slip away from the current of gowns and laughter. And he had seen the fire in her hair when she stumbled—the kind of fire one doesn’t easily forget.

His brother’s hand reached for hers, and the entire ballroom gasped. Vlad’s jaw tightened. He did not know why, but something about the scene unsettled him. It was more than the whispers that had already begun weaving themselves like cobwebs among the courtiers.

This girl… she’s not like the others. And Red has noticed.

For the first time that night, Vlad felt a shadow of unease stirring in his chest.

Closing Scene – Amber’s Relief

Amber finally slipped free of the ballroom hours later, after what felt like centuries of false smiles and stares sharp enough to cut steel. The moment the heavy palace doors shut behind her, she exhaled deeply, clutching her skirts as if she had just escaped a battlefield.

Her carriage waited, its emblem catching the faint moonlight. The coachman bowed and opened the door without a word. Amber climbed in, sinking against the cushioned seat. Her body was tense, but at last her lungs filled with something that wasn’t perfume and nerves.

“Finally,” she muttered, tugging at a stubborn curl. “Air. Blessed, ordinary, breathable air. No chandeliers, no sharp glares, no crown princes asking if I’m hurt.”

Her lips curved faintly, betraying her irritation. This night better not follow me into my dreams, she thought as the carriage rolled forward. But even then, her heart refused to settle, still echoing with the warmth of a hand she never wanted to hold.

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