Chapter 8

The flickering glow of candelabras cast elongated shadows upon the towering marble columns of the grand ballroom, their flames swaying gently with the soft draft that slithered through the open windows. The scent of aged roses and spiced wine lingered in the air, a quiet testament to the grandeur of the evening. The music had slowed to a delicate adagio, allowing the nobility to revel in whispered conversations and measured glances.

Cornelius stood beside Christabel, his gaze unwavering as he observed the room with quiet scrutiny. The revelation of her existence had stirred the court, and despite the applause and well-wishes, there were those who regarded the engagement with veiled skepticism. He could sense the weight of expectant eyes upon them, waiting for a misstep, a falter in the performance of royalty.

Christabel, however, bore the scrutiny with an elegance that was almost unnatural. She met each gaze with poised indifference, neither yielding to admiration nor bending beneath silent judgment. She was a figure sculpted from ice and fire, her presence both enigmatic and commanding.

"You seem rather comfortable among the wolves," Cornelius murmured, his voice just low enough for her ears alone.

Christabel tilted her head slightly, a ghost of a smile gracing her lips. "I was raised among them, Your Highness. It would be rather unseemly if I did not know how to move in their midst."

His lips curved in amusement. "Then you have an advantage over most. I wonder, do you intend to merely navigate this world, or do you seek to command it?"

Christabel met his gaze, her violet eyes gleaming under the golden light. "A wise ruler does not announce their intentions, Your Highness. They let their actions speak."

Before he could respond, the air shifted with an imperceptible tension. A hush fell over a small cluster of guests near the northern entrance, their expressions flickering with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Cornelius followed their line of sight and found himself locking eyes with a tall, imposing figure draped in a cloak of midnight blue. The man's silver-threaded mask obscured his face, but the intensity of his stare was unmistakable.

A murmur rippled through the crowd as the figure stepped forward, each stride deliberate and unhurried. The heralds had made no mention of unexpected guests, and yet, the stranger carried himself with an air of entitlement, as though he belonged to the very fabric of the kingdom itself.

Christabel's fingers subtly twitched against the folds of her gown, though her face betrayed no hint of unease. "Who is he?" she inquired, her voice barely above a whisper.

Cornelius exhaled slowly. "Someone who should not be here."

The figure came to a halt before the dais, where King Einar sat in silent contemplation. The hall, once filled with the light hum of aristocratic merriment, now held only silence. The stranger bowed with the precision of a practiced courtier, though the act felt more like a challenge than deference.

"Your Majesty," the man spoke, his voice smooth yet carrying an undertone of something darker. "It has been far too long."

King Einar's expression was unreadable, but a flicker of recognition passed through his eyes. "Indeed, it has," he acknowledged. "Yet I do not recall extending an invitation."

The man chuckled, the sound low and almost mocking. "Forgive my audacity, Your Majesty. But surely, an old friend should not require an invitation to witness such a momentous occasion."

The tension in the room tightened like a drawn bowstring. Whispers slithered through the noble ranks, speculation running rampant. Cornelius clenched his jaw, his instincts urging caution. Whoever this man was, his presence bore the weight of something far more sinister than mere arrogance.

Christabel took a measured step closer to Cornelius, her gaze never leaving the stranger. "An old friend of the Crown," she mused softly. "Or something else entirely?"

The man turned his gaze toward her, and for the briefest moment, the amusement in his eyes darkened into something unspoken—something knowing.

"Time will tell, my lady," he murmured before straightening. "After all, history has a way of repeating itself."

A slow, deliberate smile spread across his lips, sending a chill through the room.

The dance had only just begun.

The evening wore on, but the atmosphere remained thick with unease. King Einar, maintaining his regal composure, gestured for the chamberlain to proceed with the next toast, attempting to steer the celebration back on course. Yet, the presence of the masked stranger loomed over the festivities like an unspoken omen.

Christabel, ever observant, noticed how the nobles cautiously avoided the man's path, as if instinctively sensing the danger he exuded. Even Duke Lennon, typically unshaken, bore a furrow of concern upon his brow.

Cornelius, feeling the weight of his father's expectations, turned to Christabel and whispered, "We cannot let this night be overshadowed. Shall we take to the dance floor once more?"

Christabel nodded, placing her hand in his. The orchestra resumed with a waltz, and as they moved in synchrony, she murmured, "Whoever he is, he knows more than he lets on."

Cornelius tightened his grip slightly. "And that is what troubles me."

Across the ballroom, the stranger watched them with unsettling amusement. He took a sip of his wine, the crimson liquid swirling like blood in the candlelight. Then, leaning slightly toward the noble beside him, he muttered, "Let us see how well the prince dances when the music of war begins."