The king’s Shadow

Varsa let Burlington stew in his own awkwardness .

For a moment longer before standing in one fluid motion, her gown flowing behind her like spilled wine. "Come," she said, gesturing toward the grand throne further down the hall.

"Come, I believe my father is eager to meet the daughters of such an illustrious man."

"Your Highness," Celine hesitated, her instincts screaming against the suggestion, "we wouldn't wish to impose."

"Nonsense," Varsa said smoothly, her voice brooking no argument.

"The king requested it."

Burlington, appearing suddenly at their side, jumped in. "The princess is right, my dear. It is a great opportunity to foster connections."

Though Celine noticed a bead of sweat forming at his temple, she opened her mouth to respond—or perhaps decline.

Isabella muttered just loudly enough to cut her off, "Sure. Why not meet yet another terrifying person? My blood pressure could use the excitement."

Celine shot her a look that was somehow both annoyed and impressed. Burlington, meanwhile, swallowed audibly, which, considering the size of the ballroom, was quite a feat.

King Sorath's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "So these are the daughters of William Eldrenn. How curious."

"Yes, Father," Varsa cooed, her voice soft as silk but chillingly calm.standing close enough to brush against the king's throne. "I found them most intriguing. Don't you agree?"

Sorath's lips curled faintly into a cruel smile.

The mention of their father sent a ripple of unease through the sisters. Isabella stiffened, her hand brushing instinctively against the hem of her dress where she had tucked a small dagger—habit, not intent.

She gestured toward the sisters, her veiled face turning slightly to observe them. "Celine, the refined elder; Isabella, the quiet artist." Her head tilted as if amused. "The late William Eldrenn left behind more than his title, I see."

 "Ah, Celine," he said, a rare smile touching his lips. "The last time I saw you with your father, you were this tall!" He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the hall.

Celine joined in the laughter, though a slight tremor betrayed her nerves "Time has a way of changing things, Your Majesty," she replied, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest.

She dipped into a perfect curtsy. "Your Majesty, it is an honor to stand before you."

Isabella, not one for formalities, offered an awkward bow that felt out of place under Sorath's scrutinizing gaze. Celine shot her a warning look, but the younger sister simply glanced at the tapestries on the wall, more interested in the artistry than the King himself.

"Lady Isabella," Varsa began, her voice low and syrupy, "it seems you find our palace décor… compelling."

Isabella blinked, realizing her distraction. "Oh, no, I—yes, your tapestries are—uh—detailed."

Varsa chuckled softly, the sound far too sweet, sending a chill down Isabella's spine.

"Indeed. My ancestors' blood is woven into every thread. Quite literally."

There was a pause—a deliberate one—before she gestured toward Burlington. "And Burlington, always so reliable in fulfilling requests."

Celine frowned slightly. "Requests?"

Burlington shuffled uncomfortably, his usual confidence faltering. "Well, uh, the princess graciously invited—"

Varsa cut him off, her tone like a blade cloaked in silk. "I requested Burlington bring you both. You see, Celine, the Eldrenn name carries… intrigue in this palace. We simply had to meet you."

The room grew colder. Isabella's eyes darted briefly to Celine, who maintained her composed facade, though her jaw had tightened.

King Sorath's gaze shifted to Varsa. "I see you've met Varsa, and…" His eyes scanned the room, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. "It seems my son, Rasmus, is late." He masked his annoyance with a tight smile.

Turning back to Celine, the king gestured to a figure standing nearby. "Allow me to introduce King Edmon of Radiantfell, Prince Eziek's Father" King Edmon inclined his head, his eyes sharp and assessing.

"A pleasure," Celine said, curtsying gracefully. She felt the weight of King Edmon's gaze, as if he were measuring her worth in that brief moment.

Before the conversation could continue, King Sorath rose from his seat, the room falling into a hushed silence.

He was about to address the guests when the grand doors at the end of the hall creaked open. All eyes turned as Prince Rasmus sauntered in, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief.

the grand oak doors of the ballroom swung open with a resonant creak, drawing the attention of all assembled. A tall, muscular figure stood framed in the doorway, exuding an aura of both nobility and enigma.

His light brown hair, kissed by golden hues, cascaded in gentle waves, catching the ambient light and shimmering with each movement. The tailored garments of deep navy blue and gold he wore accentuated his physique, fitting him with a precision that bespoke unparalleled craftsmanship.

As he began his descent down the staircase, the room seemed to hold its collective breath. The candlelight illuminated his features, highlighting high cheekbones and a strong jawline. His lips, a shade of pink so deep they appeared almost crimson, contrasted strikingly against his pale yet sun-kissed skin, evoking an image both alluring and unsettling.

But it was his eyes that captivated the room—a golden gleam that seemed to pierce through the very souls of those present, holding them in a trance of fascination and unease.

The women in the hall found their gazes irresistibly drawn to him, their thoughts tinged with a mix of admiration and dark desire.

Upon reaching the base of the staircase, 

he executed a deep bow toward King Sorath, the gesture teetering on the edge of mockery. "Father," he intoned, his voice rich and resonant, carrying a hint of defiance.

The king's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. Yet, maintaining his regal composure, he gave a curt nod. "Rasmus," he acknowledged, his tone measured.

Without further delay, King Sorath raised his goblet, the jewels embedded in it catching the light. "Let us proceed to dinner," he proclaimed, his voice echoing through the grand hall.

"Please, take your seats."

He wore a smirk—small and unreadable, exuding both charm and menace. "Apologies for my late arrival," he drawled, his voice calm and smooth as he reached to where the king stood .

His sharp gaze flicked to his father. "You seem disappointed, Father. Should I bow lower?"

Without waiting for a response, he executed a flawless bow, deeply respectful in form. But his eyes—those cutting, golden eyes—remained locked on the king's, filled with quiet rebellion. A ripple of discomfort coursed through the room, but , Sorath's second wife, Monique smiled serenely from the side.

Celine, unable to stop herself, stared.

His every movement seemed choreographed for perfection, but the aura he exuded was wrong—too deliberate, too otherworldly. Beautiful, yes, but hauntingly so.

Isabella, usually indifferent to people, found her breath catching when his eyes flicked briefly to hers.