A Dance in Silk and Silence

"Lady Carmilla, you are so ethereal," Chronicles breathed, her voice soft with awe as she stepped carefully into the vast, dimly lit chamber.

The heavy oak doors closed behind her with a gentle groan, sealing them inside a world of velvet shadows and flickering candlelight.

She covered her mouth with slender fingers, unable to mask her adoration as her eyes fell upon the vision before her — Carmilla, standing motionless in front of the ancient mirror that gleamed faintly with enchanted silver, a mirror said to reflect only the true essence of a vampire's form.

Carmilla turned slowly at the sound of her trusted companion's voice, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her rose-dusted lips. Her gown swirled with the movement, layers of silk and brocade rustling like whispers in a cathedral.

The gown itself was a masterpiece: rich black fabric embroidered with crimson roses and delicate silver vines winding along the hem, each blossom kissed by tiny onyx beads that shimmered when the candlelight struck them.

The bodice clung to her slender frame, cinched tight with a corset of dark satin laced in intricate patterns, lifting her posture with regal elegance. Sleeves of sheer lace clung to her arms before flaring into dramatic cuffs that draped like soft wings.

A high collar framed her neck, edged with intricate embroidery reminiscent of ancient family crests, while the long train spilled behind her like an endless night sky kissed with rubies.

She twirled slowly, the gown blooming around her in elegant folds, its weight and beauty making her feel both powerful and delicate all at once.

"Oh, Nic," Carmilla said with a playful chuckle, her fangs barely visible as her smile widened. "You should have gotten used to this beauty by now, considering you've cared for me since I first drew breath in this castle."

Chronicles — or Nic, as only Carmilla dared call her — shook her head with fond exasperation and took measured steps toward her mistress.

Her own attire was simple yet dignified, befitting her status as a head maid of noble bloodlines long hidden: a deep gray dress, modest in cut but adorned with fine pearl buttons down the bodice, with long sleeves that tapered at the wrists and subtle lace trim along the collar.

An ivory apron, crisp and freshly pressed, was tied perfectly around her narrow waist, and her dark hair was pinned into a neat chignon beneath a delicate lace headpiece that signified both her loyalty and station.

A small silver pendant — the mark of House Velmora's sworn servants — glinted faintly against her chest.

"Incredibly ethereal," Nic finally murmured, stopping before Carmilla and tapping her chin with one gloved finger. Her eyes softened as she added sincerely, "But, my lady, your beauty outshines even the finest work of the royal seamstresses."

Carmilla let out a soft laugh, the sound like wind chimes in a forgotten garden. "Eh... you flatter me, as always." She glanced at her reflection one more time, smoothing the front of her gown with elegant hands.

Her gaze softened, and her voice dropped to a wistful murmur. "I just hope Xavian likes it... when he sees me walk down the long aisle tomorrow. On the ceremony."

Chronicles smiled, though there was a flicker of something else in her eyes — something thoughtful, perhaps wary. But she only bowed her head and replied softly, "He would be a fool not to."

Carmilla parted her lips to say something lighthearted, but before the words could leave her mouth, a gentle knock echoed against the heavy wood of her chamber door.

"My love? Are you there?"

The voice that slipped through the ancient door was deep, smooth, and sweet as warm honey — a voice that could soothe storms and melt the sharpest frost. But at that moment, it sent both Carmilla and Chronicles into a silent frenzy of panic.

Carmilla's crimson eyes widened, her breath catching. Chronicles instinctively pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes wide in alarm.

"Y–Yes, my love," Carmilla called out, her voice slightly strained as she frantically gestured to Chronicles to help remove the elaborate gown. "Just... don't come in, okay? I'm... wearing my gown for tomorrow's ceremony."

On the other side of the door, Xavian chuckled — a sound deep and warm, like velvet against skin. "Oh, my love," he teased gently, "it's only for the kingdom's union, not for our marriage yet. I can look."

Carmilla's heart nearly stopped. "N–No! It's a surprise, my love," she blurted, her words tumbling over each other as Chronicles tugged the heavy layers of silk and brocade from her frame with urgent precision. Her pale skin shivered under the sudden coolness of the room as the weight of the gown fell away.

Chronicles worked quickly, folding the gown with care while Carmilla rushed to slip into her nightdress — a simple, soft silk gown in moonlight silver with delicate lace at the sleeves.

She smoothed her dark hair quickly, fingers trembling ever so slightly, before glancing at Chronicles, who nodded approvingly and adjusted the hem of her nightgown one last time.

Carmilla took a deep breath, flattened her hair once more, and finally, with her heart pounding in her throat, unlatched the grand door.

There he stood.

Xavian, the prince of the Vaxaris kingdom.

He was every inch as breathtaking as the whispers claimed — tall and graceful, his posture effortless yet regal. His features were sharp, chiseled like an artist's masterpiece: high cheekbones, a strong jaw softened only by the kindness in his pale silver eyes, and full lips that always seemed to carry a gentle smile.

His raven-black hair fell in soft waves to just below his ears, slightly tousled as though he'd just run his fingers through it in thought. Despite the depth and weight of his voice, there was something disarmingly soft about him — a gentleness that glimmered in the way he looked at her, as though she were the only thing in the world he dared touch with fragile care.

He was dressed in simple dark trousers and a cream linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, the collar slightly open — relaxed and unassuming. But even in simplicity, he exuded quiet power.

He smiled softly, his voice dropping to a warm whisper. "You always hide from me when you're nervous."

Carmilla's lips curved upward despite herself. "And you always have a habit of appearing when I'm least prepared."

He leaned forward just a little, his eyes twinkling with affection. "I wouldn't dare ruin your surprise, my love... but I missed you."

She felt her heart flutter, her earlier panic melting into warmth as he gently took her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles.

His touch was feather-light, as if afraid to press too hard, always holding her as though she was fragile crystal that he could admire, but never break.

"Well," Xavian murmured, his soft smile never fading, "since it's nearly dawn, I suppose I'd better get going." He lingered for a moment longer, his silver eyes drinking her in as though trying to memorize every detail. "I just dropped by to take a good look at my beloved... to remind myself how lucky I am."

Carmilla giggled, the sound light and airy as spring petals drifting on the breeze. She tilted her head, mischief dancing in her crimson gaze. "Meh... I know you came because Father asked you to check if I was behaving."

Xavian's lips pursed briefly before parting into a wider smile — sheepish, boyish, and undeniably charming. "Are you my stalker now?" he teased gently, raising an elegant brow.

"Nah." Carmilla crossed her arms, her smile playful yet knowing. "I just have sharp instincts, and you know that."

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm and intimate in the quiet space between them. But before he could respond, she gave him a gentle nudge on the chest. "Now, you better get going before the sun catches you. You wouldn't want to turn into dust before our ceremony, would you?"

She blinked up at him — once, twice, three times — lashes fluttering deliberately, her expression open and expectant. The unspoken request hung between them: a kiss.

But Xavian Vaxaris, ever the man of dignity and unwavering discipline, only smiled. His gaze softened further, and he lifted his hand, brushing a knuckle tenderly down her cheek.

"You know my vow, my love," he whispered, his voice velvet-smooth, filled with both longing and restraint. "My first kiss belongs to you… and to our wedding night."

Carmilla's heart melted and ached all at once. She sighed, leaning slightly into his hand, relishing the warmth of his touch even if it wasn't quite what she craved.

"You're insufferably honorable," she murmured.

"And you're insufferably tempting," he countered with a soft laugh.

He slowly withdrew his hand, hesitating for just a heartbeat too long before stepping back. "Sleep well, my star."

Before she could reply, he turned gracefully, his dark cloak swirling around him like shadows taking flight, and disappeared down the long corridor, leaving only the faint echo of his footsteps — and her lingering smile — behind.

The moment Xavian's figure vanished into the darkness of the grand hallway, his footsteps swallowed by silence, Carmilla slowly closed the heavy door with a soft click. She turned on her heel to face Chronicles — and vibrated with barely contained giddiness.

Her cheeks flushed a delicate rose hue, and before she could stop herself, she leaned back against the door with a dreamy sigh, her fingers pressed lightly to her lips. "Awww... did you hear that, Nic?" she breathed, her voice soft and wistful. "Such a respectable gentleman he is... so dignified... so perfect."

She pressed a hand dramatically over her heart and twirled in place, her nightgown flaring around her ankles as she spun like a lovesick maiden straight out of a romantic tale. Her joy was pure, unfiltered, childlike. She danced across the velvet rug, barefoot, light on her toes, humming softly to herself.

Chronicles, standing by the dressing table with her arms folded, could only blink in disbelief, watching her lady transform from poised royalty into a giddy romantic, sighing into the air and spinning in delighted circles.

Carmilla danced until her feet brought her to the large double window, its tall arched frame draped with heavy crimson curtains drawn back to reveal the night sky. She rested both hands on the cool stone window ledge, gazing out at the moon — pale, enormous, and beginning to sink toward the horizon.

Her breath slowed. Her smile faded.

Chronicles noticed the shift immediately. The lightness in the room evaporated, replaced by a strange heaviness that settled over Carmilla's shoulders like an unseen weight.

"M–My lady!" Chronicles called softly, hurrying toward her. "It's nearly dawn — you shouldn't linger by the window!"

But she stopped abruptly when she saw Carmilla's expression.

Her lady's crimson eyes, once full of warmth and laughter, had hardened — pinned to the fading night sky with an intensity that made Chronicles' heart quicken.

"My lady?" Chronicles whispered, her voice barely audible. "Is there something wrong?"

Carmilla didn't answer at first. Her lips parted, but no words came. Her eyes flicked slightly, as though following something no one else could see.

Then, in a voice so faint it was nearly lost to the whisper of the wind, she murmured:

"S–Something's about to happen, Nic."

Chronicles felt her heart twist in sudden dread.

"W–What do you mean, my lady?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Carmilla's fingers tightened around the stone ledge. Her gaze never left the sky, her breath shallow.

"I... I don't know yet," she admitted softly, her voice threaded with fear and wonder. "But the air feels... heavy. The moon..." She hesitated, then whispered, "It feels like it's watching us."

The two stood frozen in silence, the first rays of dawn beginning to touch the horizon — and far in the distance, the cry of a raven shattered the stillness.