The Scandalous Whispers

Viscount Norton and Lady Isolde swept into the ballroom, arm in arm, their faces serene despite their daughter's suicide attempt mere days ago. Whispers buzzed like angry bees, darting through the crowd.

The Viscount, Vaeloria's Royal Treasurer, held the kingdom's wealth in his grip. His ledgers could topple nobles, his trade deals steadied merchants, and the Emperor trusted his cunning. As Grand Duke Arvand's ally, his presence was no surprise, yet it shocked the room. Power cloaked him like a velvet mantle, and Lady Isolde's poised smile hid a mother's silent grief.

Elyse and her mother, Grand Duchess Illyria Arvand, glided forward, their smiles gleaming like polished silver, their warmth a carefully crafted mask. Her brother Lysander Arvand followed them. Lorraine felt a sharp gaze pierce her.

Her father, Hadrian Arvand, stared from across the room, his eyes cold with disgust and disappointment. She lowered her head, a reflex from years of his scorn. Hadrian joined his wife and favored daughter, greeting his friend, or rather, his trusted pawn in a game of power only he understood.

The ballroom dazzled under chandeliers that spilled golden light like liquid sun, illuminating twirling dancers in silks and satins. Violins sang, their notes weaving through the air, while tables groaned with roasted pheasant, sugared fruits glistening like jewels, and ruby-red wine in crystal goblets. Banners bearing Vaeloria's crest fluttered above, celebrating Leroy's battlefield triumph.

 Yet beneath the glamour, secrets hummed, fragile as spun glass, ready to shatter.

As the dance music swelled, Lorraine's gaze found Leroy, the man of the hour, standing tall in his tailored coat, his golden mask glinting. Her heart sank. Elyse and Illyria moved toward him, their steps deliberate. Elyse, radiant and enchanting, never lacked dance partners, but tonight her eyes were fixed on Leroy.

Lorraine had seen this coming. Elyse's appearance on the balcony during the victory parade had betrayed her plan. This was what she and their father had schemed: to bind Leroy to Elyse, the daughter Hadrian prized.

Lorraine knew Leroy wouldn't refuse her. He couldn't. It hurt Lorraine, but that was the truth. Leroy could never refuse Elyse. They'd never danced together; in fact, Leroy never danced with anyone, but Elyse was his first love, a flame he still carried. He wouldn't refuse her.

Lorraine wasn't cold enough to watch her husband dance with her sister. The thought twisted like a knife. It was time for her to do what she came here for.

She glanced at Emma, half-hidden behind a velvet curtain, her face shadowed but alert. A subtle nod passed between them. Emma dipped her head, slipping into the darkness, her steps as silent as a whisper.

Seconds later, a single grand candle on the dance floor flickered and died, its flame snuffed out like a soft sigh. The ballroom stayed aglow, chandeliers blazing, but that lone candle's fall was a quiet signal meant only for the courtesans' sharp eyes.

Lorraine's lips curved into a faint, secret smile. The light died; the shadows will speak.

On cue, the courtesans began whispering, their voices loud enough to catch the noblewomen's ears.

"Did you hear?" one murmured, her silk fan fluttering. "Grand Duke Arvand pushed Viscount Norton's daughter into that marriage with Lord Adrian Tareth, knowing it would fail."

Another leaned closer, her voice a hiss. "He wanted House Tareth as his pawn, too. Lord Adrian despised Lady Avelyn, but Grand Duke Arvand forced the match for his own ambitions."

The words spread, igniting murmurs among the nobles. Everyone knew Arvand had arranged the wedding, but, a calculated ruin? It was scandalous.

Viscount Norton overheard, his jaw tightening, but he waved it off as cruel gossip. He trusted his ally. Still, the whispers grew, slithering through the crowd like vines.

Lorraine slipped toward the ballroom's edge, her heart swelling with pride. Her plan was working. The courtesans, her hidden allies, had planted the seeds of doubt, shaking her father's carefully built alliances.

But another rumor sparked, darker and whispered lowly. "The Grand Duke's next target is Leroy, the hostage prince of Kaltharion," a courtesan whispered, her voice sharp. "He'll use Elyse, his prized daughter, since the other is useless for his schemes. You know what happened to his other son-in-law…"

The words, spoken under Arvand's own roof at a ball for his son-in-law, sent shockwaves through the guests. Yet the Vaelorian nobles, ever eager for a spectacle, kept dancing, their laughter ringing over the intrigue.

Lorraine's smile lingered as she moved to escape the ballroom, her navy gown blending into the shadows. Her plan was unfolding perfectly.

She was almost at the door when a voice stopped her. "May I have this dance?"

A white-gloved hand appeared, barring her path. Lorraine's icy-blue eyes lifted, her breath catching as she faced the man before her, his presence a spark in her carefully laid plans.

Prince Damian of Lystheria, another hostage prince bound to Vaeloria, stood like an ethereal vision.

His tall but slender frame was draped in a flowing pale purple silk tunic, embroidered with golden lilies that shimmered in the chandelier's glow. A crimson brocade coat cascaded over it, its wide sleeves brushing the floor, trimmed with soft fur. A heavy chlamys, clasped with a sapphire brooch, draped one shoulder, trailing like a poet's verse. A silver circlet studded with pearls and lilies crowned his dark, wavy hair, framing his olive-toned face. His almond-shaped hazel eyes held a quiet intensity, and a neatly trimmed beard accented his serene, poetic smile. He was likely about the same height as her husband. Unfortunately, it didn't work well for him.

He extended a long-fingered hand, his voice soft. "I'd be honored to dance with you, Lorraine."

Her heart faltered at the magnetic pull of his smile. Should I? she mused, a whisper of temptation igniting within.

Like her, this prince was a fractured soul. While Leroy had seized his sword and carved an escape from the Vaelorian nobility's cruel grasp, Damian had no such fortune. His artsy charm and gentle spirit, far from shields, left him vulnerable. From a tender age, he'd been traded among noble ladies, a plaything for their whims, and even some lords had claimed their share of his innocence.

Gazing into his hazel eyes, brimming with unspoken yearning, she felt a pang. For years, she'd caught his lingering stare, a silent thread binding them. Perhaps, like her, he sensed the cracks in her soul, and longed for a connection to mend their shared wounds.

Then she felt a sharp glare on her. She looked to see Leroy, looking at her with Elyse by his side, prepared for the dance. Lorraine turned back to Damian, her pulse quickening. Shouldn't I?

But even before she could answer, Lorraine felt a hand creeping up on her waist.