Her siblings had evidently not yet arrived. Gareth, the Crown Prince and her half-brother, usually held court like a monarch in the center of the ballroom or peered down from the seat of honor on the gallery above.
And Ayla was always at his side, every inch the portrait of grace.
‘Though perhaps Ayla Roem Guirta will not show herself tonight.’
She lifted a silver goblet from a small round table and let out a faint laugh.
A sharp thrill had flared in her chest the day Ayla collapsed in the middle of this hall, pale with fright, vomiting wine onto the marble until it seemed she were spilling out her very heart.
If only it had been her heart.
Talia drew a sharply filed nail across the silver, drawing out a shrill screech.
She had lost count of how many times she had prayed while watching her half-sister convulse on the floor.
‘Just die, Ayla. Never open your eyes again.’
“Princess.”
Startled from her brooding, Talia turned toward the voice.
A man stood before her in an impeccable dark green coat, one hand laid over his chest. His face was familiar.
After a moment, she recognized him as a regular at her mother’s evening gatherings.
His name escaped her. She only vaguely recalled her mother addressing him as Count Serian.
“It has been far too long. You grow more exquisite with every passing day, Princess.”
He gazed down at her in plain admiration, bending to press his lips to the back of her hand. Revulsion stirred in her, as if a fat caterpillar were crawling across her skin, but she forced a smile.
“Did my mother send you to keep me company?”
“The Empress is ever mindful of you, Princess.”
An indirect admission.
“Though even without Her Majesty’s charge, I could hardly have kept myself away. Look around you.”
He leaned down, whispering as if imparting a grand secret.
“Every man here is watching you. Like me, they ache to come forward, to kiss this lovely hand, to offer you their adoration—yet they choke back the urge. None of them care to cross the Crown Prince, after all.”
“And you are different?”
“I fell out of favor long ago.”
A sly smile touched his lips.
“Which earned me the privilege of tending to you tonight. A blessing in disguise, I should think.”
Talia despised men who fawned over her with such open greed. In truth, she loathed them.
Yet a shield of any sort was better than enduring hundreds of venomous stares alone.
She accepted his arm with the languid air of bestowing alms.
“And what were Mother’s words? To rescue her poor stray sheep of an elder daughter?”
“Her Majesty bade me ensure you enjoy the evening to the fullest.”
Talia swallowed a dry scoff.
Guiding her toward the floor before the terrace doors, the man added, “And she charged me to see that you outshine every soul in this room.”
Couples dancing to the lutes, lyres, and organ parted awkwardly, their glances sharp and cold. The Count paid them no heed, offering her an elaborate bow.
“Will you grant me this dance, Princess?”
Talia looked down at his smooth, uncalloused hand with faint disgust.
She had no desire to touch a man who was all but a stranger. Yet the stinging stares and muttered whispers rising around them ignited her temper.
‘They want me gone. Or shivering in some dark corner, pretending I do not exist.’
‘I will give them no such pleasure.’
Talia took his hand. As if waiting for the touch, he slid an arm about her waist and drew her smoothly into the turn.
Much as she hated physical contact, she could not deny his skill. Count Serian moved with effortless grace to the rhythm, possessing the rare gift of setting his partner in the finest possible light.
She had always loved to dance, yet never had she felt so poised, so brilliant. And she was not alone in that impression.
Over the Count’s shoulder as he spun her, she caught the shifting room. Hundreds of eyes followed her every step in unison, unable to tear themselves away from the imperial bastard they so reviled.
A fierce rush of triumph filled her. Whenever she entered court in the past, people had merely feigned indifference while casting wary, disdainful glances. Those had been looks of contempt and unease.
Tonight was different. They looked at her as they looked at her mother. A tangled web of fear and fascination closed around her from every corner.
It felt as if she had become Senevier herself—the most formidable, perilous, beautiful creature under heaven.
Yet the sweet taste of victory was cut short. The music stopped without warning, and the banquet’s true masters arrived.
“Announcing His Imperial Highness Gareth Roem Guirta, Crown Prince of the Empire, and Her Imperial Highness Ayla Roem Guirta, First Princess of the Empire!”
At the chamberlain’s ringing voice, the two descended the marble staircase with majestic poise. In an instant, every eye slipped from Talia, drawn helplessly to the stairs.
Count Serian managed a wry smile and steered her aside, toward the tables laid with wine and silver dishes.
“A pity our turn was cut short.”
He continued to chatter, clearly trying to smooth the rigid set of her mouth, but not a single word reached her ears.
Talia’s eyes burned into Ayla, who wore a gown of spotless white. She carried herself as though the mortifying spectacle she had made of herself weeks ago had never happened.
Seeing that pretty face smiling so serenely beside her brother turned Talia’s stomach with rage.
With an unforgiving gaze, she picked apart every inch of them: the jet-black hair, the emerald eyes, the porcelain features carved like polished ivory.
They radiated the ease and royal dignity of true birth—something neither she nor Senevier could ever possess, no matter how desperately they clawed for it.
Senevier was the viper who had dragged an Emperor once hailed as a saint into the mire of scandal, and Talia was the filth that had crept from that viper’s womb. Even if Senevier gave the Emperor a dozen sons, that truth would never alter.
Talia watched them in silence as the crowd swarmed with eager deference. When she turned toward the refreshment table, she caught several guests—who had just been gazing upon the Crown Prince and Princess with envy—stealing looks her way and whispering behind their hands.
Every nerve in her skin went taut. She wanted to gouge out their eyes.
‘Do not compare me to them.’
While she fought to keep her face empty and hold back the scream clawing at her throat, the man at her side leaned in with a thoughtless whisper.
“It seems they mean to look right through you. What will you do? Shall we go and pay our respects?”
She turned a venomous glare on him.
The Count merely smiled, looking quietly amused.
“Is that not why you came?”
Talia caught her lower lip between her teeth.
He was right. She had come here to spoil their triumph, to strike a discordant note across the celebration laid out in their honor. Senevier would want nothing less.
Hardening her resolve, Talia tightened her grip on her goblet and turned back toward her half-siblings, stepping boldly into the crowd.
And in that breath, Varkas Raedgo Shearkan entered the ballroom.
Talia froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs as though she had walked straight into an ambush.
END