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The waltz began—slow, haunting, like a lullaby spun from shadows and secrets.
Rosaline's slippers barely touched the marble as she stepped into the center of the ballroom, her heart thudding like a war drum beneath her ribs. Gasps echoed from the crowd. Some leaned in with curiosity; others narrowed their eyes in silent judgment. But no one turned away.
Just as she took her first step forward, a strange sensation rippled through her chest. Her gaze locked with the masked prince waiting at the center—tall, regal, cloaked in mystery. Something about him tugged at her soul, as if the threads of her heart recognized him before her mind could.
"Who... was he again?" she whispered to herself. The name danced at the edge of her memory, teasing her like a dream just out of reach.
Prince Stefan moved like a predator—elegant, composed, dangerous. The light struck his raven-black attire—an embroidered tailcoat laced with midnight threads, crimson gemstones gleaming like fresh blood at his collar. His crow-winged mask barely concealed the sharpness of his gaze.
He extended his hand to her.
"Will you dance with me?" His voice was low, velvet over steel.
Rosaline hesitated—but only for a heartbeat. "Yes, Your Highness."
The moment their hands met, a cold shiver raced up her arm and down her spine. Her heart skipped. Something shifted. Her veins beneath her skin pulsed visibly, dancing in silver and blue light, almost like magic awakening from a long slumber.
She blinked, stunned—but Stefan didn't seem to notice.
Charlotte did.
Hidden in the shadows near the archway, her face paled.
"We're too late, Vincent," she whispered, trembling. "We couldn't stop them from seeing each other."
Tears welled in her eyes. She tore off her mask and fled from the ballroom, her sobs muffled by the music and chatter. Vincent reached out to stop her, but she had already disappeared into the corridors.
At that very moment, deep within some room, the fortune teller sat cross-legged in front of a firelit mirror. His laughter echoed against the stone walls.
"I said she would run to him this time… and she did," she crooned. "She rushed to the ball to see him. And now? Finally, they hold each other again—for the first time in a decade."
she leaned forward, her eyes glowing faintly.
"I cannot separate what fate has mended. They were meant to find each other... again."
Meanwhile, back in the ballroom, the music guided Rosaline and Stefan through the dance. Around them, the crowd faded. She became aware only of his touch, the heat of his palm, the storm behind his mask.
"You're not from any court I know," Stefan said, brushing her ear with his breath. "But you feel... familiar."
Rosaline looked up, her voice barely above a whisper. "I get that a lot."
He chuckled softly. "Do you have a name, masked stranger?"
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Do you?"
He tilted his head, amused. "Touché."
As they spun beneath the chandelier's flickering light, the angle of Rosaline's mask shifted slightly. A faint silver glow pulsed beneath her ear—the crescent moon mark. One of the guards standing nearby—a veteran from the days of Princess Katherine—narrowed his eyes, recognizing it instantly. His jaw tensed.
But Stefan saw nothing.
Because the moment he touched her, something inside him stirred. His focus, his breath, his very soul had shifted. He didn't care who she was—not now. He only felt that somehow, impossibly, he had found the one he lost.
The others in the hall watched with mixed emotions.
Bianca's fingers dug into her fan, knuckles white. Her father, the Grand Councilor of Avalone, stood a few feet behind her, tall and imposing. His silver robes bore the empire's sigil—a phoenix rising from a sunburst. A brilliant tactician and the king's closest advisor, the Grand Councilor had always insisted on order, discipline, and legacy. Bianca had grown up under his shadow and expected the throne to follow her family's influence.
And now—this stranger was stealing it all.
Maya leaned in. "Should we do something?"
"No," Bianca said coldly, eyes gleaming. "Not yet."
Britney, on the other hand, had cozied up to Prince kaelion. She let her fingers trail against the embroidery of his emerald coat.
"So, are you enjoying the ball, Your Highness?" she asked with a coy smile.
kaelion raised his goblet, offering only a polite nod. "More than I expected."
His gaze, however, was distant—focused entirely on Stefan and Rosaline. There was something unreadable in his eyes. He said nothing of Katherine. He wouldn't. None of them believed she was alive. They had buried her a decade ago, mourning the girl with the moonlit laughter.
But now?
kaelion wasn't sure what to believe anymore.
Suddenly, a loud crack tore through the ballroom.
A guest collapsed, convulsing violently. His mask slipped, revealing glassy eyes, mouth foaming. Dark magic lashed through the air like a whip—wild, cruel, uncontrolled.
Screams filled the room.
Guards poured in from all sides, swords drawn. A protective circle closed around the princes.
Prince Stefan pushed Rosaline gently behind him, his expression suddenly fierce.
"Stay close," he ordered. "No one moves alone tonight."
Rosaline clutched his arm, her breath shallow, heart pounding.
The masquerade had begun in elegance and dreams...
But it would end in blood, truth, and curses long forgotten.
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