The palace was no longer a ballroom of laughter and music—it had become a battlefield of fear.
Guards shoved back the guests. Magic hissed through the air, a deep violet mist seeping through the floor like poison. The guest who had collapsed twitched once, then lay still, eyes wide open—frozen in terror. His lips had turned black.
"Get him out of here!" Prince Caelan barked.
Several guards rushed to obey, lifting the man's stiffened body with practiced urgency. Prince Stefan instinctively stepped in front of Rosaline like a shield. His sharp eyes scanned the crowd, searching for another threat.
"It was a curse," he muttered. "Old… forbidden."
Rosaline's blood ran cold. Though her feet were frozen to the marble floor, her mind spun in panic. That magic hadn't been random. It had brushed past her—she felt it—like death had whispered by her ear.
Bianca seized the moment.
"She must be searched!" she shouted, jabbing a finger at Rosaline. "No one knows who she is! How do we know she didn't bring this dark magic with her?"
Whispers surged through the ballroom like a tide of poison.
"I don't recognize her…"
"She came alone… no escorts…"
"Where did she even come from?"
Rosaline's pulse pounded. Her throat tightened. If they searched her, they'd find nothing—but if they ripped off her mask… they'd know. And that couldn't happen.
Before anyone could move, two figures emerged from the crowd, pushing through with a silent but deadly grace.
Maga and Casse.
Their movements were swift, bold—and in one fluid motion, they both removed their masks.
Gasps filled the hall.
"We came with Rosaline," Casse declared, her voice like tempered steel.
"She's not alone," Maga added, eyes narrowed on Bianca. "Now tell us—did she bring that cursed magic with us?"
The silence was deafening.
Rosaline turned, her heart thundering louder than the whispers. But just then—an even greater force stormed into the chaos.
"RO-SAAA-LINE!"
A commanding voice echoed through the grand ballroom, thick with rage and disappointment.
It was her.
Grandma Elira.
Rosaline's knees almost buckled. Her vision blurred. The room spun. Her grandmother's wrath wrapped around her like a chain—and she nearly fainted on the spot.
Elira's eyes blazed with fury. She hadn't just warned Rosaline not to come—she had forbidden her. But Rosaline, stubborn and reckless, had slipped a sleeping tonic into her grandmother's evening coffee and escaped into the night.
And now… here she was.
At the very palace Elira had spent years running from—dragging Rosaline from town to town, doing everything to keep her far from him.
From Prince Stefan.
And now, the girl had run straight into the dragon's lair.
Whispers turned to murmurs, then to cruel laughter.
Bianca smirked, her voice laced with venom. "Ooooh, so you're Rosaline? The little nobody who dared to sneak into this ball… and dance with the prince."
"I thought she was someone important," someone sneered.
"What the heck is she doing here?"
Rosaline's face burned. Though she wore a mask, her shame pierced through. Tears welled up and slid silently beneath the mask's edge. She hated disgrace. She hated attention. And now she was drowning in both.
Elira stepped forward, arm raised.
She was going to slap her.
Rosaline braced for it.
But the blow never came.
A hand caught Elira's wrist mid-air.
A hand that made the entire room fall silent.
Prince Stefan.
"You are not allowed to slap anyone at this party," he said, his tone cold and absolute.
A wave of murmurs rippled through the hall.
"Did… did he just stop her?"
"But he never defends strangers…"
"What's happening?"
Prince Caelan stood still, stunned.
Even he hadn't seen this coming.
Stefan turned to face the entire ballroom, his voice louder now—firm and echoing.
"This is my mother's birthday," he said. "Everything here tonight belongs to me—including her. So no one touches what is mine."
Rosaline gasped.
The crowd gasped louder.
Bianca paled.
Britney, standing beside her, whispered through gritted teeth, "Did you hear that? He said he owns her…"
Bianca's fists clenched, crushing the fabric of her gown in rage.
Stefan leaned in toward Elira's ear, his whisper like ice.
"Touch her again, Mrs. Elira… and I promise, you won't live to regret it. She is my heart. Not yours. And anyone who dares to hurt my heart… will answer to me."
He released her.
Elira staggered back—shivering, pale, stunned.
Rosaline couldn't bear it.
Humiliation. Fear. Guilt. Confusion.
Everything wrapped around her like a noose.
She turned and fled.
Tears streaked down her face, hidden behind a mask now soaked in sorrow. She vanished through the velvet curtains before anyone could follow.
A moment later, the celebration hesitantly resumed as Empress Recaiah and Lita, the emperor's second wife, arrived in regal grace, commanding the crowd's attention with forced smiles and practiced poise.
But the damage had been done.
Back home, Elira sat in silence—anger still simmering in her bones. She'd wanted to punish Rosaline. She should have. But when the girl finally returned, tear-streaked and trembling, she merely looked at her with eyes too tired to hate.
"I won't ask why," she said quietly. "But don't you ever do that again."
That was it.
No scolding. No punishment.
And somehow… that broke Rosaline even more.