Oriana wanted to laugh. Truly, this was absurd—hilariously so. The elder's solemnity, his misplaced authority, it all struck her as utterly comical.
She could almost imagine a theater filled with such performances; she was certain they would draw a great crowd and sell out every show.
As if the man's words had stirred something in the others, another elder spoke.
"Well, I do not object to that. After all, it seems the best course for now, especially since investigations into His Majesty's death are still ongoing. It was… unnatural, and some have suggested it could even have come from someone within this palace…" His voice trailed off.
Oriana, unmoving until now, shook her head—or was it that her hands moved to her chin, resting there as if she were agreeing with his words in the most sarcastic way imaginable?
Just as she suspected, these elders had also assumed she might have been behind her brother's death, perhaps scheming to claim the throne for herself.
How archaic.
Finally, all waited for the queen's statement. Oriana looked around, her gaze meeting each of the elders in turn, eyes bored yet piercing.
"You fail to realize," she began, her voice measured, "that your words are merely suggestions, not declarations. It is up to the queen to finalize such matters, is it not, Mister Dortham?"
She fixed her gaze on the last man who had spoken. He nodded frantically, both at her words and at the fact that she knew his name.
Her statement alone seemed to freeze them. In that instant, everything had been settled—without further argument.
"Please, Your Grace, we could give you time. This is for the benefit of the kingdom; we beg of you…" he added, as though a sudden thought had struck him. "Before His Majesty's death, he had planned a masquerade ball… There could be one tonight.
We could also send for suitors from different kingdoms—not just today, maybe other days as well." His words hung in the air as their eyes shifted from him to Oriana, awaiting her response.
"Very well, then," Oriana said finally, her tone calm, almost regal. Shock rippled through them all, as if they had not expected her sudden agreement. It was true that this queen was unpredictable.
Relief followed in the elders' expressions. They nodded, some almost happily, even though the outcome was not exactly what they had desired. What mattered was that the queen had accepted—though not all were entirely satisfied, as a few had hoped one of them might assume the throne.
Oriana understood the weight of what she had agreed to. Even though she did not wish this, she knew sacrifices were necessary. Love and personal desire had to be set aside; these were matters of the kingdom, and certain needs were meant to be exchanged for the crown.
"Meeting dismissed," Oriana finally spoke. She rose with elegant poise, her steps measured as she walked toward the door. Some of the elders' eyes remained fixed on her even as she left, their gazes lingering like shadows.
She made her way through the long palace hallway, heading toward the grand entrance. From the hallway, she noticed the priest and the detective outside the entrance, as the door was slightly ajar.
The detective held a book and ink pen, scribbling something methodically—likely findings from his investigation—while the priest stood nearby, quietly making the sign of the cross as they spoke, their discussion steeped in tense seriousness.
Oriana wondered why they were still present. There was no need for such a company, if they had wished to come to the palace, they could have informed her beforehand, allowing for proper preparation and preventing the maids from cleaning the room and potentially losing evidence.
But before she could ponder further, a sudden pain shot through her head.
She stumbled back, her heels clicking softly with the abrupt step, a sharp, blinding ache spinning behind her eyes. Her hands instinctively went to her temples as she tried to steady herself—it had happened so suddenly.
"You." She pointed sharply at one of the maids, who was dusting a nearby painting. The girl froze mid-motion and bowed deeply, recognizing the voice.
"Tell the guards to send them away. I will summon them when I require their presence," Oriana commanded. Without waiting for a response, she turned and began ascending the stairs, her mind already yearning for rest.
Much had happened today, and tonight there was still the masquerade ball; perhaps some rest would be needed before it began.
Her hands pressed against her forehead and temples, massaging slowly as the pain receded, dulling to a lingering throb.
What is happening?
☆☆☆☆
Night had fallen, and the stars glittered faintly in the sky.
The curtains stirred gently in the breeze from the slightly opened window, intentionally left ajar by the queen this evening after the maid had initially closed it. The soft ticking of the clock echoed through the room, punctuating the quiet.
Oriana sat on the plush stool as the royal hairdresser worked meticulously on her hair. She was already fully dressed for the ball. Her gown was a rich shade of lavender, long and fitted in a mermaid cut, with a daring slit along the side.
Silver stones traced the corset's edge, catching the light delicately. The dress was short-sleeved, and she wore long, elegant gloves that reached past her elbows.
A delicate crown, shimmering softly, rested atop her head, held in place by a few discreet pins. Her hair had been braided into an intricate updo, with soft curls left to frame her face. Her green eyes gleamed, sophisticated and ethereal, reflecting the glow of the candles in the room.
She barely recognized herself. Perhaps it was the mask she wore for the ball, or perhaps it was the significance of the evening itself—when all masks would be removed at midnight, revealing the real truths hidden beneath.
"I am finished, Your Grace," the woman said, bowing her head.
Oriana smiled softly, shifting her gaze from her reflection to the woman.
"Thank you. You may leave."
The woman bowed deeply once more before hurrying from the room, the soft rustle of her skirts fading as she stepped out and shut the door.
Just as the door clicked shut, a soft sigh escaped Oriana's lips. She looked around the room, her voice barely above a whisper as she called out.
"Icarus…" Her words were slow, gentle, almost reluctant. She had not expected him to be here tonight—perhaps he would not come at all, as he did not appear every night. And yet, a small pang of hurt flickered through her at the thought of his absence.
A deeper ache crossed her features. She could not see him during the day, only at night, for he was not human but a ghost. She remembered the first time she had seen him—the disbelief, the fear that she had gone mad.
Now, whenever he failed to appear, a quiet worry gnawed at her. Her breath came heavier, uneven, as she struggled to steady herself.
'I must stop this…' she thought. 'I am getting married soon.'
She rose, her hands slamming against the wooden table. The vibration sent a glass of pink lipstick tumbling to the marble floor, shattering softly into scattered pieces.
She fidgeted with her fingers, her mind spinning, before turning her gaze toward the door.
She walked to the door and stopped, her hands brushing the polished wood, ready to push it open—but her knees suddenly weakened.
Cold fingers trailed along the back of her neck. Her heart skipped a beat as the air thickened around her.
Her eyes remained fixed on the door, pupils dilated, body trembling intensely. No one needed to tell her who that touch belonged to.
He leaned in, his face close, his breath brushing just against the back of her neck—the kiss of his breath alone, making her heart race unimaginably. Not a word came from him.
Oriana's chest rose and fell rapidly, her own breaths growing louder in the quiet room. The ticking of the clock seemed deafening. And then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, intimate and shaky, she finally spoke:
"I… Icarus…"