He finally pulled away, and Oriana's hands rested against the door for support. Without it, she felt certain she would have lost her balance.
Slowly, she turned, her eyes finally meeting his. Worry immediately painted her features. His grey eyes were like steel, yet beneath the coldness there was a subtle tiredness. His hair was disheveled, a few strands falling across his face.
She had never seen him like this, and yet, regardless of it all, his handsomeness shone through.
"Wh… what happened?" Oriana stammered, her hands moving to his face, her thumb brushing lightly over his cheek. He said nothing; his expression was cold, unbothered, eyes unwavering.
"Are you worried for me?" His deep voice grew husky, lips tilting into the faintest smirk. Oriana withdrew her hands, glaring at him, but there was a slight relief that he was fine. This man—this ghost—still dared to smirk. She shifted her gaze away, stepping back until her spine pressed gently against the door.
The words she had planned to say when she first saw him now stuck in her throat.
"I… I will be getting married soon," she whispered. Her words cracked in her throat, each syllable heavy and clumsy, as if the statement itself were a lump. Her heart raced. She tried to glance at his face, but the air had grown suddenly heavy, almost strangling.
Then…
Knock. Knock.
The soft sound of the door stilled her. She spun toward it, trying to steady her trembling voice.
"I… I will be there." She was certain the call was for the ball. Her breath shook as she slowly turned back toward Icarus…
But he was gone.
Her heart dropped. Her eyes scanned the room frantically, but he was nowhere to be found. Her lips trembled, and a broken whisper slipped out.
"I… Icarus…"
Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow gasps. She clenched her hands as if the motion could steady her trembling, aware that her mask concealed the tears threatening to fall. She could not allow them to ruin the makeup that had taken so long to perfect.
A sharp breath escaped her as she pushed the door open. She stepped into the hall, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor.
Candles flickered, their light dancing across the walls as she made her way toward the stairs, half-expecting him to appear at any moment—to hold her back, to tell her not to go, or at least whisper that she should not marry… or anything.
But nothing happened. A flicker of anger surged through her chest as she descended the stairs and headed toward the garden. She needed air before facing the ball, knowing full well that place would be another stage of whispers, false smiles, and silent scrutiny.
Perhaps a little fresh air would steady her, if only slightly, before she stepped into that arena of polished pretense.
She walked down the hallway toward the back garden, not the side entrance, but stopped abruptly. A soft ache gripped her chest, and she pressed her hands against the wall for support.
Her heart hurt, though she did not know why—perhaps because she had still been expecting him to appear, to hold her. Was that why her steps had faltered?
A small, painful smile curved her lips.
"Foolish girl," she whispered softly, her words echoing lightly through the hallway. How foolish to imagine he felt anything for her.
She had fed her heart with delusions, and now she was giving it to a man who did not even belong to the living. What was wrong with her?
How could she even explain to anyone that she was in love with a dead man? They would call her cursed—or worse, think her mind had slipped.
Was this even love, or mere infatuation? Perhaps the books she had been reading had fooled her into thinking this was love.
Perhaps they would be right. The thought made her nod slightly, almost frantically, as if agreeing with the possibility. Slowly, she rose, her fingers curling into fists, hands clenched tight.
She straightened her posture, inhaling sharply—a practice she had perfected over the past years to keep her emotions contained. She was queen now, and a queen could not let herself crumble. She would hold her composure. She would act like one.
She walked toward the back door, but her steps faltered as a voice drifted from a nearby room. Her heartbeat skipped, a sudden pang of unease tightening her chest. Who could be there?…and why?
Her back pressed against the wall, and though this was her castle, she could not bring herself to move forward. The voice carried a strange authority, one that made her hesitate.
If anyone was meant to be wandering the palace instead of attending the masquerade, it should have been in the other garden, where guests could step out for fresh air—not here, in the drawing room, where only the private and the unexpected belonged.
Her chest rose and fell quickly. She was supposed to be at the ball—after all, it was meant, in part, for her to find a husband. But this… this was unlike her.
The normal Oriana would have entered boldly, questioned their presence, demanded answers. Tonight, however, she remained hidden, pressed against the wall, watching from the shadows, heart hammering in her chest.
"Ple… please… y-your Majesty, please spare me!" The words came out trembling, pleading, vulnerable with fear.
Oriana's heart skipped. Shock rooted her in place.
'Your Majesty?…'
It must belong to a king of another kingdom, as there was no king here. He was not from Gantrem. But how had he arrived here for the ball, as the invitation letters had been sent quickly around the palace today?
The journey from another country would take weeks by carriage, days by ship. And yet this man was here. Had he happened to visit for something else entirely and decided to come? And most importantly—who was he?
Why such desperate pleading from a person to him? What could a man have done to make him beg as if his life depended on it?
Slowly, Oriana leaned closer, peeking through the doorway, curiosity overpowering caution. Her eyes widened at the figure on the ground—head bowed, shoulders shaking.
D… Duke Gareth? Her composure crumbled in disbelief. She pressed her back further into the wall, heart hammering.
Duke Gareth, the Duke of West Gantrem, a man whose very name drew gasps of admiration, whose reputation and charm had hearts racing—now knelt on the floor, pleading like a servant.
She risked another glance, eager to see the man who had brought the Duke to this state. Her spine stiffened; she froze. There he sat, legs crossed, dressed in black kingly attire that screamed luxury and power.
His aura was suffocating, intimidating. Silver hair fell over his shoulders as he leaned back lazily, as if the entire scene bored him. Oriana's pupils dilated, her body reacting instinctively.
Her legs wobbled. His features were devastatingly handsome, every line of his face perfectly sculpted.
The red fur adorning his suit only added to the majestic, sophisticated elegance of his presence. Danger radiated from him in waves, and instinct screamed at her to leave immediately. She turned to step back, to escape this suffocating room.
But before she could move, her blood ran cold. His gaze, cold, dead, merciless—met hers. And in the next instant, a strong arm shot out, gripping her neck.