It was as though time had slowed..no, perhaps it had sped up—because how in the world could a man she had seen only seconds ago, sitting relaxed in his chair, now be standing in front of her in the hallway, her back pressed against the cold wall as his hand gripped her neck like she was a thief caught in the night?
She did not understand this at all. In fact, she was finding it terribly difficult to comprehend.
Her breath heaved softly as her legs began to shake beneath her. The air around her grew suffocatingly intimidating, thick and heavy, as though the corridor itself had turned against her.
Her lips parted as she stared at the blood-red eyes of the man before her. Something was wrong. She had never seen eyes this dead before.
She had once thought that Icarus's eyes were cold and deadly because he was dead, but this man in front of her—whose hand burned against the skin of her neck—made Icarus pale in comparison.
Her words failed to leave her lips. How was she even being treated like this in her own palace? Her own castle? His fingers around her slender neck were firm, not tighter, not looser—just there, holding her in place as his eyes scanned her as though she were some kind of spy… or worse, a nuisance.
'Maybe he cannot recognize me because of the mask,' she thought to herself, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. But she was not unrecognizable. She could easily be spotted—her red hair and green eyes always gave her away. Or did he simply not know her?
Finally, she found her voice. Immediately, she shifted her gaze away from him, as if his red eyes had somehow bound her in blood and rendered her speechless.
"Get out."
His low cold, domineering words wrapped around her like ice as he loosened his grip, yet the imprint of his skin on her could still be felt.
Oriana's eyes widened at the order, utterly taken aback. In fact, if anyone were to witness this moment, they would never believe she was the queen of this kingdom. They would instead believe that it was this man standing before her who ruled it.
"Pardon?"
Her hands moved to her chest as she spoke, anger now brewing beneath her skin as her eyes glared at the man's tall frame hovering over hers.
She was the kind who usually placed her hand on her chest in a mock display of shock or offense—but this time, it was very much real.
"You have to learn how to speak to a woman, dearest king of an unknown land," she spat, her voice sharp as a blade.
Zorath's brow rose slightly, his dark, cold eyes resting on the lady before him. The fear that had once filled her face had now been replaced with unmistakable anger.
In fact, the annoyance twisting her features made him hesitate—something incredibly rare for him. He had only suggested she leave because he did not wish to frighten anyone tonight, but it seemed…
"Unknown land… huh."
His commanding words sliced through the thin air of the hallway, low and deliberate, as Oriana nodded, as if he was finally beginning to understand his place.
"I see the naivety you carry when it comes to women. Learn how to respect them. May this be the last time in your dearest life that you grip my neck, for I am no pet of yours," she spat again, her lips pushing forward into a pout—her usual way of restraining the anger simmering beneath her skin.
She turned and walked away, her chest heaving with each step.
Zorath stood there, his eyes detached and unreadable, though the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at his lips, for no one knew what was going on inside the head of the king.
But then she returned.
STOMP.
She stepped hard onto his clean, custom-made shoe.
And with that, she walked away again.
Zorath froze, his body stiffening as he remained in place, his eyes lowering slowly to his shoe. Moments ago, it had been shining beneath the candlelight of the corridor—now it was slightly dirtied, marked clearly by the imprint of her heel.
The sharp sound of her heels echoed down the long hall before disappearing into the swallowing darkness.
"Ha… ha…"
His dry laughter echoed through the silent night, the flames of the candles along the walls flickering restlessly, as though reacting to the danger that surrounded them.
His hand moved to his silver hair, brushing it slowly backward, his face returning to its usual unreadable, merciless intensity.
"Your Majesty, is there a problem?"
One of the guards bowed as he stood outside the door, his armor clinking softly in the quiet corridor—only if Oriana knew the fire she had stepped into, her own guard even regarded him as His Majesty.
Zorath did not look at him.
"Fetch me a new shoe."
♕♕♕♕
Oriana walked toward the door of the large hallway, her breath coming out louder than she intended. She did not understand her bravery back there.
That man… her bones had gripped with fear at the mere sight of him. His eyes had said a lot, and the heavens only knew why she had still continued speaking.
The castle already had many matters in their hands, yet here she was, almost creating enmity with another kingdom—something her brother had always tried to avoid.
She knew she might be doomed. It was not normal to see a duke lying on the floor, pleading like a helpless man.
She took a sharp, deep breath to calm herself as the guards pushed the large doors open.
Oriana walked inside, her steps graceful despite the storm inside her chest. The soft melody of the violin and piano echoed gently through the massive hall, their notes drifting through the air like silk.
Chandeliers hung high above, their golden light spilling across the polished floors and marble pillars, bathing the hall in warm brightness.
As the queen entered, the crowd parted for her.
Eyes turned.
Many eyes. Perhaps they had thought the queen would not attend, as she was still mourning the dead.
Elegant gowns shimmered under the chandelier light, masks of intricate designs covering noble faces—each one crafted with wealth and status.
Oriana walked toward the seat at the front of the hall. Her heels climbed the short stairs with quiet authority.
The chair awaiting her was plush and grand, but in front of it stood a small rail, almost like a delicate barrier. From the very design of the place, it was obvious that the position was meant for the Queen.
Oriana sat.
Yet her chest still heaved slightly, her heart skipping again at the remembrance of those red eyes.
"He is so rude," she murmured softly under her breath with a small scoff, shaking her head in disbelief.
She did not realize that eyes were still watching her.
Watching closely.
Some guests exchanged glances, whispering quietly behind their masks, wondering why Her Majesty was speaking to herself. In fact, it only gave them more reason to believe the rumors—that the Queen was cursed.
After all, had she left early during the burial of the previous king?
And now… perhaps those whispers were beginning to bloom.
The hall was filled with chatter, soft conversations weaving through the air like threads of silk.
The main ball had not yet fully begun, for the celebration could only truly start with the Queen's first dance, before anyone else was permitted to step onto the floor.
But then—
The large doors opened.
All eyes turned toward the entrance, including Oriana's.
King Zorath strode in.
His long legs moved gracefully, each step measured and perfect against the polished marble floor. The hall parted for him almost instinctively, as though the crowd itself had been commanded without a word. His presence alone demanded attention—and it received it.
The silence that fell was deafening.
It surprised Oriana.
Even her brother, the former king, had never commanded such absolute silence when he walked into a room.
Who was this man?
Zorath continued forward before moving to the side of the hall. Oriana's eyes widened.
Just like hers, a special seat had been designated for him.
Her breath caught.
The people gathered in this hall were not ordinary nobles. Dukes, princes, regents, and even grand dukes stood proudly among the crowd. If they wished to sit, there were luxurious seats placed along the sides of the hall for them.
Yet the type of seat placed there—raised slightly and crafted with equal grandeur—was meant only for royalty.
For a queen.
Why had they made one for this man?
Her breath grew ragged as realization began to stir uneasily in her chest.
BAM.
Oriana's hands slammed onto the polished wood table designed to hold wine as she abruptly rose to her feet.
The sharp sound cracked through the hall.
The violins that had been softly playing faltered and stopped mid-note, the final trembling string echoing faintly in the sudden silence.
Eyes moved sharply.
From the king—
to the queen who had just slammed her hands on the royal table.
Oriana stood there, her posture tense, her expression fierce, as if she had just lost her sanity before the entire court.