Oriana's heart thudded violently against her chest, each beat echoing in her ears as she struggled to compose herself. But all eyes were on her now; her anger had spilled, and of all times, it was here.
The music had stopped, leaving an uncomfortable silence that pressed against her like a heavy velvet curtain—an audience frozen in shock, waiting for her next move.
She finally moved, slowly, deliberately, every step measured and elegant as she descended the stairs. She knew that after that resounding bang, if she sat back down, she would only confirm the untrue rumors swirling through the hall.
Eyes followed her, curious and incredulous. Even Oriana herself could hardly believe it, this was not her. What had come over her tonight? Why was she acting like this?
She was never the kind to draw attention. During events like these, she had always sat beside her brother, waiting politely for the formalities to end, exchanging the same polite pleasantries with those who came to speak with the king.
Her gaze snapped to the seat where King Zaroth reclined, legs crossed, a glass of red wine poised at his lips. Their eyes met, and an invisible current seemed to pull her toward him.
The crowd murmured in shock, watching in wide-eyed astonishment as she moved. And yet, Oriana was more shocked than anyone, shocked that she could no longer hold herself back, that control had slipped from her grasp entirely.
She finally reached his side, raising her chin so that her eyes met his. What surprised her even more was that, despite this being a masquerade ball, this man wore no mask, he was the only one unmasked, as if the rules themselves bent to his will.
"May I have this dance, Your Majesty?" she spoke softly, steadying her voice despite the tremor she felt in her chest. She did not even know his name.
A ripple of surprise ran through the crowd as Zaroth stood, rising slowly, deliberately, with a calm that suggested he had all the time in the world. The hall seemed to hold its breath. Usually, it was the men who asked, never the other way around.
Whispers spread like wildfire, yet every eye remained fixed on them, as if no one wanted to miss this new history being written before them. It was far better to hold the tea than risk spilling it.
Zaroth stepped down, his shoes glinting softly under the chandelier lights. He extended his hands toward Oriana, and she gently placed her gloved hands into his.
They walked with effortless grace, the aura emanating from both of them pushing the crowd aside, as if their combined presence demanded space. Their auras intertwined, forming a force far more powerful than either alone.
They reached the center of the hall as the side lights dimmed slowly. The violins began to play, their soft strings filling the room. Zaroth's hands moved to her waist, and Oriana's breath caught in her throat.
Her eyes locked onto his red ones, and she placed her hands on his shoulders. They began to dance, their steps moving in perfect rhythm with the music, heels tapping softly against the polished tiles.
"Hmm," Zaroth murmured, his voice calm and clear as he spun her gracefully. "I wanted to call your move brave, but why speak of courage when someone cannot even control themselves?"
Oriana's eyes narrowed, her chest rising and falling in quickened rhythm as she ignored his words. She knew answering would only fan the fire already simmering inside her.
"Why are you not wearing a mask, Your Majesty?" she asked, her voice steady despite the lingering tension, using the question to change the topic, though she was curious about that.
"Why wear one when it would only be removed by midnight?" he said softly, a dark chuckle brushing his words. "Foolishness and vanity seem to be synonyms tonight."
Oriana's eyes widened at the insult, subtle and wrapped in charm so delicate that it could almost be missed. Her face burned, and she nearly stumbled—but Zaroth caught her effortlessly, already anticipating the slip.
"You…" Her words faltered as he drew her closer, heat spreading through her body, sending shivers up her spine. His scent wrapped around her senses, intoxicating and overwhelming.
"What is your name?" he asked, his voice formal, almost detached, as if he had never truly insulted her.
"Queen Oriana of Gantrem… and you?" she replied, taking a few breaths, regaining composure as he spun her again to the music's flow, the amount of breath she had been inhaling only the heavens knew.
"Zaroth," he said slowly, unbothered, "King of Driis"
Oriana's foot nearly missed a step, but his hands were already at her waist, lifting her slightly before lowering her with seamless grace. She steadied herself, eyes sweeping over the crowd, yet no one could know the tension that wrapped around them both.
She had overheard her brother once talking about him with some royal ministers. He had even sent multiple letters for something important.
She had no idea of the full matter; all she knew was that, on different nights after dinner, she had seen him writing letters, and each morning he would ask if there had been a response. Yet, there was never a single reply.
She had always wondered who the king could be to make the King of Gantrem behave in such a way. And now… standing here, feeling the heat of Zaroth so near, the question seemed almost impossible to answer.
Is he human? she wondered. His presence, his aura—it felt almost inhuman, as if he were not entirely of this world. For a moment, she thought of ghosts, but she dismissed it. Icarus had told her he was the only ghost.
Then who was this man? He seemed detached from the world, uninterested in anything superficial. He was perfect for her—not just a powerful king in his own right, but a true partner.
Their kingdoms together could form a force unlike any other, a power beyond mere ambition. And not only that—he was the kind who did not fancy the word "love," and that was what she needed. They would simply need an heir.
Her heart thundered, and before she could fully process it, his words fell like a command, soft yet unyielding:
"Marry me."
The words slipped from her lips, hanging in the air as if the world itself had stilled. Her eyes locked onto his, searching for the slightest flicker of reaction, any hint of thought—but his face gave nothing away.
Then, almost imperceptibly, a small smirk curved his lips. His eyes remained calm, unshaken, as he spoke in that same measured, unhurried tone:
"I decline."