Oriana's lips parted as she locked eyes with him. Words failed her; the music slowed, and their dance was drawing to an inevitable end.
Zaroth mirrored her movements, gradually easing back as the final notes of the violin faded. The lights returned to their full brilliance, casting the ballroom in a warm, golden glow.
With deliberate elegance, she curtsied, unable to look him in the eye, the soft applause of the crowd pulling her from her trance.
She rose and walked toward her plush seat, her steps measured, though the hall was beginning to fill with couples moving to the center for the official dancing now that the Queen had given her blessing.
Oriana sat, almost dazed, refusing to shift her gaze toward him. She did not look at his seat area, yet a shiver ran down her spine—as absurd as it sounded, it felt as though his gaze alone had brushed against her, as if his piercing eyes were on her.
She still could not wrap her head around the fact that he had declined her proposal. Perhaps she was truly spoiled—but the sting ran deeper because she had defied rules, flouted expectations, and dared to tell him to marry. That boldness made the rejection cut all the sharper.
"Did he think I said that because I… liked him? Tch, proud, infuriating man," she whispered, her teeth gritted. Her hands moved instinctively, lifting the glass of orange juice on the table.
She gulped it down, striving for grace, even as her mind threatened to betray her, pulling her toward him. She forced herself to remain focused on the dance, though part of her wondered what had come over her tonight. Perhaps it was the lack of fresh air she had been craving, or perhaps it was something else entirely.
Her fingers intertwined tightly on the glass before dropping it; she did not want to cause another scene by breaking the glass. Maybe this time they would take her to the Madness Infirmity Centre.
Could she not accept a simple no? Had she been so spoiled that she could not bear rejection, even after going out of her way?
Maybe, in some part of her mind, she had expected this. After all, this man was… indescribable. The zeal she had felt to stay here waned, replaced by an uncomfortable heat pooling in her chest. Slowly, almost cautiously, her eyes shifted toward the far end of the hall, toward where he sat.
And just as her gaze found him, their eyes met.
Oriana's eyes snapped away sharply, a soft gasp escaping her lips. It was as though her very insides had ignited, but why?
"Queen Oriana, is something the matter?" the guard beside her asked. He had been assigned as her personal protector—once a personal guard of the late king.
Oriana forced a small smile, nodding gently, convincing herself as much as anyone that everything was fine, though it certainly was not.
"I think I will be dismissed for tonight. Handle tonight's matters, Jacob, and anything that cannot be managed, pass to me tomorrow morning," she instructed.
Jacob bowed deeply. This was far from the first time he had taken charge in her and her brother's absence during grand events. More than a guard, he was second-in-command, though he wore a suit rather than armor—a reminder of his status as both advisor and protector. Loyal since their childhood, he had been a friend of the late king as much as a guardian.
"Very well, Your Grace," he replied with quiet reverence as Oriana rose, her gown whispering softly against the floor. She descended the stairs, passing through the other door.
Many noticed her, yet none suspected more than a grieving queen; to them, her movements were understandable—she had come only for a dance, after all.
Stepping into the quiet corridor, the music from the ballroom faded behind her. Her chest rose and fell with restrained breaths, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her gown as if it were the only anchor she had.
She walked toward the stairs leading to her chambers, yet the zeal she had once carried for fresh air had vanished. The familiar, sweet scent of candles that perfumed the hallway now felt suffocating rather than soothing. What was this feeling? That man—he was truly getting under her skin.
But halfway to the stairs, she froze.
Why did I even leave? she asked herself, frustration prickling along her nerves. Deep down, she knew the answer: it was because of him.
The realization grated against her very bones. She had not come for him; she had come for a purpose—a purpose that now seemed undone. What if her potential suitor had been among the crowd? What if, because of him, she had missed her chance?
A sharp click of her lips echoed in irritation. Then, as if on cue, he began to descend the stairs. That man could not dictate her movements—this was her palace, after all.
What was wrong with her? No, it was supposed to be her who commanded the space, her who determined who stayed and who left..not the other way around.
She finally reached the bottom of the stairs, but hesitation struck like ice through her veins. Her teeth bit hard into her lip, confusion etching across her features. With a sharp stomp, her heel struck the marble floor, as if to transfer her frustration into it. The echo ricocheted sharply down the long, quiet hall.
"Damn him," she hissed, climbing back up the stairs. She had already left the hall—why return? It would only make matters worse, and she could not bear the thought of that mocking tilt of his smirk greeting her if she reentered. Perhaps she truly did need rest, a moment to calm her racing thoughts.
Reaching the top, she walked directly to her door, slowly pushing it open. The cool air of the room met her, and she drew in a sharp inhale, relief and tension mingling. Her window… it must have been open. She glanced toward it—and her breath caught.
Icarus.
He sat by the window, legs crossed, a pen in hand, scribbling carefully into a small book. Slowly, he lifted his head, his gray, steel-like eyes locking with hers.
Oriana's steps were soft but deliberate, echoing faintly across the room. The clock ticked in quiet accompaniment as she closed the distance between them. Her hands rose, sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him close…
Before crashing her lips against his.