Chapter 73 The Banquet of Masks
The chandeliers of the Great Hall burned brighter than the stars themselves.
Golden flames shimmered across crystal goblets, jeweled crowns, and silk robes, making every guest glitter like a phantom of excess.
It was Chandlok at its grandest: a feast meant not just for celebration, but for judgment.
Sana knew that the moment she stepped through the carved double doors.
The hall silenced for only a heartbeat as she entered, wearing a gown of midnight velvet stitched with silver threads. The crescent pendant — her mother’s — lay at her throat, glowing faintly against her skin. She did not need a crown. The pendant was enough.
Still, she felt the eyes. The whispers. The knives made of words.
“The servant-girl wears silk now.”
“She plays at being Queen, but she will never be.”
“The gods gave her the crown and she refused. How dare she stand here as if she deserves the King?”
Every voice, though hushed, cut through her composure like glass.
And then came the cruelest of all, slithering from a nobleman’s lips with a laugh sharp enough to be heard:
“A bastard child raised in shadows — Chandlok deserves better than a mask at its throne.”
Her blood boiled. But Sana did not flinch. Her chin lifted higher, her spine straight as steel. She let the insult hang in the air like smoke, refusing to dignify it with an answer. Silence could wound sharper than a blade.
But Hatim heard it.
From the dais, he rose slowly, the hall trembling under the weight of his movement. He was dressed in black and gold, crown blazing in the firelight, every inch the King — and yet his eyes were fixed not on his courtiers, but on her.
When he spoke, his voice rang across the chamber, cold and deadly.
“Who dares speak against the one I chose to stand beside me?”
The laughter died at once. The nobleman who had mocked Sana turned pale, bowing so low his nose nearly scraped the marble floor. The silence that followed was suffocating.
Hatim descended the dais, his steps echoing like thunder. When he reached Sana, he did not look at her — he looked at them. All of them.
“Let it be known,” he declared, “that the daughter of Chandini, chosen by the stars, walks here not as a guest, nor as a pretender. She walks here as mine. And anyone who dares to shame her… shames me.”
The hall bowed. Every head lowered in submission.
Sana’s heart thundered. Outwardly, she stood motionless, her face calm, her hands steady. But inside, she burned.
Because he had defended her — yes, but not as Sana, not as her mother’s daughter, not as the woman who had clawed her way through betrayal and fire. No. He defended her as his.
A pawn. A possession. A wife.
The banquet resumed, chatter resuming like a current. Food was served, music filled the corners of the hall, nobles forced laughter to wash away their fear.
But Sana sat in silence, her gaze locked on the man beside her at the high table. Hatim did not speak, did not meet her eyes, but his hand gripped his goblet so tightly the metal bent beneath his fingers.
When the wine was poured, when the guests rose to toast their King and his wife, Sana leaned slightly toward him, her voice cutting through the charade like a blade wrapped in velvet.
“You defend me in public,” she whispered, “but in private, you despise me.”
Hatim’s jaw clenched. His knuckles whitened. But he did not look at her.
“Careful, Sana,” he murmured. “The court watches every word. And they already think you weak.”
Her lips curved into something sharper than a smile. “Then let them also see your hypocrisy.”
The servants bowed, nobles laughed, the music played on. To everyone else, it looked like the King and his wife sharing a quiet word.
But between them, it was war.
And the night was only beginning.
-----
The banquet roared on — laughter, clinking goblets, the scrape of silver across gilded plates. But for Sana, each sound blurred into nothing. Her skin still burned with Hatim’s words. His defense had protected her dignity, yes, but it had also shackled her in the chains of his claim.
She would not be claimed.
Not again.
As the servants cleared away the roasted pheasant, the musicians shifted into a softer rhythm — violins weaving a haunting melody, flutes lifting like whispers. The Master of Ceremony’s voice rose above the chatter:
“The King and Queen will lead the first dance.”
The words cut through Sana like ice.
She froze, hand tightening around her goblet. Across the table, Hatim’s jaw flexed. For the first time that evening, his eyes met hers — black fire clashing against her steel. Neither moved. Neither spoke. But the silence between them said everything.
We will not yield.
The hall waited. Nobles leaned forward, expectant. The music swelled.
Finally, Hatim stood. The scrape of his chair was louder than thunder. He extended a hand toward her, not gently, not tenderly, but like a command.
The hall watched. She could not refuse — not here, not now.
Sana rose slowly, every inch of her spine regal, her velvet skirts whispering over the marble floor. She placed her hand in his. Cold. Controlled.
And together, they walked into the center of the hall.
---
The violins quickened.
Hatim’s hand rested at her waist, his touch burning through silk. His other hand clasped hers, strong enough to remind her of every power imbalance between them. They moved together — step, turn, step — not in harmony but in defiance, each motion a battle.
“Why did you say that?” Sana hissed under her breath, her smile flawless for the crowd.
“Say what?”
“That I am yours. That I stand here only because you chose me.”
“Because it is true.” His eyes burned into hers, dark and unrelenting. “Do you think the court would respect you otherwise?”
Her nails dug into his hand. “You don’t defend me. You defend your pride.”
“And you?” His voice dropped lower, a growl only she could hear. “Do you not use me? Every time you walk beside me, you wield my crown as your shield. Don’t pretend you stand here alone.”
She almost faltered. Almost. But then her chin lifted, her smile sharpening like a blade.
“I’d rather stand alone in truth than beside you in lies.”
---
The hall erupted in applause at their spin — mistaking the tension for passion, the venom for chemistry.
Step. Turn. His grip on her waist tightened, pulling her closer than she intended. Her breath hitched despite herself.
Hatim’s lips brushed her ear, his words so low they trembled against her skin.
“You think you hate me,” he whispered. “But your heart doesn’t.”
Her entire body flushed. The world tilted — music, firelight, whispers all blurring. She wanted to push him away. She wanted to claw his chest open and demand to know why he looked at her like that, why his hatred always carried the shadow of something else.
Instead, she smiled, tilting her head ever so slightly toward his, her voice dripping like poison honey.
“Then let me make this clear. My heart belongs to no King who sits on a throne built on my mother’s blood.”
The words hit him like a strike. For the first time, his steps faltered.
But he recovered quickly, spinning her so the court saw only grace, not the war raging beneath their feet.
“You will regret those words,” he murmured.
“And you will regret underestimating me,” she fired back.
---
The music swelled to its peak, the dance ending with him holding her hand aloft, her skirts fanned around her like midnight flames. The court erupted in thunderous applause.
To them, it was beauty.
To Sana and Hatim, it was battle.
He bowed stiffly, jaw clenched so hard it could shatter. She curtseyed, her face an unreadable mask.
The dance was over. But the war had only begun.
---
Later, as the guests returned to their chatter and wine, Sana sat once more at the high table, her chest still heaving beneath her calm exterior. She reached for her goblet — and stopped.
Hatim’s hand rested on hers, firm, possessive, but this time… protective.
“Not that one,” he said quietly. “The wine was switched.”
Her breath caught. For a heartbeat, she saw not the King, not the enemy, but the man who had once saved her from peanuts at a feast, the man whose care slipped through even when he wished it didn’t.
She wanted to ask. To demand. To understand.
But before she could, Hatim withdrew his hand and rose, excusing himself from the table. His cloak swirled behind him as he disappeared into the shadows of the hall.
Sana stared after him, her pulse thundering in her ears.
He was her enemy.
And yet…
Why did it feel like losing him would shatter her more than defeating him?