Chapter 32
32
T he herald’s voice boomed across the opulent ballroom, echoing off marble columns and crystal chandeliers:
“Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess Anathemark, and Lord Conley Anathemark!”
Skylar’s stomach plummeted. They hadn’t mentioned her. No name, no title, not even as a guest. As if she didn’t exist.
Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding with an almost audible creak. She felt stripped bare, vulnerable in a way that she had never experienced before. As she descended the marble staircase beside her mother, the weight of countless stares pressed down upon her.
This was not how she had envisioned her return to the palace.
Were they looking at her? Or were their gazes drawn to her mother, resplendent after years of seclusion, with the tiny bundle of Conley nestled in her arms? Skylar felt exposed, acutely aware of every imperfection, real or imagined.
Her fingers twitched, longing for the familiar weight of a sword hilt. She’d trade this damned corset for her bindings in a heartbeat if it meant feeling the surge of power that came with being Duke Anathemark.
“Breathe, darling.” Her mother’s smile never faltered. “You look beautiful.”
Skylar managed a tight nod, her throat constricting around words she couldn’t voice. Beautiful, perhaps, but stripped of everything that had once made her powerful.
No, it wasn’t about the power or title. But they had allowed her to be herself, even if she hadn’t known it all these years.
The corset cinched her waist, the shoes pinched her toes, and the intricate arrangement of braids and curls pulled at her scalp with dull, persistent pain. She had traded one cage for another, and the bars of this one seemed to press closer with each passing moment.
Her mother lifted her hand to adjust a stray lock of Skylar’s hair. The complicated updo left her neck exposed, and Skylar suppressed a shiver as her mother’s fingers brushed against her skin.
“There,” the Dowager Duchess whispered. “Perfect.”
As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Skylar noticed increased security measures. Guards were stationed at every doorway, their postures tense and alert. While the other nobles seemed oblivious, chattering and laughing, the metallic clink of armor was barely audible above the general din. But to Skylar’s trained ear, it spoke volumes about the heightened state of readiness.
Then, a flurry of motion caught her eye. Captain Knox stood near an entrance, whispering orders at a cluster of guards, their numbers far exceeding what was typical for such an event. The Captain’s face was flushed, a sheen of sweat visible on his brow despite the relative coolness of the large hall.
“Something’s not right,” Skylar murmured, more to herself than to her mother.
The Dowager Duchess followed her gaze. “You could ask them what’s going on,” she suggested.
Skylar shook her head, tamping down the instinct to take charge. The motion caused a tendril of hair to escape its pins, tickling her cheek. “No,” she said, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. “That’s something a duke would do.”
As the words left her mouth, Skylar sensed a flutter deep within her chest. It was so faint she might have imagined it, but for a moment, she could have sworn she felt the Gryphon stirring. Before she could dwell on it, a snippet of conversation from nearby guards caught her attention.
“…still haven’t found her?”
Skylar’s eyes met her mother’s, and she saw the knowing look there. With a slight nod of encouragement from the Dowager Duchess, and plastering on her most charming smile, Skylar approached the men. “Pardon me,” she said, pitching her voice a bit higher than natural. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Is everything alright?”
The guards exchanged a wary glance before the smaller of the two answered. His eyes skimmed over Skylar dismissively, barely registering her presence. “Nothing to concern yourself with, my lady. You must have misheard.”
Heat rose to her cheeks, a flush of anger and embarrassment that burned beneath her skin. She realized how easily she had been brushed aside, her concerns dismissed without a second thought.
If they had known who she truly was, they would never have…
Swallowing her frustration, she retreated to her mother’s side.
The Dowager Duchess raised an eyebrow, bouncing a fussing Conley. “Well?”
Skylar’s jaw clenched. “They wouldn’t tell me anything,” she admitted, the words leaving a sour taste in her mouth. “Apparently, I’m not important enough to be privy to such information.”
Her mother’s expression softened with sympathy. “It will take time to adjust, my dear. But remember, your worth isn’t determined by your title or your ability to intimidate others.”
Before Skylar could respond, a familiar voice cut through the din of the ballroom.
“Your Grace! What an absolute delight to see you.”
Lady Emma glided towards them, her purple gown accentuating her thin waist, drawing appreciative glances from nearby gentlemen. The scent of powder and roses wafted through the air, cloying and overwhelming.
“And who is this?” Lady Emma’s gaze lingered on Skylar, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”
The Dowager Duchess smiled, though Skylar noticed the tension in her mother’s shoulders. “Lady Emma, may I present my niece, Skye.”
The lie rolled off her mother’s tongue with practiced ease, but Skylar felt each word like a dagger to her heart. She loathed hearing her name. But what hurt her most was that her mother couldn’t introduce her as her daughter.
Lady Emma’s perfectly plucked eyebrows arched. “I wasn’t aware you had any siblings, Your Grace.”
“A distant relation,” the Dowager Duchess replied smoothly, her tone brooking no further questions.
“How wonderful,” Lady Emma purred, her gaze never leaving Skylar. “Tell me, dear Lady Skye, have you had the pleasure of meeting our dashing Crown Prince yet?”
Skylar’s heart clenched at the mention of Arye. She forced a polite smile. “I’m afraid not. I’ve only just arrived.”
“Oh, we simply must rectify that,” Lady Emma insisted, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “I’d be more than happy to introduce you. After all, a girl in your… position… could benefit greatly from such an acquaintance.”
The implication was clear. In Lady Emma’s eyes, Skylar was nothing more than a social climber, a nobody grasping at the fringes of power. The urge to put this simpering courtier in her place was almost overwhelming.
“That’s very kind of you, Lady Emma,” the Dowager Duchess said, her tone carrying a subtle edge. “But I believe Marquis Edwards has been quite eager to make Skye’s acquaintance. Perhaps another time.”
Lady Emma’s smile tightened, but she recovered quickly. “Of course, Your Grace.” She turned to Skylar. “Enjoy the ball, dear.”
With a final, calculating look, Lady Emma sashayed away, leaving the scent of roses and thinly veiled threats in her wake.
“Charming,” Skylar muttered. “I preferred her clinging to my arm.”
Her mother’s lips quirked. “The most dangerous kind, my dear. Never underestimate a woman with ambition and too much time on her hands.”
As if summoned by their conversation, a tall figure in midnight blue appeared before them.
“Dowager Duchess, you honor us with your presence.” Marquis Kaiden Edwards bowed deeply, his chestnut hair falling artfully across his forehead. As he straightened, his gaze fell upon Skylar, and his eyes widened appreciatively. “And this must be your lovely relative. I must say, you are even more stunning than I’d imagined.”
Skylar felt a flush creep up her neck, unused to such direct compliments. She’d received plenty as the Duke, of course, but none about her looks. This was… different.
“You’re too kind, Marquis Edwards,” Skylar replied, inclining her head slightly. “I hope the reality doesn’t disappoint after such anticipation.”
“For a vision like you? I’d wait an eternity.” A roguish grin spread across his face, revealing perfect white teeth. He leaned in, his words dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Please, call me Kaiden.”
Skylar couldn’t help but chuckle at the line, delivered with just the right amount of self-awareness to be charming rather than cloying. “Careful, Marquis Kaiden,” she teased. “A girl might get ideas with talk like that.”
“Perhaps that’s my intention,” he shot back, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
As they continued to banter, Skylar found herself grudgingly impressed. Marquis Kaiden was quick-witted and articulate, matching her verbal sparring with ease. It wasn’t quite the same as her exchanges with Arye, but it was… pleasant. She could see why her mother chose him.
“So, tell me,” he said, offering Skylar his escort. “What do you think of the ball so far? I must admit, I find these affairs rather tedious, but your presence has certainly livened things up.”
Skylar took his arm, the fabric soft under her fingers. “Oh? And here I thought you’d be in your element, charming the ladies and securing alliances.”
Marquis Edwards laughed, a rich sound that drew admiring glances from nearby guests. “You’ve caught me out. Though, I’d much rather secure an alliance with you than any of these other nobles.”
“My, my,” Skylar retorted, arching an eyebrow. “You move quickly, don’t you? We’ve barely met, and already you’re talking of alliances.”
“When one encounters a rare treasure, one must act swiftly,” he replied, his tone softening. “But I hope you’ll allow me the time to prove myself worthy of such an alliance.”
Skylar felt a pang in her chest. He was charming, certainly, and in another life, she might have been flattered by his attention. But every word, every gesture, only served to remind her of what—of who—she truly wanted.
“I’ve just realized,” Marquis Kaiden said suddenly, his brow furrowing slightly. “In all the excitement, I never caught your name.”
Skylar blinked, taken by surprise. “Oh,” she stammered, her mind racing. “You can call me Skye.”
She regretted it. But it was too late.
“Skye,” the Marquis repeated, savoring the word. “It suits you. As ethereal and lovely as the heavens themselves.”
The moment he said it, Skylar recoiled as if she’d been struck. A wave of nausea washed over her, so intense she feared she might be sick right there on the ballroom floor. The name sounded terrible in his mouth, a pale imitation of the way Arye’s voice caressed the syllable. She wanted to cry, to scream, to beg him never to utter it again. That privilege belonged to Arye and Arye alone.
Skylar opened her mouth to respond, but her words died on her lips as a sudden commotion near the entrance drew her attention. The crowd’s murmur rose to a fever pitch, excitement and anticipation crackling through the air like lightning. A group of nobles parted like a sea, their jewels and silks creating a kaleidoscope of color as they moved aside.
And then she saw him.
Arye.
Skylar’s breath hitched in her throat, a strangled gasp that she prayed was lost in the general commotion. He cut a dashing figure in his formal attire—a midnight jacket adorned with intricate gold embroidery that caught the light with every movement, crisp white trousers that accentuated his long legs, and a burgundy cape with a fur collar that draped elegantly over one shoulder. The rich fabric seemed to ripple like liquid fire, drawing attention in the room.
His raven hair was styled impeccably, not a strand out of place. But it was his eyes that captured Skylar’s attention, holding her transfixed. Those storm-gray eyes scanned the ballroom with an intensity that made her heart race, seeming to pierce through the glittering facade of the ball to the tensions that simmered beneath.
“Quite the entrance,” Marquis Kaiden murmured, a hint of admiration in his voice. “The Crown Prince certainly knows how to command a room.”
Skylar nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak. She watched as Arye made his way to the dais where King Lyinell stood, noting the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes that most would miss. Then she noticed her sword on his side. He still had it. The sight of the familiar weapon at his hip sent a jolt through her, a mixture of longing and possessiveness that left her breathless.
A hush fell over the ballroom as King Lyinell raised his hands for silence. His golden crown glinted in the candlelight, a stark reminder of the power he wielded. Skylar felt her mother tense beside her, her fingers digging into Skylar’s arm. Conley, sensing his mother’s distress, began to wail.
“Shh, shh,” the Dowager Duchess murmured, bouncing the infant gently. But Skylar could see the fear in her expression, the way her gaze dropped to the floor, trying not to get noticed by him.
King Lyinell broke the silence, his tone dripping with false warmth. “Esteemed guests,” he began, his eyes glittering with satisfaction. “We are gathered here not only to celebrate our recent victories but also to look to the future of our great kingdom.”
The King’s gaze swept across the assembled nobles, a benevolent smile on his face. “And now, I will turn things over to my son, Crown Prince Arye. He has some… exciting news to share.”
Skylar’s heart pounded as Arye stepped forward. Up close, she could see the subtle signs of strain—the furrowed brows, the ticking in his cheek, the slight tremor in his hands that he disguised by clasping them behind his back.
“Thank you all for coming,” Arye said, his voice deep and commanding, though Skylar detected a hint of tension beneath the surface. “Your presence here is a testament to the strength and unity of Regalclaw.”
He paused, and Skylar could have sworn his gaze lingered on her for a fraction of a second.
“As we look to secure our kingdom’s future,” Arye continued, his words measured and careful, “I am pleased to announce that I intend to choose my bride from among the ladies present here today.”
The ballroom erupted into a flurry of whispers and gasps. Skylar felt as though the floor had dropped out from beneath her feet. She was dimly aware of Marquis Kaiden saying something, his hand on her elbow, but the words were lost in the roaring of blood in her ears.
Bride. Arye was going to choose a bride. To parade her in front of Skylar’s eyes. She shouldn’t have come.
No, she mustn’t be so selfish. She should be happy for him, cheer for him. So why did this pain seem to tear her apart, worse than summoning the Gryphon?
“My lady,” the Marquis asked, brows furrowed with concern. “Are you alright?”
Skylar wanted to reassure him, to slip back into the role of the demure noblewoman. But as she met his concerned gaze, something within her snapped. The weight of her secrets, her longing, her fear—it all came crashing down in that moment.
“No,” she whispered. “No, I’m not alright at all.”