The birthday banquet shimmered like something out of myth.
The grand ballroom had been transformed into a portrait of opulence. Chandeliers blazing with hundreds of candles, the floors polished to a mirror shine, and tables dressed in embroidered silks and gold-rimmed glass. Musicians played at the far end beneath an arch of white roses. Guests filled the hall like pieces on a chessboard, each one placed deliberately.
And at the high table, under the eye of every watching noble, Beatrice sat beside the king.
Her gown clung like a second skin. Deep crimson, the collar of black jet thorns gleaming at her throat. Her mother's necklace. Her father's design. She wore it like a chain and dared anyone to pull.
The king, resplendent in black and gold, raised his goblet for the first toast of the night. Beatrice's hand moved before she could think.
"Allow me, Your Majesty," she said, lifting the goblet delicately from his fingers.
King Marshall blinked. "Ah. Very kind."
