Two weeks had passed since the Earl returned from his business trip, and the estate hadn't known a moment of peace since. Between the endless fittings, the stylists arguing over fabrics, and servants rushing in and out with accessories boxes, it felt like the entire manor had turned into a dressing room.
Now, on the evening of the banquet, all that preparation had come to this moment.
Celeste stood in the hallway just outside Isadora's room, her husband beside her. He looked calm as ever, though his brow lifted slightly at the distant sounds of clinking jewelry and someone frantically searching for a missing shoe.
"She's been through a lot these past two weeks," Celeste said quietly, hands folded in front of her. "It wasn't easy, but she's trying."
The Earl nodded. "You've done well with her."
Celeste smiled at that, then turned toward the door. "Isadora," she called gently, "we're ready whenever you are."
A beat of silence passed.
Then came her voice from behind the door, hesitant but clear. "This is probably a terrible idea…"
Celeste exchanged a knowing look with her husband. "Just open the door."
There was a soft sigh from the other side.
Then, slowly, the door creaked open.
Isadora stepped forward slowly, unsure whether to strut, glide, or try not to trip. But she looked… like she belonged in another world entirely.
Her gown was a cascade of midnight blue silk and sheer silver overlay, fitted to the waist before spilling into elegant waves that swept across the floor with every step. Tiny embroidered stars shimmered when she moved, catching the light like constellations stitched straight into the fabric. A slit ran subtly along one side, revealing a whisper of her leg when she walked—modern rebellion in a classic silhouette.
Her hair had been swept into a soft updo with gentle curls framing her face. Tucked just behind one ear was a silver pin shaped like a crescent moon. A delicate mask—filigree and glittering like frost—rested in her hand, ready to be tied once she arrived.
Around her neck hung a subtle chain—barely visible unless one looked closely. The bracelet of time had been tucked cleverly beneath the cuff of one long sleeve.
And her expression?
Terrified.
"You're staring," Isadora said.
Celeste blinked, once. Twice. Then let out a quiet, pleased laugh. "Good. That means everyone else will too."
Isadora gave her a flat look. "Do I look like I'm about to pass out? Because I feel like I'm about to pass out."
"You look magnificent." Celeste stood, smoothing her gown. "Now try not to run before we even make it to the carriage."
"Not making promises," Isadora muttered, adjusting the neckline for the fifth time. "If I bolt, tell them I was kidnapped by pirates. Or developed spontaneous gown allergies."
Celeste just smiled and offered her arm. "Come on, my lady. Let's go shake up the aristocracy."
The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel drive as the estate loomed ahead—tall and glowing in the evening light like a gilded fortress. Music drifted from within, a haunting waltz that pulsed through the stone walls. Lanterns hung from trees and balconies, casting golden halos on the night air.
Isadora sat frozen inside the carriage, her mask now secured over her face. The delicate silver filigree curved perfectly along her cheekbones, making her eyes seem sharper, and more mysterious than she felt.
She swallowed hard. "This is it."
The door swung open.
A footman offered his hand. She hesitated—then took it.
The second her slippers touched the marble steps of the grand entrance, the world seemed to shift.
Gasps fluttered through the small crowd near the doors. Not loud, but enough for her to hear. Enough for her to feel the weight of dozens of eyes trying to guess her name.
She walked forward slowly, heart hammering, gown trailing behind her like midnight mist. The chandeliers inside sparkled, and every noble in the room was already masked and polished, draped in silks and jewels—but none quite like her. There was something untamed in the way she held herself, something that didn't belong to this world.
She didn't glide. She moved like she had somewhere better to be.
Up on the mezzanine, standing like a sentinel above the glittering chaos, was Duke Lucien D'Aragon.
He hadn't planned to attend. He had sworn—that he would never waste time at one of these frivolous courtly displays. But somehow, here he was, draped in black and blood-red.
His formal coat was a sharp, tailored cut—midnight velvet lined with crimson silk that flashed subtly as he moved. A silver chain crossed his chest, fastening at the shoulder with a sigil of his house: a wolf with a crimson eye. His gloves were black leather, stitched with quiet precision, and his boots polished to a mirror shine. Over his left eye, a sleek, dark half-mask framed the exposed side of his face, while the other remained covered—concealing the notorious eye that had earned him the title Crimson-Eyed Beast.
He leaned slightly against the balcony railing, watching the masked guests swirl below like painted dolls. But when she entered—her gown catching the light, her mask making her unreadable, her posture all bold and clumsy—Lucien stilled.
One crimson eye gleamed beneath the mask, narrowing slightly.
There was something in the way she walked. Something he recognized, though they'd never officially met.
The masked woman hadn't even looked up at him.
But she had his full attention now.
Isadora had officially reached her limit.
After an hour of standing straight, smiling politely, and exchanging pleasantries with people she barely understood, she snapped.
"I need food," she muttered, slipping away from Celeste's watchful eye.
The banquet hall was massive, filled with gilded pillars, glittering masks, and music that flowed like silk through the air—but none of that mattered the second she spotted the buffet.
She made a beeline for it, her heels clicking with determination. Her stomach growled like a beast. Graceful curtsies and perfect posture were long forgotten. All she could see was the mountain of roasted meats, delicate cheeses, and flaky pastries calling her name.
She reached for a plate and piled it high, completely ignoring the nobleman who stepped aside for her.
"You forgot to curtsy," a voice said from beside her.
Isadora froze with a skewer halfway to her mouth.
She glanced to her left. A tall man stood there, dressed in a sharp black coat with crimson detailing and a half-mask covering part of his face. His tone had been calm, a little amused. His presence? Unshakable.
Isadora blinked. "Curtsy?" she repeated, then shrugged. "Not unless the food starts asking for it."
The man said nothing, only raised one brow, clearly taken off guard.
"I've been wearing a corset for three hours and smiling like a trained monkey," she said, stuffing a bite into her mouth. "So unless you're going to fight me for this pastry, I'm going to eat it."
A pause.
Then the man let out a low, almost surprised chuckle. "By all means."
"Thank you," Isadora said, tossing him a cheerful, unapologetic smile before turning back to the food like the whole exchange meant nothing.
Lucien stood there a second longer, one gloved hand resting lightly on the edge of the table, watching her as she walked off without a backward glance.
No title. No fear. No idea who he was.
A short while later, Isadora stood near the edge of the ballroom, sipping something sparkly and pretending to be interested in a noblewoman's long-winded story about her third cousin's wedding drama. Her mind, however, was still on the mystery man from the buffet.
She glanced across the room—and there he was again.
The tall man in black and crimson, now deep in conversation with King Aldric himself. A small cluster of nobles stood nearby, giving him space, some watching with wide eyes, others whispering behind their fans.
"Who is that?" Isadora asked the nearest servant, trying to keep her voice casual.
The maid, a young woman carrying a tray of wine, blinked at her. "You don't recognize him?"
Isadora tilted her head. "Should I?"
"That's Duke Lucien D'Aragon. The Crimson-Eyed Beast. General of the king's army."
Isadora's stomach dropped.
Her mind flashed back to the food table. You forgot to curtsy. Her holding a skewer like a weapon. Unless the food starts asking for it. Shoving a pastry in her mouth. Unless you're going to fight me for this—
"Oh… shit," she muttered.
She had insulted the duke.
And he had laughed.
Before she could mentally spiral any further, the music shifted, and the grand doors opened once more. The crowd turned, falling into whispers again—but this time, not in awe. In tension.
A woman entered.
Tall, elegant, wrapped in a shimmering dark red gown that clung to her every curve. Her mask was shaped like black lace vines, and her smile was like a blade—sharp, cold, and beautiful.
"Lady Seraphina Vael," someone whispered.
The name made a few people visibly tense. One nobleman took a step back, another subtly turned away.
Isadora looked toward Lucien.
His jaw had tensed, his gaze fixed briefly on Seraphina—but unreadable.
She, on the other hand, made her way straight toward him with slow, deliberate steps, each movement a performance. Her eyes never left him.
"Well," Isadora mumbled to herself, watching the interaction, "this is definitely above my pay grade."
And just like that, her night had gotten a whole lot more interesting.
Isadora barely had time to recover before a gentle hand touched her elbow.
"Lady Isadora."
She turned to find the Earl—Celeste's husband—standing beside her, dressed in stately formalwear with his silver embroidered mask angled just slightly to the side. His expression was calm but purposeful.
"It's time," he said quietly. "His Majesty has arrived. We are expected to offer our greetings."
Isadora swallowed, casting one last glance toward the Duke and the dangerous woman now speaking to him far too closely.
She straightened her shoulders. "Right. Of course."
He offered his arm, which she took, and together they moved through the shifting crowd toward the center of the ballroom where a small line had already begun to form—nobles waiting to bow curtsy and flatter the most powerful man in the kingdom.
Isadora's steps faltered just slightly. "Do I have to say something specific?"
The Earl gave a faint smile. "Just speak with respect. You're with us, so you won't be questioned."
"Great," she muttered under her breath. "No pressure at all."
As they moved closer, the air seemed to tighten with formality. The king was a broad-shouldered man in regal navy and gold, seated in a grand chair at the far end of the room, surrounded by guards and advisors. His expression was unreadable.
Isadora took a breath.
Okay. Don't trip. Don't stutter. Don't curse.
And if she saw that red-eyed Duke again, maybe don't wave a skewer at him this time.