I perched awkwardly on the edge of the plush velvet seat, my fingers brushing over the fabric of my gown. It was a strange sensation, wearing something so extravagant, so undeniably opulent. The bodice fit snugly, molding to my figure as though it were a part of me, while the skirt flowed in elegant, cascading layers that pooled around me like liquid silk. The deep emerald hue complemented my sun-warmed complexion perfectly, and the intricate golden embroidery caught the light streaming through the carriage window, scattering tiny flecks of brilliance across the interior.
I shifted, feeling the weight of the dress and the weight of the day pressing on me in equal measure. My dark hair, often unremarkable, glowed with a faint reddish sheen under the sunlight filtering through the window. It was an uncanny resemblance to the Marquess’ auburn locks—a similarity that had not gone unnoticed, least of all by Alaric.
Across from me, the Marquess sat with his usual composed elegance, his gaze fixed on the passing cityscape. I had called him “grandfather” once, and the warmth that had bloomed on his face in that moment still lingered faintly in his demeanor, softening the edges of his otherwise stern expression. The sight of him in his element—unwavering, dignified—offered a small measure of comfort.
The city outside unfolded in a kaleidoscope of motion and color. Crowds parted before the carriage like waves, their faces a blur of deference and curiosity. The modest homes of the outer districts gave way to grander structures, each more elaborate than the last. Towers stretched skyward, their banners snapping in the wind, and gilded statues stood watch over the bustling streets below.
When the iron-wrought gates of the palace came into view, I couldn’t suppress the sharp intake of breath. The sheer magnitude of the walls, their grandeur almost intimidating in its perfection, made my chest tighten with a mix of awe and apprehension.
A deliberate cough snapped my attention back inside the carriage. The Marquess’ gaze, piercing yet not unkind, met mine.
“Luciana,” he said, his tone carrying a note of gentle reproach, “remember who you are.” His expression softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Today, you will see wonders that may test your composure, but you must not falter. You are a Kildare; let none question your place here.”
“Yes, grandfather,” I replied, straightening my posture and forcing my features into a calm mask befitting the heir of a noble house. My heart, however, betrayed me, hammering a wild rhythm against my ribcage.
The carriage slowed, its wheels gliding silently over the cobblestones as it came to a stop. The door opened, and before I could even see him, Eamon’s hand was there—steady, reassuring. His fingers brushed mine briefly as he helped me descend, a practiced elegance in his movements that once again made me wonder how he had come by such courtly skill.
“Steady now, Luci,” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. There was a playful lilt to his voice, though his eyes, sharp and watchful, revealed his seriousness.
The Marquess stepped out after me with a grace that seemed effortless, surveying the scene with an air of accustomed dignity. I followed his gaze to the welcoming party assembled on the marble threshold of the palace.
Standing at its center was Crown Prince Sterling. Draped in velvets of deep amethyst and gold, he exuded regal poise, though his features were far from striking. His light hazel eyes held a reserved intelligence, and his neatly styled hair—an unremarkable shade of burnished oak—framed a jawline that did most of the heavy lifting in salvaging his appearance. He was flanked by a line of imperial knights, the purple and gold of their uniforms reinforcing the grandeur of the moment.
I took in the scene, the splendor and solemnity of it all, feeling both the weight of the Marquess’ earlier words and the silent reassurance of Eamon’s presence at my side. This was the heart of the kingdom, the epicenter of power, and I was stepping into it—not as an outsider, but as someone who belonged.
At least, that was what I had to make them believe.
"Your Highness," intoned the Marquess, bowing his head respectfully. I echoed the gesture, sweeping into a perfect curtsy next to him.
"Marquess Alastair," Prince Sterling greeted, his voice carrying a faint warmth that softened the edges of formality. His gaze, however, lingered on me with an intensity that made the moment stretch.
I felt the weight of his scrutiny as his eyes traced the contours of my face, the curve of my shoulders, and the way my gown clung to my waist before cascading into its silken layers. His examination wasn’t hurried; he made no effort to disguise it. When his gaze reached my hair, I noticed the subtle shift in his expression. The sunlight streaming through the high palace windows played through the strands, teasing out hidden hints of red amidst the dark brown—a mirror to the Marquess’ auburn locks. The resemblance seemed to catch on something in the Prince’s mind, knitting his brow ever so slightly. Doubt flickered in his hazel eyes, a brief crack in the certainty that might have bolstered Alaric’s accusations of my illegitimacy.
With a measured gesture, Prince Sterling turned, leading us through the labyrinthine splendor of the palace. The corridors were adorned with towering frescoes and tapestries, each chronicling the victories and virtues of kings past. Their vibrant depictions of triumph seemed to echo the grandeur of the marble floors beneath our feet, where every step resonated softly in the silence.
At last, two towering iron doors loomed before us, appearing as though conjured from the shadows of the endless hallway. They swung open without so much as a creak, revealing a room that stole the breath from my chest.
Shelves stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, cradling tomes bound in cracked leather and worn vellum, their spines gilded with faded titles. Encased in glass, arcane artifacts shimmered faintly, each protected by glowing runes that pulsed with latent energy. The air itself seemed alive, humming softly as if the room held secrets waiting to be uncovered.
Alaric was already there, standing near the center of the room. His posture was rigid, his tailored jacket of dark brocade fitted so perfectly it seemed a second skin. Silver threads wove through the fabric, matching the frost in his gray eyes. Those same eyes sharpened when they met mine, narrowing with unmistakable disdain. His lips curled into a scowl, and though he said nothing, his irritation hung in the air like a storm cloud.
Beside him stood King Edmund, his demeanor a stark contrast. His thick, graying beard framed a face creased with laugh lines, and his smile carried a disarming warmth. “Alastair, always a pleasure,” he said, his voice rich and resonant.
“Your Majesty,” the Marquess replied, bowing his head with practiced deference. I followed suit, my curtsy deep and deliberate, though my heart thudded with nerves.
“Raise your head, child,” the king instructed, his tone kind yet commanding. I obeyed, though I kept my gaze respectfully lowered until his chuckle drew my attention. “So,” he mused, his eyes twinkling, “you must be Lady Luciana Kildare.”
I curtsied again, deeper this time, before daring to meet his gaze. His eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto mine, and for a moment, his expression shifted into something like recognition.
“Ah,” he said thoughtfully, “your hair may lack the copper fire, but those eyes… That is Kildare green, without a doubt.”
Alaric’s scowl deepened, his fists clenching at his sides. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye, and though vindication simmered within me, I remained still, my face schooled into polite neutrality. The effort to conceal my smirk tested my resolve.
Prince Sterling, ever the mediator, stepped forward smoothly. “To dispel all doubts, let us proceed with the chalice.”
The king nodded, his expression firm but approving.
A figure emerged from the shadows of the room, his presence so quiet it was as though he had materialized from the air itself. Cloaked in dark fabric, the hood obscured his face, adding to the eerie weight of his appearance. He approached with a respectful bow, extending his hands to reveal a round silver object adorned with black gems.
King Edmund accepted it and moved to one of the glass cases. Without hesitation, he extended his hand, and I watched in stunned silence as his fingers passed through the glass as though it were no more than mist.
My breath hitched at the casual display of magic, my awe fighting against the need to keep my composure. I could feel the thrum of power in the air.
With a flourish that seemed as much about the theatrics of the moment as it was about the ritual itself, King Edmund produced the Sanguine Chalice from within the glass case. It was a vessel of deep burgundy, almost black, with veins of gold snaking around its circumference. The chalice seemed to drink in the light, casting an ominous yet regal presence upon the marble pedestal where it was placed.
Beside it, the king laid a dagger of exquisite craftsmanship. Its handle was wrought from silver, encrusted with rubies that matched the chalice in their deep red hue, and the blade itself was a mirror finish, honed to a deadly sharpness. It was both a weapon and a work of art.
Alaric's smirk was a shadow passing over his face as he took hold of the dagger.
"Ladies first," he said, offering it to me with a calculated casualness.
I met his gaze evenly, my pulse steady.
I accepted the dagger with the calm composure of someone familiar with the sting of a blade. Without flinching, I extended my left arm over the chalice and made a clean cut across my forearm, eliciting sharp intakes of breath from onlookers.
"Luciana!" The Marquess' voice betrayed his shock. "Why would you cut your arm and not your hand?"
"Cutting my palm would hinder daily tasks," I explained calmly, my voice level despite the fresh wound. "This is less bothersome."
King Edmund let out a chuckle that resonated with warmth and surprise.
"Infallible logic, just like your mother." A note of fond reminiscence tinged his words. "The palace has healers that would have mended your hand. Though now it will be your arm."
Heat crept into my cheeks as I realized my thoughtlessness, but there was no time for embarrassment as Eamon approached, gently wrapping my forearm in a cloth with practiced care.
Meanwhile, Alaric, with a disdainful twist of his lips, wiped the dagger clean on his handkerchief before slicing his palm. Blood welled up as he clenched his hand, forcing droplets to fall into the chalice.
At first, nothing happened, and the tension in the room thickened like fog. Then, gradually, the contents began to glow—a luminescent, deep crimson that cast an otherworldly light across our faces. The glow pulsed as if the chalice had taken on a life force.
A long-held sigh escaped me, relief washing away the doubt I didn't realize I had been harboring. Standing close by, Eamon could barely contain a triumphant grin as he watched Alaric, whose eyes remained locked on the now-dimming chalice, disbelief etching his features.
Once the glow subsided, leaving only the echo of its power in the air, King Edmund addressed the Marquess. "Alistair, I look forward to attending the succession ceremony."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," the Marquess replied with a bow, humility and pride mingling in his tone.
"Take your time here," the King continued, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "It is Lady Kildare's first visit to the palace, after all." With a nod, he departed, leaving the echoes of his departure to fade into the vast collection of knowledge that surrounded us.
The Marquess turned to me, "Luciana, once the healers are done with you, please wait outside. I need to speak with Alaric."
I nodded as a new figure dressed in a brown cloak approached me. The man undid the bandage and applied a clear salve that stopped the bleeding completely.
"The wound should be closed up completely by the end of the day," the healer whispered before turning and disappearing among the tall shelves of artifacts.
Stepping back into the grandeur of the palace hall, I looked around in confusion. The walls were still cloaked in rich tapestries depicting battles and coronations, but they weren't the ones I had seen on my way in, and the lush carpet had been replaced with polished white marble veined with the gold of centuries.
"The room must have an enchantment on it," Eamon finally voiced. "The entrance and exit must change every time to protect the items within."
I was both fascinated and frustrated by the magic I was witnessing used within the palace. It was unlike any I had encountered before, likely cast centuries ago when witches roamed freely without prejudice.
"Listen to him," Eamon chuckled, a sly grin crossing his face as Alaric's muted fury seeped through the door. "He is just wasting his breath. You are the heir, and there isn't anything he can do about it."
I, less amused, fixed my companion with a puzzled frown.
"Please explain why I am to inherit everything over him?"
"Your eyes," Eamon stated simply.
"What does that have to do with it?" I interjected, my impatience tinged with confusion.
Eamon released an exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Have you read any of your family history?"
"No, I haven't had time," I admitted with a dismissive shrug.
I could see Eamon gearing up for a lecture, his brow furrowing.
Preempting him, I said, "We've been in Aurorea for just over a week. On top of that, I've had to take a crash course on etiquette for this visit, so no, I haven't had the chance to delve into my family's archives."
"Green eyes like yours, and the Marquess', are rare—not just in Aurorea but everywhere on the continent, and even in Nimrea," Eamon explained, his voice softening with a touch of understanding for what I had gone through recently. "It was believed, long ago, that this green hue had its origins linked to magic. Those born with green eyes were said to have a strong connection and affinity with the ethereal forces of nature, drawing upon the ancient strength of the land itself."
"Like elementalists?" I asked, interrupting Eamon.
"Exactly. A few of your ancestors were known to be powerful elementalists before the purge of magical humans." Eamon continued, "Therefore, they were the ones to inherit the title of Marquess, no matter the gender. And there has always been only one holder of green eyes per generation. Your grandfather, then your mother, now you."
I mulled over his words, the gravity of my birthright settling heavily on my shoulders. I ventured cautiously, "What happens if the green-eyed successor or head of the family dies and there is no other with green eyes?"
"Then," Eamon said with a solemn stare, "the title is inherited by the next of kin until a new family member is born with the mark of inheritance."
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