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In Beatrice's chambers, there was a deep silence, as if winter itself were holding the air in its palms. Outside the windows, the glass was traced with delicate lacework of frost, and beyond it, light, almost weightless snow was swirling.
Since early morning, the palace had been alive with the rhythm of hurried footsteps and hushed voices. Everywhere, maids were hanging fabrics the color of warm milk, rolling out carpets, and polishing candlesticks to a gleam. In the corners, incense and myrrh were burning, blending with the scent of pine garlands. The Winter Ball was approaching.
And with it, the moment that was meant to solidify the new Beatrice in the eyes of the court.
She stood before a tall mirror while her ladies-in-waiting carefully unfolded dresses in front of her.
– This one, Your Grace, is embroidered with gold… – murmured the first, pointing to a heavy velvet gown the color of old blood.
– And this one bears your house's crest, Your Highness, – added another, offering brocade densely stitched with lions and crowns.
Beatrice watched in silence. Everything was right. Everything was beautiful. And yet, none of it was hers.
She looked over the gowns spread before her—heavy, gleaming, alien. Another world surfaced in her memory: tailored suits, business meetings, where it wasn't jewels that mattered, but how you held your head. An outfit wasn't meant to weigh on your shoulders but to give you freedom. Then Beatrice narrowed her eyes slightly and pointed:
– Leave this one, – she said quietly.
The dress was light in color, like sapphire glass, like the evening sky before snowfall. The heavy silk flowed softly, without restricting movement. But Beatrice instructed them to add something new:
An almost invisible layer of the finest silvery silk, like mist over water. The ladies-in-waiting exchanged glances, startled.
It was unusual. It was beautiful.
– Tell the tailors, – she added more firmly, – that everything must be ready by evening. Otherwise, let them leave the dress as it is.
Bows. The whisper of silk. The dress was carefully taken away.
Left alone after the tailors had gone, Beatrice approached a low carved box on her vanity. Inside, among a scatter of the former queen's old jewelry, lay rings, necklaces, brooches—heavy, ostentatious, as if they demanded worship.
Beatrice picked up a diadem and turned it in her fingers. Heavy. Like chains.
She sighed quietly and placed it back.
– Lynette, – she called softly.
The girl, carefully folding ribbons, turned:
– Yes, Your Grace?
Beatrice gave a faint smile.
– Help me choose something… something I can wear without feeling like I've been chained to a pedestal.
Lynette froze for a moment, unaccustomed to such a request. But then she hesitantly approached and leaned over the box.
With slender fingers, she sifted through the jewelry and selected a tiny chain of white gold. Hanging from it was a delicate pendant in the shape of a sun—almost invisible, warm.
– This… it's very modest, Your Grace, – Lynette murmured, as if apologizing. – But it feels… alive. Not loud. Like you.
Beatrice took the chain in her hand. Light. Almost weightless. She smiled with the corners of her mouth.
– Alive, you say? That's exactly what I need.
Lynette quickly turned away, hiding her smile. And Beatrice remained by the window, running the chain through her fingers, feeling a strange lightness.
That night, when she stepped out to the ball, it wouldn't be a family ruby or heavy gold adorning her neck. It would be a small sun. A reminder of her own path. The sun, she thought. My sun. Lair. His tiny fingers. His soft scent of milk and flowers. His faint but stubborn breath on her chest. And now his warmth would be with her. Even here. Even in a hall full of foreign eyes and cold smiles.
Beatrice lowered her head, allowing herself a brief smile.
– A little sun on my chest, – she whispered. – And the world doesn't seem so frightening anymore.
Under the shadow of a tall arched vault, just before the doors to the Council Hall, stood Theodore.
He wore a dark ceremonial doublet embroidered with silver thread, a cloak fastened high on the shoulder, and the de Lancy house ring gleamed on his hand. He was composed, focused—like a rock one could lean on. And yet, at the corners of his eyes, there was the faintest shadow. He was waiting. And time stretched on slowly.
The herald, struggling to contain his nerves, kept glancing at the doors: one more minute, and he would have to begin the announcement.
Theodore's gloved fingers tightened slightly. She would come.
And she did. The door creaked open just a little. And into the hall, as if belatedly from the heart of the palace, she flew in. A little rushed. Cheeks flushed from the cold. Her hair slightly tousled from haste—but it only added to her vivid, trembling beauty.
She was wearing that same sapphire dress: silk, a soft mist of silver overlay that shimmered with every step. Every movement she made was filled with hidden strength and a quiet, unobtrusive sensuality—not in the dress, not in her body. In the way the silk hugged her waist. In the way her hand looked delicate and gentle. In the way the smile on her lips was light, but genuine. And every man in that corridor paused, involuntarily.
Theodore stepped forward. Offered his hand.
For a brief moment, he thought she would refuse as she had before—out of caution, out of habit to keep her distance. But Beatrice, without lowering her gaze, placed her hand in his. Light. Warm.
She didn't smile openly. But in her eyes, there was something that made his heart, so used to its steady rhythm, skip half a beat.
Theodore tilted his head slightly lower, hiding an uninvited smile.
The herald responded instantly, raised his staff, and called out loudly:
– His Majesty King Theodore Raimund de Lancy and Her Majesty Queen Beatrice de Lancy!
The doors opened. And they entered the hall together. Step for step. As rulers. As allies. As something more than just a political union.
When the herald announced their names, the hall seemed to hold its breath. Thousands of candles placed along the walls, in chandeliers and candelabras, reflected off the silver of the guards' weapons, the gold buttons of courtly coats, and the jeweled threads of the ladies' gowns.
A moment passed—and the entire hall rose. Slowly. With reverence. Like the sea bowing before the wind.
Beatrice could feel the silence tighten above the crowd like a drawn string. She felt the weight of a thousand gazes falling upon her—curious, judgmental, secretly spiteful, and quietly admiring.
And yet she held her head high. Her fingers almost imperceptibly tightened around Theodore's hand. He responded with a faint squeeze—subtle, but steady. Step by step, they entered the hall.
And people stepped aside before them, as if before the dawn. Not a rustle, not a gesture disrupted the procession. Only the soft whisper of gowns and the dry crackle of torches in the stone niches.
When they reached the center of the hall, the musicians, hidden high on the balcony, began the first melody.
A warm, rippling tune from the strings spread beneath the ceiling like honey. Flutes picked up the theme, adding sparks of cheer to the music. Drums beat gently, like hearts in chests. Life returned to the hall. Courtiers bowed and curtsied. Guests murmured in hushed voices. Trays passed between them with cups of warm wine, spiced pastries, plates of candied fruits and roasted nuts.
Beatrice, releasing Theodore's hand, looked around the hall. Elegant ladies in gowns the colors of a frosted sunset—from deep purple to pale icy pink—stood near the columns, brushing imagined dust from their skirts.
Gentlemen in dark coats gathered in little clusters, already whispering politics between sips of cider.
Children from noble families darted into corners, throwing snowballs at each other—carried in from the street as a joke.
Servants glided between the guests like shadows, nearly invisible.
At the center of the hall, a wide space had been cleared for dancing. Silver garlands stretched under the ceiling, reflecting firelight and glow. The air was filled with the scent of warm honey, fresh bread, woodsmoke, and the light citrus notes of the wines.
From somewhere in the depths of the hall came a soft laugh—one of the guests had dared a first joke. Someone was already planning dances and weaving intrigues beneath the music.
When a new melody began to play, Theodore stepped forward and, as etiquette dictated, bowed his head in a graceful half-bow.
– Your Grace, – he said quietly, just for her to hear, – will you honor your king?
Beatrice froze for a second.
The stuffy hall, filled with light, people, the aromas of winter wine, seemed to narrow to a single circle—to her and to him.
Everyone was watching. Every breath, every glance was fixed on her.
And yet she straightened, smiled a little tensely, and placed her hand in his.
As Theodore led her to the center of the hall, his fingers closed more firmly around hers, as if shielding her from anyone who might dare to look too closely.
He led her lightly, confidently, as though the music flowed through his body. His hand on her waist was perfectly proper at first, but with every turn, every gliding step, he unconsciously drew her closer.
The fine fabric of her dress whispered softly as it brushed against his coat. The warm scent of her skin—barely perceptible—was driving him mad. Theodore could feel her breath near his neck. Felt the tension in her hand on his shoulder, the tremble in her fingers. Felt the sudden flare of shame and something forbidden ignite in his chest. Stop. Keep control. But the thoughts flashed one after another—hot, alive, restless.
He didn't want to let her go.
Beatrice tried to focus. She pressed her lips together to stay in rhythm. Repeated the steps in her head—the ones Lynette had patiently taught her in recent days. Don't embarrass yourself. Don't trip. Then Theodore leaned in and whispered in her ear—don't look at your feet, – he murmured, lips barely brushing the air near her temple, – or you'll definitely stumble.
Beatrice couldn't help but laugh—short, nervous. And raised her eyes to his. And drowned in them. His gaze was soft, warm. His gray eyes, usually stern, now seemed brighter, as if a quiet flame had lit somewhere in their depths. She saw the man. The one who held her like she was the entire world. Her breath caught. Her cheeks flushed pink—not from shame. Not from fear. From herself. From the thought that flickered for just a second and burned.
The music quickened. They spun at the center of the circle like two satellites tied by an invisible thread. Beatrice's gown flared around her legs, the silver threads in her hair sparkled in the chandelier's light. And Theodore looked only at her. And smiled. Not like a king. But like a man who had finally found what he was afraid to lose.