Marcelline stared at the polished glass.

  Her silver hair cascaded over her shoulders. The court maids had pressed heavy layers of powder into her skin, caking it over the dark, bruised exhaustion beneath her eyes. The thick paste felt like a physical mask. A careful touch of rose paste colored her lips just enough to mimic life.

  She looked like a princess.

  The reflection stared back with dead, freezing eyes. Beneath the heavy silk and the suffocating tightness of her corset, her hands trembled. She curled them into fists. She drove her manicured nails deep into her palms until the physical sting grounded her to reality.

  "Turn a little to the left, Your Highness."

  An older woman stood quietly near the heavy oak door. Marcelline obeyed. The woman stepped forward, her practiced hands adjusting the heavy silk folds of the dress.

  "You are standing too stiffly," the nanny murmured. "Relax your shoulders. You are attending a celebration. Save the rigid posture for an execution."

  Marcelline forced the corners of her mouth upward. "I will try, Nanny."

  "You will do more than try," the older woman said. She brushed an invisible speck of dust from the silver sleeve. "You will endure."

  A sharp knock echoed against the wood.

  "The banquet begins soon, Princess. We must depart."

  The muffled voice of the royal guard pulled Marcelline out of her trance. She looked at the glass one last time. The image of the flawless royal heir felt like a thin sheet of ice. The slightest pressure might shatter it completely.

  She turned toward the door. The nanny followed one step behind, exactly as she had done since Marcelline first learned to walk.

  The grand hall drowned in gold and suffocating perfume.

  Massive crystal chandeliers dripped blinding light from the ceiling. A string orchestra played a soft, classical piece near the upper balcony. Dozens of nobles gathered in tight circles. Their jewels glittered like stars.

  The heavy doors opened. The royal announcer struck the marble floor with his iron-tipped staff.

  "Her Imperial Highness, Princess Marcelline Valecourt."

  Applause washed over the room. The clapping was perfectly synchronized. Measured. Polite.

  Marcelline descended the marble staircase. The nobles bowed exceptionally low. The crowd parted, giving her a circle of space five feet wide.

  No one dared to meet her eyes. A duke offered a bright smile while subtly pulling his daughter behind him. A duchess curtsied gracefully, her pale fingers gripping a black mourning pin attached to her lapel. Her son was Marcelline's classmate. They hid their glares well, but she could feel the hostility radiating from the crowd.

  She looked at her trembling hands. They looked at her crest, remembering the academy courtyard. They saw the culprit behind the massacre of their heirs.

  The Emperor did not attend.

  A high chamberlain stepped onto the central dais instead. He held a thick scroll sealed with the crimson imperial crest.

  "His Majesty sends his deepest regrets," the chamberlain announced. Magic amplified his voice, rattling the crystal glasses on the tables. "Urgent affairs of state demand his immediate attention."

  The man broke the seal and read the decree. The message was immaculate. It spoke of the Empire's bright future. It praised the resilience of the Valecourt bloodline. It prayed for the prosperity of the realm.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He rolled the parchment shut. He had not said the word 'Marcelline' a single time.

  The hall applauded as the chamberlain stepped down.

  The air grew heavy. A dozen noble eyes darted toward Marcelline, waiting for her reaction. The Emperor had just publicly erased her.

  Marcelline smiled, keeping her chin perfectly level.

  "A beautiful gathering," a smooth voice cut through the ambient dread.

  Prince Adrien Valecourt approached. He was tall, wearing an immaculate white uniform heavy with commendations. Beside him walked Prince Lucien Valecourt.

  The air around them hummed. They possessed the terrifying, innate talent that Marcelline completely lacked.

  They offered a precise, formal bow.

  Marcelline inclined her head exactly the required amount. "Brothers."

  Adrien looked around the glittering hall. "Father truly spared no expense for your day. It is a pity he could not attend."

  "The Empire provides," Marcelline replied. She kept her voice flat. "His Majesty's schedule remains demanding."

  Lucien stepped closer. "The demands are changing. Our scouts confirmed the Holy Kingdom's border defenses have severely weakened."

  Adrien’s smile widened, showing perfectly white teeth. "We depart for the frontlines within the month."

  Marcelline kept her breathing steady. Her corset suddenly felt like an iron cage. "To lead the campaign?"

  "Father believes it is time we prove our capability to command," Adrien said.

  Lucien tilted his head. He looked down at her. His eyes held a flicker of pity. "A glorious public victory does wonders for the succession. Especially when others struggle to maintain their composure at home."

  Lucien turned his shoulder to her, already looking past her toward a cluster of high-ranking generals. The conversation was over. She was already dead in their eyes.

  Marcelline's fingers tightened against the silk of her dress.

  "You should tread carefully," Marcelline said. Her voice came out cold. "War is not a parade. The frontlines do not care about your royal blood."

  Adrien nodded, accepting the words with grace. "We will send word from the camps. Perhaps we will dedicate our first conquered fortress to you."

  The princes walked away. The surrounding nobles immediately broke their formations and flocked to the brothers, eager to stand in the glow of the future Emperors.

  Marcelline remained standing under the blinding chandeliers. The music swelled.

  She turned and walked toward the heavy glass balcony doors.

  The night air hit her. Freezing. Empty. Starless.

  Her breath came out uneven, pluming white in the cold air. She stepped into the shadows and gripped the stone balcony railing.

  Her pristine facade cracked.

  She gasped. A harsh, ragged sound tore from her throat. Her legs gave out. She slumped against the freezing stone, her silk dress pooling on the dirty balcony floor. She clutched her stomach, fighting a sudden, violent surge of nausea.

  The memory rose without permission.

  The suffocating tension in the courtyard. The blinding fury clouding her judgment. The absolute humiliation of trying to assert her dominance, only to meet the cold, dead eyes of Elira. The blood. The corpses that had surrounded her.

  Marcelline squeezed her eyes shut, trembling violently.

  Then came the aftermath. The Emperor’s private study.

  He had not yelled. He had not raged. He had simply looked up from his paperwork, his eyes entirely blank. He let out a quiet, heavy sigh. Then he looked back down at his ledger. He dismissed her from his mind before she even left the room.

  She had tried so hard. She had practiced until she fell unconscious, spending sleepless nights studying magic. But when he gave her a chance to prove herself, she failed. Terribly.

  Marcelline's shoulders shook uncontrollably. The phantom sting of that public humiliation threatened to rip her mind apart.

  She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear the heavy jewels from her hair and shatter the glass doors with her bare hands.

  Her knuckles whitened against the frozen stone.

  She forced air into her burning lungs. Inhale. Exhale.

  Being emotional was a fatal weakness. Breaking down meant they won. Breaking down meant she truly was the disappointment sitting in that study.

  Her breathing slowly steadied.

  The violent trembling in her legs stopped. The frantic beating of her heart settled into a cold, rhythmic thud. She wiped a single, stray tear from her cheek, using the back of her wrist to avoid smudging the powder.

  She grabbed the stone railing and pulled her heavy body back to its feet.

  She straightened her spine slowly.

  When she opened her eyes, the exhaustion and the terror were locked away in a deep, impenetrable vault. The vulnerable, traumatized girl vanished into the freezing wind.

  Only Princess Marcelline Valecourt remained.

  She turned her back on the dark and walked back into the light.