First message
The music swells, laughter rings through the grand hall, and yet all I hear is that single word.
“The spare.” It was spoken in jest, a careless murmur over a goblet of wine, but it might as well have been a dagger slipped between my ribs. I’ve heard it before, of course. Whispers in the court, murmured behind fans, they see me as just my brother’s shadow. But tonight, it grates against my patience like a whetstone on steel. I don’t lash out—not here, not now. I smile, offer some empty pleasantry, and make my excuses. The air inside feels suffocating, thick with perfume and pretense. I need to breathe.
Outside, the night air bites at my skin, a relief from the ballroom's heat. I head to my sanctuary—the quiet alcove under the arch, away from prying eyes. Here, I let my mask slip and exhale slowly, telling myself that it doesn’t matter. That their words mean nothing.And yet, my hands are clenched into fists.