Two Sides of a Glance
Aria
I stood motionless before the leaded glass mirror of my walnut vanity, staring at my reflection as though I were an anomaly I could neither comprehend nor explain. I was arrayed in ceremonial regalia—magnificent, beautiful, and in truth, far too extravagant. Yet, I suppose such opulence was deemed necessary, judging by my standing within the palace and the wretchedly special occasion forced upon us today. It was an occasion that left a bitter, ash-like taste upon my tongue.
Around me, a flurry of handmaidens scurried in a panic, preparing me, adorning my skin, and painting my face entirely against my will. Beyond the heavy chamber doors, I could hear the very stone walls of the castle humming with anticipation for the impending nuptials, even as the servants made the final, trembling adjustments to my gown.
I was clad in a cavernous, sweeping ball gown woven from heavy velvet in hues of deep crimson, its bodice meticulously encrusted with glistening rubies. The silhouette gripped tightly through my torso before abruptly flaring out at the waist in a rigid, bell-like arc. I knew I looked breathtaking, and yet I felt entirely hollowed out. The crimson velvet felt overbearing, a suffocating weight against my skin. My corset had been laced far too tightly, restricting my already shallow breaths. The ruby necklace coiled about my throat like an ornate noose, and my ears throbbed under the weight of the matching jewels. My hands hung limp, my fingers overly burdened with heavy rings.
I was not surprised by the display. After all, I was expected to personify the regal, dutiful princess for the viewing of the masses—a daughter supposedly overjoyed by her sovereign father’s second marriage for the sake of the realm. I had no desire to be paraded around like a decorative porcelain vase, yet I understood the crushing weight of my birthright. I was nineteen now; I supposed it was time to put away girlish things and act with the resolve of a mature woman.
Amidst the dizzying cluster of rings, my fingers sought the one delicate piece of jewelry that held any true meaning: my mother’s silver signet ring. The cool metal instantly soothed my fraying nerves. Holding my chin high, I began my march through the vaulted stone galleries, my personal guard following closely in tow. That ring was the final token she had pressed into my hand before passing from this world. I was the last remaining fragment of my true mother left within these treacherous walls, and I was entirely determined to prove both her worth and my own to this court. I still deeply mourned her absence, but I refused to allow myself, or her memory, to appear weak or infantile.
The moment I approached the robust, iron-reinforced doors of the grand ballroom, the guards threw them open, and I stepped into the vast, echoing chamber.
Never in all my days had I seen it styled with such enchanting grandeur. The towering, pointed arches were meticulously adorned with gilded floral garlands, and the white marble expanse beneath my slippers had been scrubbed so raw by the servants that it shone like a mirror, catching every flickering candlelight. Delicate gold leaf accented the stone pillars and ancient statues, weaving an immaculate theme of royalty. It appeared as though one had stepped directly into paradise, and yet, beneath the glamour, I could taste a distinct, foreboding aura. The air hung heavy and tense, and I did not miss the way the servants kept their heads bowed significantly lower than usual.
Before I could fully process the shift in the room, I was descended upon by a flock of duchesses and countesses. They wore sickeningly manufactured smiles, cooing and preening for a mere fraction of my time. My gaze, however, bypassed them entirely, locking onto my father—the King. He sat proudly atop his dais, looking every bit the obedient, unbothered ruler the court believed him to be. His robes were perfectly tailored, refined to a fault. Catching my eye, he offered a small smile and gestured for me to take my place upon the smaller throne beside his own. I stepped forward, the sharp click of my heels echoing against the pristine marble as I approached.
I could not fathom why he had so suddenly consented to another marriage when he had loved my lady mother so unconditionally. Did the hearts of men truly mend that swiftly? It caused a physical ache just to look upon him. A quiet anger burned within me that he had not bothered to speak with me beforehand, though perhaps he simply knew I would have rejected the notion with every fiber of my being. It was far too late to protest like an insolent child now. All that remained was to endure this reality. I could only pray he did this solely for the prosperity of the kingdom, and that some hidden part of his soul still yearned for the queen he had lost.
As I settled onto the velvet cushion beside him, he made no effort to initiate conversation. Instead, he stared out over the crowd, his foot tapping against the stone floor in a restless, impatient rhythm. His glazed eyes darted continuously toward the grand entrance, eagerly awaiting the arrival of his new bride. Was he truly that desperate?
Perhaps it was merely the product of my own grief-ridden mind, but my father had seemed utterly altered of late. His smiles appeared entirely vacant whenever they were directed at me, and a strange, dazed film seemed to cloud his eyes.
Gradually, the procession moved toward the palace cathedral, which had been bedazzled just as extravagantly as the ballroom itself. I took my designated place at the front of the grand sanctuary as my father stood before the altar, facing the high priest. The gathering of guests was immense—stuffy, arrogant dukes and gossiping noblewomen, all whispering their venomous scandals behind painted silk fans.
At long last, the cathedral doors groaned open, and she stepped inside. She did not look like a withered crone—she never did. Instead, she was mesmerizingly beautiful, elegant, and perfectly poised. She bestowed a radiant smile upon the congregation, but when her eyes flashed in my direction, a cold chill ran straight down my spine. I loathed everything about her. She looked entirely too young for my father, and entirely too… cunning.
Shrouded in a magnificent wedding gown of ivory lace, she took slow, calculated steps toward the altar. She was escorted by a young gentleman whose movements were just as bewitching as her own. I knew instinctively they shared no blood. There was a sharp, dangerous edge to him that rendered him sinfully alluring.
The ceremony commenced, and my fists clenched in deep distaste each time the pair exchanged sickeningly sweet endearments during their vows. Father did not look like the commanding sovereign he usually was; instead, in her presence, he resembled a witless, love-struck boy. The sight caused my knuckles to turn white against the stems of the white roses I held.
The priest’s voice boomed through the vaulted rafters. “King Osric Blackwood, do you take Queen Morgana Vane here present, to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”
I felt physically ill with every sacred word uttered. Say no father. Please father. This is your final chance. Don't forget mother—
“I do,” he beamed proudly, his voice echoing as though he had been rehearsing the line for an eternity. My stomach lurched violently as the court erupted into celebratory cheers and applause.
“Queen Morgana Vane, do you take King Osric Blackwood here present, to be your lawful wedded husband…”
By that point, a numbing paralysis crept over me, drowning out the woman’s response. Even if she had, by some miraculous twist of fate, uttered a refusal, the bond between my father and me had already been irrevocably strained.
“I do,” she murmured, her voice laced with something deceptively soft.
My mind entirely tuned out the remainder of the service. I looked down at the blossoms in my hands, silently deciding that Morgana did not deserve such breathtaking white roses.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss the bride.”
Buoyant cheers echoed off the stone walls, but my stomach turned over, threatening to reject the small text of breakfast I had managed hours ago. I forced my gaze away, looking anywhere but at the altar. In my frantic evasion, my eyes collided with a pair of hypnotic, striking green eyes. Looking directly at me.
It was the same young man who had escorted Morgana down the aisle. He was truly, breathtakingly handsome, dressed in immaculate, charcoal-colored noble attire, yet he possessed a gentle, serene aura that set him entirely apart from the rest of the arrogant court. While the new Queen was entirely occupied with subtly provoking my misery, this stranger watched me with a soft, deeply sympathetic gaze. He offered a subtle, comforting nod—as though he were silently sharing in my grief. I was caught completely off guard, feeling an inexplicable pull toward this gentle stranger.
“Who is he?” I demanded of the Marchioness seated to my left.
Startled by my sudden sharpness, she blinked, adjusted her fan, and peered toward the gentleman with a knowing smile. “That is Prince Valen, Your Highness. He is the nephew of Queen Morgana.”
We transitioned back to the ballroom, and my attention was forcefully diverted when Father lifted my late mother’s crown from its velvet cushion. I watched in agonizing silence as he placed it atop the stranger’s dark tresses, presenting her to the realm as our new Queen. The court erupted into thunderous applause, and I forced my hands to move, clapping along as I broke internally. My eyes welled with hot tears, but I refused to grant them the satisfaction of watching them fall, blinking them away into the shadows.
With the formalities concluded, the grand reception commenced, and a troupe of performers poured onto the floor to distract the guests. Acrobats, dancers… and the new court fool.
He entered first with a sharp, theatrical flourish, the silver bells of his livery ringing out sharply over the chatter. He face was painted neatly, obscuring him like a mask, his messy dark hair falling wildly into his eyes and escaping the confines of his jester’s cap. A sharp, exaggerated, and entirely dangerous grin stretched across his lips. Within seconds, he was mercilessly lampooning a pompous lord, causing even the King to let out a hearty chuckle.
Offering the spectacle nothing more than a fleeting glance, I looked away. Everything felt entirely too loud, too grating. I sat at the high table, feeling completely isolated and miserable in the center of the merriment.
My brooding was rudely interrupted, however, when that very same Jester executed a flawless tumble, coming to a halt as he bowed dramatically right in my direction. I stared at him and for a solitary, fleeting second, his theatrical performance dropped entirely. Behind his painted disguise, a pair of dark, piercing eyes locked right onto mine.
It was merely a passing glance, but strangely, the temperature of the room seemed to shift. He paused, looking at me as though he could see right through the carefully crafted facade of the princess, straight into the misery I was trying so desperately to conceal. No words passed between us. He merely spared me one final, lingering look before spinning away into the swirling crowd, leaving nothing behind but the faint, hauntingly comforting echo of silver bells in my ears.
