Chapter 18
Amid the honeyed murmur of flattery and the subtle undercurrent of rivalry, Katarina Obrechtz sat with the stillness of a painted goddess. Her throne, cushioned in crimson velvet and trimmed with obsidian lace, seemed to elevate her above the world of scheming heirs and perfumed lies. Candlelight caught the glint in her jet-black eyes—glassy, fathomless, and unreadable as the moon reflected in a dark well. She blinked slowly, the only movement betraying that she was not made of marble.
Before her, a procession of gilded ambition unfolded. Sons of marquises and counts bowed with choreographed grace, the swish of silk brushing marble, the scent of cologne thick as fog. Their hands, manicured and trembling ever so slightly, presented their offerings: a prism-hued mana stone that pulsed like a heartbeat, a phoenix-feather brooch encased in crystal, vials of perfume that shimmered like liquefied moonlight. Each trinket was laid upon velvet runners with reverence, as if laying tribute to a young empress—each heir leaning forward, eyes glistening, breath bated, desperate for even the flicker of a smile.
But Katarina only watched—silent, serene—as if the air itself obeyed her stillness. The laughter in the hall dulled, muffled by the tension that clung to the walls like a storm yet to break. And in that hush, even the firelight dared not flicker too loudly.
"Lady Katarina, this brooch is said to have come from the floating gardens of Isirelle," spoke one viscount's son, voice oiled with charm.
"And this tome contains ancient Obrechtz war tactics, rediscovered just this year," offered another, the future heir to a wealthy merchant-count house.
Katarina offered the faintest tilt of her lips—a smile sculpted by years of etiquette lessons and endless audiences. It was flawless, warm enough to appease, distant enough to deter. Yet behind the curve of her mouth, a quiet fatigue simmered, invisible to all but the most perceptive. She watched them—boys cloaked in titles and ambition—each gaze sharp with intent, each bow hiding a ledger of favors owed and futures plotted.
Their eyes didn't meet hers—they latched onto her name, her lineage, the crown of influence that shimmered behind her like a mirage. Not one of them sees me, she thought, her gaze drifting through the blur of jewels and smiles. They don't want me. They want the throne beneath my skin, the keys I carry, the power I've yet to wield.
And still, she smiled. Because that was the game. And she, even at ten, already knew the rules better than most.
But then—