Chapter 1: A Moon Among Shadows
Lyria's POV
I had known without being told that I did not belong in that place.
It was not something anyone needed to explain to me. My bones understood it. My breath carried it. Every step I took across polished marble floors that reflected chandeliers like captured stars whispered the same quiet truth — I was an intruder in a world that wore gold and silk like second skin.
My dress was tattered, the hem carefully stitched and re-stitched until the original fabric barely remained. The blue had once been rich, perhaps even beautiful, but years of washing and sunlight had faded it into something meek and apologetic. It hung loosely over my shoulders, sleeves slightly too short, exposing wrists that bore the faint scars of scrubbing floors and carrying trays that had never truly been meant for royal hands.
But thankfully, the dress covered the scars on my back. One could only imagine how others would react if they saw the hideous scars and secrets that lay there.
My head remained lowered as I stood in the shadows.
For reasons I had never been given — and had learned not to question — my family insisted that I be present whenever Jacinta appeared publicly. Even when I did not wish to attend. Even when my chest tightened at the thought of standing under hundreds of curious eyes. Eyes that could not see me, nor perceive me, because I had been made to mask my scent. I had no say in the matter, though.
So I lingered where light struggled to reach, tucked into the narrow space between a marble pillar carved with celestial motifs and a heavy velvet drape that smelled faintly of incense and soap. Frankly, I preferred this scent to the one now suffocating the hall.
A half-mask rested over my face, its pale porcelain surface cool against my skin. It concealed the ugly scar that cut across my right eye. My amber eyes peered through the narrow slits, quietly observant, quietly unnoticed.
The Grand Hall of Audience stretched before me in all its merciless splendor.
High arched ceilings soared overhead, painted with fading murals of moons, constellations, and celestial beasts — relics from an age when the Celestine Dominion still believed gods walked openly among mortals. Massive chandeliers of crystal and silver hung suspended like frozen constellations, casting warm golden light that shimmered across polished marble floors veined with pale gold. Tall arched windows lined the far walls, draped in heavy white and midnight-blue curtains embroidered with the sigil of House Aurelgrave: a crescent moon cradling a radiant star within its curve, symbolizing divine favor, celestial authority, and the eternal rule of the crown.
Banners bearing the same sigil hung between the columns, their fabric whispering softly whenever a draft slipped through the hall.
Music filled the space — violins singing in elegant harmony with the gentle cry of a harp and the steady undercurrent of a cello. The melody drifted through the crowd like warm breath on cold skin, elegant and restrained, designed to soothe rather than stir.
I hummed along quietly beneath my breath.
I had never been much of a singer. My voice lacked confidence, strength, and also the ability to be in tune. Patricia said I was tone-deaf, but I refused to believe it — especially because melodies stayed with me once I learned them.
The gathering could technically be called a ball.
Though to me, it felt more like a living exhibition of power and ambition. Noble Houses from every corner of the kingdom crowded the hall in rich layers of velvet, silk, brocade, and jewel-toned finery. Men wore tailored coats and embroidered sashes displaying their family crests, polished boots reflecting the candlelight. Women glided beside them like living gemstones, corseted gowns sweeping the floor in whispers of satin and lace. Perfume layered thickly in the air — florals and spices.
At the far end of the hall, elevated upon a wide marble dais, rested the royal platform.
Jacinta sat at its center.
My younger sister radiated confidence like sunlight breaking through clouds. Her golden hair had been styled into soft cascading waves that framed her delicate face, catching the candlelight with every graceful tilt of her head. Pale blue eyes sparkled beneath long lashes, bright with practiced charm and subtle calculation. A faint dimple curved into her cheek whenever she smiled — a detail the court adored almost as much as they adored her.
Her gown was a masterpiece of ivory satin and molten gold embroidery. The bodice hugged her frame perfectly, accentuating her slender waist, while layers of flowing skirts spilled outward like liquid moonlight. Tiny gemstones were stitched along the neckline, catching the light whenever she moved, creating the illusion that stars clung to her skin.
She looked like the embodiment of prophecy. She looked every bit the princess she was born to be — at least, the one she pretended she was born to be.
The King and Queen sat beside her, regal and composed. My father's posture remained rigid and commanding, his dark formal coat decorated with the sigil of House Aurelgrave pinned proudly to his chest. My mother's gown shimmered in soft pearl hues, her smile gracious and practiced — the kind that never quite reached her eyes.
Whispers floated through the crowd like drifting feathers.
"The Moon of the kingdom grows more radiant with every season."
"Her beauty rivals the old legends."
"Truly blessed by the goddess."
"She will usher in a golden age."
I listened silently, my humming fading into the music.
They spoke as though there were only one daughter of House Aurelgrave, which, to them, was the truth. I was hidden from the world, after all.
My father cleared his throat.
The sound sliced cleanly through the music and murmurs alike.
Silence fell in waves across the hall. Instruments stilled. Conversations died mid-breath as every gaze turned toward the dais.
My father rose slowly from his seat, commanding attention without raising his voice.
"Esteemed Lords and Ladies of the Celestine Kingdom," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. "You are all well aware of the ancient prophecy that has guided our crown for generations."
A ripple of anticipation stirred among the nobles.
"My beloved daughter, Princess Jacinta Aurelgrave," he continued, gesturing toward her, "has come of age. As the Moon of our Empire — as the Moon foretold — it is now her sacred duty to choose her Star."
Jacinta rose gracefully, her smile radiant as she inclined her head to the assembly.
"Each noble House represented here has answered our summons," my father said. "Your sons have traveled from distant territories, braving long roads and harsh weather, all for the honor of competing for my daughter's hand and the fulfillment of destiny itself. I hope that, at the end of this, the one we have all been searching for will be found."
A murmur of approval swept through the hall.
He extended a hand toward the footman standing at the edge of the dais.
"Proceed."
Jacinta stepped back into the space her father had occupied moments before, standing tall and luminous beneath the chandeliers.
The footman unfurled a parchment scroll with ceremonial precision and cleared his throat.
"There are fourteen noble Houses present this evening," he announced. "Each represented by a worthy heir."
The first name rang out.
"His Grace, Duke Alistair Thorncrest of Highmoor."
A tall man stepped forward from the crowd, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, bowing deeply before Jacinta.
"His Grace, Duke Marcellus Frostmere of the Northern Reach."
Another noble advanced, pale-haired and sharp-eyed, his posture impeccable.
I watched with distant curiosity.
Then my breath hitched as the third name was called.
"His Grace, Duke Lucian Aurelgrave of Eastmere."
I frowned. Lucian was my… Jacinta's cousin.
I stared as Lucian stepped forward, his familiar smirk tugging at his lips. Why would a cousin participate in such a selection? The thought unsettled me, though I doubted anyone else found it strange. Bloodlines rarely discouraged ambition, after all. And it was not as though he was a direct cousin — he was a distant one.
"The Most Honorable Marquess Rowan Blackvale of Duskwell."
"Marquess Adrian Silverwyn of Crestfall."
"Marquess Theodore Velmora of Greenhaven."
Three men stepped forward in succession, each bowing with polished grace.
"Earl Benedict Hawthorne of Windmere."
"Count Elias Thornleigh of Brightwater."
"Baron Frederick Ashcombe of Ironridge."
"Baron Julian Redwick of Stoneford."
My gaze drifted across the line of men forming before the dais — varying heights, varying expressions, all bound by ambition.
"Count Matthias Greystone of Northvale."
"Baron Oliver Fairmont of Silverbrook."
Each announcement tightened the invisible cord of tension in the room.
Then —
"Marquess—"
The name struck my ears before my mind could brace itself.
"Marquess Corvin Hale of Westreach."
My breath left me in a sharp, involuntary gasp.
My heart slammed violently against my ribs.
Corvin stepped forward from the crowd, dark hair neatly tied back, familiar gray eyes lifting to meet the dais — and, for the briefest, devastating moment, flicking toward the shadows where I stood.
The same eyes that had softened only hours ago.
The same voice that had listened as I confessed truths I had never spoken aloud.
My best friend.
The man I had trusted with my heart the previous night.
Corvin was not just my best friend — he was my first kiss. I was in love with him, and he had told me he felt the same way. So why was he here? Why was he competing for Jacinta's hand in marriage? Especially since he had told me, not once or twice, that he was not interested in Jacinta and would never take part in this absurd competition for her hand.
My fingers tightened against the cold stone pillar beside me as disbelief crashed through me in dizzying waves.