The Princess' Secret Night
Description
A disgraced princess arrives at a winter-black court as a humble envoy-with a secret that could ignite a kingdom: seven years ago, at a masked ball, she loved a stranger by moonlight... and bore his son. Now Selene Ardent stands before King Casimir-unaware at first that he is the masked man-and must survive a viper's nest of velvet cruelty, a glittering queen, and a smiling minister who turns mercy into weapons. As whispers sharpen into charges, the king quietly shields the boy, Ari, even while duty forces him to feign indifference. Notes, midnight councils, and a fraying silver ribbon become lifelines as Selene is framed for murder, then for unfitness, until a public reckoning rips the masks from every face.
Chapter 1
Oct 30, 2025
POV Selene
“Name and purpose?”
I lifted my gaze to the gate scribe. Behind him, the Palace of Vespera rose from the winter mist—black stone ramparts, silver-latticed gates, ravens hunched like sentries along the battlements. A banner snapped and cracked in the wind: a silver dragon coiled around a crown, exhaling a lick of emerald flame.
“Selene of Lysara,” I said, voice steady by force. “Special Envoy.”
The scribe’s quill arrested mid-curve. His glance skimmed my worn emerald cloak, the single trunk at my feet, the mud darkening my hem. “Proceed to the Privy Chamber,” he didn’t look up. “His Majesty is expecting you.”
I drew the cloak tighter, fingers cold at the throat, and stepped through gates that closed with the neat finality of a sprung snare. Coming here was a mistake—every instinct shouted it—but my son, Ari, needed medicine I could never buy in Lysara, and my own court had been all too happy to push me toward the border.
I touched the silver ribbon hidden under my sleeve. Seven years old and fraying, it rasped against my wrist. I had never taken it off. On certain nights it was the only proof the garden, the masks, and the stranger were not a dream I’d invented to survive the years that followed.
A steward in black-and-emerald livery fell into step beside me, shoes whispering along mosaicked floors.
“This way, Highness,” he said softly.
We passed corridors paneled with mirrors; candles guttered in wall sconces though dawn had broken, throwing gold over a hundred images of me: black hair braided simply, hollows beneath my eyes, a travel cloak whose best years had been mended and mended again.
The throne room doors sighed open. Black marble stretched, stark and gleaming, toward a dais shrouded in shadow. Above the throne, an enormous dragon skull yawned, fangs bright as knives
The court divided like dark water.
Clusters of nobles in night-colored velvets turned as one; the ladies’ jewels winked at their throats like hard stars. Their attention slid over me, measuring with the care of merchants counting coins.
King Casimir Ruvan sat high on a throne draped in black velvet. I knew the facts: thirty-five; tall and spare; cheekbones cut sharp enough to cast their own shadows; hair black with threads of early silver at the temples; eyes a winter blue that caught and held candlelight.
Something altered in the air when I looked at him. My pulse pressed against the ribbon under my sleeve. His gaze moved over me—unhurried, unblinking—and passed on without recognition. Good, I told myself. Be a name on a paper. The less he sees, the safer Ari remains.
On the king’s right, the Queen-Consort reclined with the poise of a blade in a silk sheath. Isolde’s blonde hair lay in perfect coils; ivory silk pooled around her like light on milk. A rope of pearls clasped her throat—each orb dearer than my whole wardrobe. Her pale hand rested on the arm of his throne, a claim expressed without words.
I sank into a curtsy, feeling the marble’s chill reach like water up through my bones.
“Your Majesty,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I bring greetings from Lysara and the credentials of my appointment.”
“Princess Selene Ardent,” Casimir answered, his tone formal. “We accept your letters.”
My fingers, treacherous with cold and lack of sleep, fumbled inside my cloak. The wax seal had cracked on the road; when I drew the envelope free, the papers slithered loose. They hit the marble in a scatter of pale leaves.
Isolde laughed. “Oh dear,” she said, amusement carrying to the far columns. “How very clumsy.”
Soft-edged laughter rippled through the room, followed by the low current of whispers along the walls. Heat rose hot and humiliating in my cheeks; I froze a heartbeat too long, then dropped to my knees. The marble’s cold burned through my dress; my braid slid forward over my shoulder as I reached for the nearest page.
Casimir had not moved. The winter-blue eyes were still, his mouth composed, his posture a study in control. Yet I felt his attention settle on me like a mantle: a weight with a shape.
“You begin tomorrow at dawn,” he said. “Council does not wait for personal inconveniences.”
I turned and walked the long aisle toward the doors. Under the dragon skull, the empty sockets watched, a hollow absolution: even the mightiest end in bone. I passed beneath them without breaking stride.
The steward reappeared and led me through corridors that twisted and doubled back, the palace a labyrinth that preferred its secrets intact.
My assigned rooms in the west wing were small but clean: a narrow bed with a thin coverlet; a writing desk beneath a window; a porcelain basin that caught the pale light and made it look colder.
I unpacked my single trunk and set my life in quiet order: two dresses, each hem stitched twice; a book of old Lysaran verse; Ari’s drawing.
A knock—three quick, polite taps—brought me to the door. A young footman, freckled and solemn, bowed and offered a sealed note on a tray. “For you, Highness,” he said.
I broke the wax and unfolded the paper.
Council, dawn. Bring tariff summaries. Do not be late.
No signature, but the hand was the king’s; I had studied it in decrees, where decisiveness made angles of ink. I folded the note precisely and set it on the desk. Outside, the winter garden turned to iron as dusk took it.
I sat on the narrow bed, slid my fingers under my sleeve, and touched the ribbon until my pulse found it. Remembering.
Seven years ago, in a garden kin to this one, I met a stranger at a masked ball.
I had arrived only that afternoon, raw from the road and the foreignness of another court, and missing the parents I had left in Lysara like anchors I might not find again.
The ballroom had been too bright, too loud, too thick with assessment. I slipped out for air—and found the stone paths. Footsteps sounded—measured, unhurried—behind me. I turned.
A man in a dark uniform stood in the archway’s shadow, a mask covering half his face. He was tall, shoulders squared.
“Lost?” he asked, voice low, rough velvet rubbed the wrong way. The word carried amusement and something like concern.
“Exploring,” I said, trying not to lose my nerve to the shape of his silence.
“Dangerous,” he observed, stepping closer but not yet into the light. “These paths wind deep.”
Something in that tone—bone-tired honesty?—made me stay. Heat moved under my skin despite the cool air.
“Are you warning me,” I asked, “or threatening me?”
“Neither,” he said, taking another careful step. I saw the line of his jaw now. “Observing.”
The air gathered, thrummed, thickened—the quick hung breath before lightning.
“What do you observe?” I asked, and heard how thin the question sounded when desire was a weather system.
He came close enough that his scent found me: cedar smoke, clean wool, metal left in frost—then something darker, a shadow-note I only ever found on men who stood too close to battle.
“A woman in a silver mask,” he said, softer now, “standing alone in a garden. Either running from something… or toward it.”
The hesitation was a courtesy, an invitation not to answer. His hand rose and his fingertips ghosted the line where the mask ended and my skin began.
“Skin like moonlight on velvet,” he murmured. “You almost glow.”
I should have walked away. Back to the ballroom with its safety and strictness. Back to propriety, which had never once saved me from grief. I stayed.
“And you?” I asked. “What are you running from?”
“Everything,” he said, and then, almost smiling, “and nothing. Most nights I can’t tell the difference.” The words felt like a confession he had not meant to give.
I understood. Gods help me, I understood too well.
“Then perhaps we’re both lost,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he extended his hand. “Or exactly where we’re meant to be.”
I put my hand in his. Warmth closed around my fingers with a certainty.
“Walk with me?” he asked, the last word quiet.
I nodded. The night pulled its dark cloak around us. We moved deeper among the hedges, away from torchlight and laughter. For the first time in my life, I felt free.
But freedom is a borrowed thing. Earlier that evening, a messenger had found me with words that broke the world: my parents—the King and Queen of Lysara—were dead. A hunting accident.
He did not know. Could not know. And for those few stolen hours I let him keep not knowing. For once, I did not have to be the princess who grieved, or the duty that breathed for me. For once, I could simply be.
The Princess' Secret Night
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