"Enough, Lucius!"
All heads turned. At the far end of the ballroom, the King had risen to his feet, his expression unreadable but his voice laced with iron authority.
Lucius froze.
The silence that followed was thick, every breath held in expectation.
The King descended from the dais and strode toward them. He stopped right in front of Lucius, his presence a storm contained in silk.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, voice low and tightly controlled.
"Your Majesty," Lucius said, lifting his chin, "Lady Ivy is clearly doing this for my attention. There's no way she's actually okay with marrying Prince Tristan. Annul this marriage at once—the priest is already on his way."
Slap.
The crack of palm against cheek rang out like thunder in the severed quiet.
Lucius staggered slightly, a hand flying to his face.
"Do you hear yourself right now?" the King said, fury flickering just beneath the surface. "Have you not embarrassed this family enough? This marriage was blessed by the King and the Holy Flame. Are you questioning both my authority and the will of the flame?"
Lucius stood frozen, palm to cheek, blinking in disbelief.
Did Father just slap me? In front of all these people?
He looked around the ballroom expecting gasps or judgment—but the nobles were smiling, chatting, sipping wine like nothing had happened. Not a single pair of eyes was on him.
How…?
They were in the center of the ballroom. Everyone should have seen it. That's when he noticed her—his mother, Queen Elaria Vaelthorne Embercrown, standing gracefully a short distance away. One hand rested lightly on a pale violet gemstone embedded in a ring at her wrist.
Of course.
She had used her magic.
Queen Elaria hailed from House Vaelthorne, a line famed for their mastery of spatial magic. Her specialty: Spatial Severance.
It allowed her to isolate a portion of space entirely—sight remaining untouched, but sound, sensation, and perception distorted. To the outside world, it was as though nothing had occurred at all. Just a peaceful family moment on the ballroom floor.
She walked toward them with elegant calm. "I believe this is neither the time nor the place for this discussion," she said gently.
The King scoffed. "This is your fault. You've spoiled him too much."
He turned to Lucius, voice a growl.
"You are not to go near Princess Ivy or Prince Tristan again. You ruined this for all of us. The least you can do is not cause another scene. I don't know how long your mother had her magic active—I don't know how much the nobles have seen or heard. The backlash, Lucius, is entirely in your hands."
With that, he turned and walked back to his throne, Queen Elaria gliding silently beside him.
Lucius stood in the middle of the ballroom, burning from the sting and the shame, trapped in the silence of that invisible barrier. And for the first time, he truly realized…
He had messed up. Badly.
His gaze drifted back to Ivy—the girl who once clung to him like light to flame, the girl who once would've done anything for a scrap of his affection. But now…
She looked like Ivy, but she wasn't the same.
Her stare was sharp, calm, distant. No longing. No heartbreak. Just a flicker of annoyance, like he was a fly at her feast.
Was it really possible to do a full three-sixty after one near-death experience?
He didn't know.
But he knew one thing: the Ivy who looked at him now… wasn't waiting for him anymore.
With a final glance, Lucius stormed out.
—
"Well, that's that," Ivy said lightly, utterly unbothered. She turned to Tristan and slipped her hand through his again. "So… up for another dance?"
"No," came his flat reply.
"Okay, Mr. Grumpy." She sighed. "So what do we do now? I was told as the bride I'm not allowed to eat until we go to the wedding chamber. Help me out here, I'm bored and starving."
Tristan glanced at her, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. They had just met. She didn't even know his name when she picked him from the crowd to be her groom. And yet, here she was, acting like they were old friends.
Before he could answer, two servants approached and bowed. "Your Highnesses," one said, "your bedchamber is prepared. If it pleases you, you may now retire from the banquet."
"Finally," Ivy muttered as they exited the ballroom and into the corridor, the servants trailing respectfully behind. She stretched, unladylike and utterly unbothered.
Tristan glanced sideways at her. "Aren't you a little too comfortable in front of the man you just married?"
She shot him a smirk. "We're already married. What do I have to lose?"
He frowned, genuinely puzzled. "Don't you want to at least try to win my heart? We'll be married a long time."
Ivy halted, turning to face him. She stepped in close—so close their breath mingled.
"Tell me," she whispered, "and be honest. If I acted like a delicate little flower… or like the pitiful abandoned bride that I am… would you fall for me?"
He paused, thoughtful.
"No," he said simply.
Then, without missing a beat: "Now let's go get my brains fu—"
A throat cleared behind them.
They turned. Standing in the corridor was Marquis Edward Ravenshield, face unreadable. If he'd heard what she was about to say, he didn't acknowledge it. But the slight awkward shift of his feet suggested he had.
"Ahem. Apologies, but may I speak with you, Princess Iceborne?" His eyes flicked to Tristan. "In private."
Taking the hint, Tristan said, "I'll go ahead. I'm sure you'd like to spend time with your father."
He left with the male servant, leaving Ivy alone with Edward.
The Marquis reached into his coat and withdrew a dark magic stone pulsing with cold light—Severance magic. As it activated, the world around them dimmed, the air taking on a hush like snowfall.
Ivy raised a brow. "I don't remember us having the kind of father-daughter relationship that warrants a private meeting."
Edward sighed. He didn't argue. Instead, he reached into another pocket and produced a smaller stone, this one a deep violet hue.
"A defensive stone," he said. "If you're ever in real danger, activate it. It'll teleport you to a safe location… and detonate at the place you leave behind."
He held it out.
She blinked at him.
This man had ignored her for years. He wasn't cold, not exactly—just distant. Unreachable. And yet now… here he was, offering her protection.
Well, I guess he's still her father at the end of the day. Or should I say—my father? Ah, whatever.
She reached out and took the stone. The moment it touched her bare skin, it vanished, absorbed into her body with a soft hum of magic. She felt it—like a second pulse beneath her skin.
"To activate it, chant these words…"
His voice grew solemn as he spoke:
"Astre valen'thir, caelum ven'dorak. In myrr solas, fen drakor. Neh'la torin, shai mor'ael—Varan eir, kael mor'dael."
"Say it only when it's truly life or death," he added. "The stone will respond immediately. It… knows urgency."
Ivy studied him carefully. His face was its usual mask, but there was a tightness around his eyes—a tension he couldn't quite hide.
So, he did care.
At least enough to make sure she didn't die.
"Well," she muttered, "family love really does come in mysterious forms." Then she looked back up. "I'd say thank you, but it's the least you can do for your daughter."
Edward's eyes flickered—was that amusement? Maybe.
"You've changed," he said softly. "You've become more like Crystal."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips when he spoke her mother's name.
"I don't know what you were thinking, choosing Prince Tristan… but I'll say this: be careful around him. He's a dangerous man. In more ways than the rumors suggest."
He turned to go, then paused.
"And he has a way of making people drop their guard. Thought you'd want to keep that in mind."
Then he was gone.
What a strange man.
Ivy let out a breath and turned to the palace servant who had remained quietly behind her.
"Where's Anya?"
The servant startled slightly, then recovered. "W-Who, Your Highness?"
"My personal maid."
Recognition dawned, and her eyes widened. "Oh. She… she was laid off."
Ivy blinked.
"…What?!"