── 𝓠𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝓢𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝅄 ݁ ⏜



❝ 𝐈𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. ❞

✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓕𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



The morning is shrouded in a silence that feels too deliberate, as though the very air around you is holding its breath. The light that filters through the gauzy curtains is pale and hesitant, softening the sharp edges of the room but failing to warm it. Even the faint breeze from the slightly ajar window carries a subdued chill, a reminder that no matter how still the world appears, something looms on the horizon. You sit motionless by the vanity, your hands resting in your lap, fingers lightly clasped, as though any movement might disturb the fragile calm that has settled over the space.

The deep midnight blue gown draped across the chaise seems to dominate the room, its presence undeniable. The fabric gleams faintly in the muted light, the silver embroidery catching the occasional beam that slips past the clouds outside. The delicate pattern of curling vines is intricate, almost alive, a testament to the craft of its maker.

Amelie moves with precision, the gown draped over her arm, the silver vines shimmering with her every step. Her expression is composed, her lips pressed into a faint line that betrays neither hesitation nor ease. She approaches with the same care she always carries, as though the gown itself holds some fragile truth that must not be disturbed. When she speaks, her voice is soft, measured, a balm against the unease that seems to ripple beneath the morning's stillness.

"My lady," she murmurs, holding the gown as though it might whisper its weight to her alone. The unspoken worry in her tone, so faint and fleeting, does not go unnoticed. It clings to her words like the shadows that pool in the corners of the room, subtle but present.

You nod, rising slowly, the motion deliberate, as though even standing requires you to summon some internal reserve of strength. Amelie steps forward, carefully lifting the gown for you to step into. Her hands are steady, the touch of the fabric against your skin soft but undeniable. As she draws the gown into place, it settles over you like a second skin, its fitted bodice and sweeping skirts wrapping around you with a weight that feels less like elegance and more like inevitability.

Her fingers work deftly at your back, fastening the silver buttons that run down the gown with an almost reverent care. Each button slips into place with a soft, final click, the sound faint yet resonant, as though echoing in the silence of the room. "It suits you," she says quietly, her voice carrying a quiet conviction that feels almost out of place, as though she is willing the words to be true.

You meet her gaze through the mirror, watching as she focuses on her task, her hands moving with practised grace. "Does it?" you ask, the question slipping from your lips before you can stop it. There's a note of something unguarded in your tone—uncertainty, or perhaps resignation—and the room seems to hold its breath in response.

Amelie's hands pause for a brief moment, her gaze flickering to yours. She hesitates, as though weighing her response, before answering. "Yes, my lady," she says, her voice steady but tinged with something softer, something unspoken. "It does."

When the final button is secured, she steps back, her hands briefly brushing the fabric of the gown, smoothing its lines as though it might somehow ease the weight you carry. Her eyes linger on your reflection, and in them, you catch a flicker of something raw, something caught between pride and sorrow. It's as though she sees not just the figure you present but the burden beneath it, the quiet struggle you have tried so hard to keep hidden.

She moves to your hair next, her fingers gathering the strands with the same careful precision. Each movement is deliberate, each twist and pin placed with a grace that feels almost ceremonial. She pulls your hair into an intricate chignon, the strands coiling and overlapping in a style that speaks of control and refinement, a reflection of the composure you are expected to embody. Her hands work quickly but not hurriedly, her touch light but firm, as though weaving the style is her way of shielding you from the storm that looms.

As she places the final pin, her voice breaks the silence, low and hesitant. "You needn't be afraid, my lady," she says, her tone softer than usual, the vulnerability in her words slipping past the armour of formality. "Whatever awaits today... you are stronger than they know."

The words strike something within you, slipping through the cracks of your carefully constructed composure. For a moment, you allow yourself to meet her gaze in the mirror, your eyes locking onto hers. "Am I?" you reply, your voice carrying a faint, bitter humour. "Strength seems an odd attribute for a pawn, don't you think?"

Her hands still for the briefest of moments before resuming their work, sliding delicate silver pins tipped with sapphire gems into your hair. Each pin catches the light, their glinting reflections small fragments of the night sky, tiny constellations that settle against the crown of your head.

Through the mirror, you watch her face, caught by the quiet intensity in her expression. It's as though she sees something in you that you cannot, a strength she believes in even when you cannot feel it yourself. The thought is fleeting, a whisper of warmth that fades as quickly as it arrives, leaving only the familiar ache of isolation in its place. You wonder, for a moment, if she truly believes the words she has spoken, or if they are meant only to comfort, a kind lie in the face of a truth neither of you can change.

When the final pin is in place, she steps back, her hands falling to her sides as she studies you one last time. "You look..." she begins, but the words falter, as though she cannot quite find what she wants to say. Her gaze softens, and for the briefest moment, she seems younger, her usual composure slipping. "You look as though you could carry the weight of the world."

You offer her a faint smile, a ghost of an expression that does not reach your eyes. "Perhaps that's the problem," you murmur, your voice quiet, a thread of resignation running through the words.

Her expression flickers, a momentary crack in her armour, before she lowers her gaze, offering you a small bow. "The carriage is waiting," she says, her tone professional once more, though the warmth in her eyes lingers.

You turn away from the mirror, the heavy folds of the gown shifting with you, and move towards the door with measured steps, the weight of the day ahead pressing down on you with each stride. And yet, as you walk, you carry with you the faintest echo of Amelie's words, fragile and uncertain, like a thread of light slipping through the cracks of a storm-darkened sky.



───────── ⊱ ₊˚⟡₊⁺ ⊰ ─────────



The carriage sways gently as it moves along the cobbled streets, its wheels echoing faintly in the quiet morning air. Inside, the thick velvet lining of the seats offers little comfort against the chill that has seeped into the day. The faint scent of leather and rain lingers, mingling with the occasional creak of the wood as the carriage dips into a shallow rut. You sit stiffly, your hands folded in your lap, gloved fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your skirts. Outside, the world remains shrouded in a muted grey light, the clouds overhead heavy and unyielding, promising neither storm nor sun.

The city slips by in fragments—a blur of stone facades, wrought iron balconies, and narrow streets where life stirs cautiously in the morning chill. Occasionally, you catch glimpses of market stalls setting up for the day, their bright fabrics a stark contrast against the subdued palette of the sky. But even these bursts of colour seem fleeting, swallowed by the vastness of the capital and the looming shadow of the palace that draws ever closer.

By the time the carriage slows to a halt, you feel the weight of the journey settle deeper into your chest, pressing against the fragile composure you have maintained. The rain from the previous day has left the air sharp and clean, its chill biting against your cheeks as you step down onto the gravel drive. Ahead of you, the palace rises like a monument carved from cold marble, its grand facade adorned with intricate carvings that catch the faint light of the overcast sky. The sheer scale of it is daunting, a testament to power and permanence that feels almost suffocating.

The guards stationed at the towering entrance barely glance at you, their spears held upright, their gazes fixed on the horizon. They step aside in perfect unison, their silence a wordless command to proceed. No escort awaits you, no servant appears to guide your path. There is only the gaping maw of the entrance hall, its vastness framed by polished columns and arched windows that stretch upwards into infinity.

As you step inside, the sound of your heels echoes across the marble floors, each click bouncing back to you from the vaulted ceilings. The grandeur of the space is overwhelming—gold filigree lines the edges of the towering walls, and crystal chandeliers hang like frozen constellations from above, their prisms refracting light into faint, fleeting rainbows. Elaborate tapestries hang between gilded frames, each one depicting scenes of triumph and conquest, reminders of the empire's indomitable legacy. Yet despite the splendour, the air is cold and empty, devoid of the warmth that might make such beauty feel alive.

You hesitate, your gaze sweeping over the cavernous space, waiting for someone to appear—an attendant, a page, anyone who might lead you further. But no one comes. The silence stretches, the weight of it growing heavier with each passing moment. It is not neglect; it is deliberate. A quiet, calculated reminder of your place in this world, and of the man whose summons has brought you here. Even your movement through his palace is a matter of his discretion, each step you take a testament to his control.

A faint sigh escapes your lips, the sound lost in the vast emptiness of the hall. You force yourself to move, your footsteps steady but hesitant as you navigate the unfamiliar corridors. The palace feels like a labyrinth, each turn revealing more splendour, more opulence. Every gilded archway and intricate mosaic seems designed to remind you of the chasm between this place and the quiet life you've tried to build for yourself. The villainess, after all, is not a figure who belongs among such grandeur.

Your fingers brush against the soft silk of your skirts as you walk, a grounding motion against the rising unease that coils in your chest. The silence presses against you, amplifying every faint sound—the whisper of your gown trailing across the floor, the faint creak of wood as you pass a heavy door. You tell yourself that the prince's interest is political, his summons nothing more than a means to an end. Yet the weight of his gaze lingers in your memory, sharp and unrelenting, as though he sees something in you even you cannot grasp.

And then, faintly at first, you hear it—the sound of footsteps.

They are measured and deliberate, each step cutting through the oppressive silence like the toll of a bell. You freeze, your breath catching as the sound grows closer, reverberating through the stillness of the corridor. It is a purposeful rhythm, unhurried but resolute, the kind of stride that belongs to someone who knows the weight of their presence.

You turn, your gaze falling upon a figure that is both familiar and unwelcome.



✧ ࣪⊹˖ 𝓔𝐍𝐃 𝓞𝐅 𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓕𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝜗𝜚˚⋆



𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝓥𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝓘𝐒 𝓣𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃!

𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦! 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘹 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴! 𝘧𝘦𝘮. 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

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𝜗𝜚 ✧𓆪 ‧₊˚⊹

𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝓢𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 ﹕edited !





I might just enjoy writing scenes with Amelie a little too much... A significant character will be introduced next chap, which will be published in a few days! <3