Shadows of Midnight

My brother’s murderer could be somewhere in this ballroom. And if I don’t find him, I’ll be next.

The words echo in my mind like a constant drumbeat, a reminder of the weight on my shoulders. The grand ballroom stretches out before me, a sea of silk and satin. The clinking of glasses, the hum of conversation, the rustling of elaborate dresses and tailored suits—all of it feels like a distant murmur, as if I’m watching from a place far removed from this world, disconnected from it all.

I force myself to scan the crowd again, my gaze skimming over the faces of the nobility gathered in their finery. The scent of roses, cinnamon, and expensive perfume fills the air. Everything about this night feels like a dream—a beautiful, elegant dream—except it’s a nightmare. I want to scream, but the words lodge in my throat.

From the dais beside my father, I try to steady my breathing, my fingers tight around the hilt of my sword. I feel it—the sharp edge of the blade beneath my fingers, a reminder that I’m not the helpless girl I once was. Not anymore.

My father stands beside me, his face carved from stone, his regal bearing a stark contrast to the hollow look in his eyes. His once-vibrant face is now gaunt, hollowed out by grief, and there’s something about him that feels… distant. As if my brother’s death has hollowed him from the inside. He glances down at me briefly, his eyes flicking to my sword before he sneers.

“You could’ve at least worn a dress, Nymeria. After all, this is your ball.”

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to lash out. My ball? The one my brother should have inherited? The one that was supposed to celebrate his future as the crown prince? I swallow hard, but the bile rises in my throat anyway.

“Father, we just buried Hanniel,” I mutter under my breath, my voice strained. “Three days ago. And now you’re pushing me into the spotlight like it’s some trivial affair?”

His expression doesn’t shift. His eyes flicker to the entrance as a new guest steps into the room. A tall figure, dark and commanding. For a moment, my father’s face betrays something—something that flickers in his cold, calculating gaze. It’s recognition. Interest.

Without looking at me again, he straightens, his tone shifting to that smooth, practiced pitch. “Ah. Cinnaeus of Riverwood,” he announces.

The name rolls off his tongue like it’s a title, and I can’t help but turn my attention to the doorway.

The figure steps into the room, and the noise of the crowd fades into a low hum as I focus entirely on him. He is everything my father and the other nobles could only dream of being—broad-shouldered and tall, with a confident air that commands the attention of everyone in the room. His face is rugged, yet there’s a softness to his eyes that contradicts the imposing physique. He carries himself like a warrior, but there’s an elegance in his movements, as though he’s accustomed to a life beyond battlefields.

His hair is sun-kissed, cropped short but messy in a way that feels purposeful. His eyes—a shade of blue that seems almost too vivid to be real—scan the room, then land on me.

I freeze.

There’s something magnetic about the way he looks at me, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. It’s not just his presence that’s overwhelming—it’s the way he makes everything else in the room feel small, insignificant. As if I’m not just another princess standing at her father’s side, but the only person who matters in this moment.

I blink hard, trying to shake myself out of the spell he’s cast on me, but his gaze never falters. He moves toward the dais with a slow, deliberate stride. Every step is measured, confident, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing. The room seems to part before him, and the murmur of the crowd rises in a mix of curiosity and approval.

When he reaches the dais, he bows—not just out of respect but with the grace of someone who knows how to command a room.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” His voice is deep, low, and smooth, like rolling thunder over the mountains. I can feel the vibration of it in my chest, and I swallow hard. “I am Cinnaeus of Riverwood.”

I force myself to meet his gaze, though it takes every ounce of willpower not to look away. “Cinnaeus of Riverwood?” The name lingers in my mind. It’s not one I’ve heard before, but my father seems to recognize it, and that’s enough to spark my curiosity. “A timber baron, then?”

“Yes.” He inclines his head slightly, but his eyes never leave mine. “My family controls the timber trade in the northern regions. We’ve known your brother for many years.”

The mention of Hanniel causes my chest to tighten, a sharp pang of grief washing over me. He was supposed to be here. He was supposed to be the one welcoming guests, not me. My hands tremble, and I clench my fingers into fists to steady myself.

My father’s voice cuts through the silence. “The late Prince spoke highly of Riverwood.” His tone is dismissive, though, and I can feel the subtle undercurrent of tension in the air.

“I had the honor of being acquainted with him,” Cinnaeus responds, his jaw tightening slightly, the warmth in his eyes turning somber. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I want to scream. Do you even care?

But instead, I force out a breath, the words catching in my throat. The loss of my brother is still too fresh, too raw.

“You were close?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. My mind is clouded with a million thoughts—none of them making sense.

Cinnaeus hesitates for a brief moment, and I can see the faint flicker of something behind his eyes—something… painful. “We were comrades in the field,” he says carefully, his voice dropping a notch. “We shared many campaigns together.”

I study him carefully, wondering just how much he truly knows about my brother. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes when he speaks of Hanniel, but it’s difficult to read. For a moment, I feel like he’s speaking about a man I didn’t know. Who are you, really, Cinnaeus?

I’m about to ask another question when my father speaks again, his voice terse. “I would request a dance for my daughter. However, she’s not dressed appropriately for the occasion.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, but Cinnaeus offers a small, understanding smile.

“A walk in the garden would suffice.” His smile is disarming, almost too genuine for someone so seemingly self-assured. “Perhaps some fresh air would do us both good?”

I stare at him for a moment, unsure of his intentions. But something about the offer feels like an escape—like an opportunity to step away from the suffocating politics of the ballroom, even if only for a moment.

I nod. “Lead the way.”

As we step outside into the garden, the cool night air wraps around me like a blanket, and the scent of blooming flowers fills my lungs. The garden is bathed in the soft glow of the moon, the petals of roses and jasmine catching the light. For a moment, I can almost forget the chaos inside, almost forget my brother’s death. Almost forget that I’m wearing the weight of the crown on my head, one I never wanted, one I never asked for.

Cinnaeus turns to me, his eyes still filled with that unreadable intensity. “Tell me, Princess. What is it you want out of this life?”

I don’t answer immediately. His question lingers in the air between us, like an invitation to something darker, something deeper. For a moment, I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him that I didn’t ask for this life. That I didn’t ask for the crown. That I didn’t ask to become my father’s pawn. But instead, I just meet his gaze, and for the first time tonight, I feel something stir deep inside me—a flicker of something dangerous.

Before I can respond, the world explodes.

The sound is deafening, a roar that shakes the ground beneath my feet. The garden walls crumble. The air is filled with smoke and dust. I’m thrown backward, the force of the explosion sending me crashing into a stone pillar. My vision blurs, and pain lances through my head, but I force myself to stand, pushing against the ground.

A voice—Cinnaeus’s—shouts through the chaos. “Get to the palace! Now!”

I don’t know how long it takes for me to gather my bearings, but when I finally stagger to my feet, Cinnaeus is already gone.

The palace is in flames, the once-sturdy walls crumbling under the weight of the explosion. I rush toward the palace, my heart pounding in my chest. Who did this? Why?

And then, in the distance, I see him. Cinnaeus.

He’s running toward the wall, his tall frame cutting through the smoke. His figure is a blur as he leaps over the stone barrier, disappearing into the night. Something inside me snaps.

I chase after him, my heart racing. My feet barely touch the ground as I sprint toward the wall. I reach it, breathless, my hand grabbing the stone to hoist myself up. But as I look down, I find something on the ground.

A boot.

I bend down to pick it up, and as I do, something shifts in the air. The leather of the boot is worn, but the moment I touch it, it changes—turning from fine craftsmanship into something ragged and torn. I stagger back, my mind racing.

What kind of magic is this?

The realization slams into me like a tidal wave. Cinnaeus wasn’t just a nobleman. He was involved in this—somehow.

I clutch the boot in my hand, turning to a nearby guard. “Find the owner of this shoe,” I order, my voice low but firm.

I can feel it—the web of intrigue tightening around me. And I’m just beginning to untangle it.