Music recommendation: "Take me to Church" by Hozier
P.s sorry for any late posting, chapters are scheduled to release everyday at 12am at least.
As they stepped onto the floor, the music swelled, and the whispers erupted once again, louder this time, even more brazen. Fae ladies exchanged wide-eyed glances, jealousy thick in the air. Catherine, glaring from her place among the courtiers, could barely mask her fury. The human queen's lips were pressed into a thin line, her ladies-in-waiting muttering vicious remarks, which the elves were quick to mock. Yet Zarafea did not hear their words. She only felt the burn of Asher's touch as they moved together in the rhythm of the dance.
He was close—too close. His arm wrapped around her waist with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down her spine. "This is quite the spectacle you've made," he said, his tone almost bored, though his eyes gleamed with something far sharper. "They're all wondering who you are. What you are."
Zarafea lifted her chin slightly, meeting his intense gaze without wavering. "I thought you liked theatrics. You practically insisted upon it."
He chuckled softly, though there was no warmth in the sound. "You didn't disappoint."
The way he looked at her—searching, suspicious—made it clear that he was testing her. Though they had made an agreement, he didn't trust her. Not entirely. And why should he? She was a goddess after all, her true motives hidden beneath layers of necessity and history.
Asher's grip tightened ever so slightly as they twirled, his voice dropping to a low murmur only she could hear. "Why are you really here, Zarafea? What do you truly want?"
Her heart skipped a beat. The question hung in the air like a blade, its edge sharp and dangerous. She forced a smile, though her mind raced. "You know why I'm here. My creations are trapped—just as I was. I'm here to free them."
Asher's eyes darkened, the violence in them unmistakable. "And you expect me to believe that freeing them is your only motivation? A goddess doesn't descend from her prison just for charity."
Zarafea felt the sting of his words but masked it quickly, maintaining her poise. She'd faced far worse than his accusations—years of torment and imprisonment had hardened her. "You sought me out," she reminded him softly. "We made a pact. You needed me just as much as I needed you."
"And now you're here," he said, his voice still low, almost dangerous. "In my court. Dancing in my arms. Are you sure this is what you truly wanted?"
She met his gaze head-on, refusing to be intimidated. "You think I haven't thought this through? Every step of this plan, every risk—I've accepted them all. I'm not here for power, Asher."
He smiled then, but it wasn't a kind one. "No? Power seems to follow you wherever you go."
"Because it has to," she answered coolly, her eyes narrowing just slightly. "Power is what keeps me alive. It's what keeps my creations safe. I didn't come here to take your throne, no matter what your court may whisper."
Asher twirled her around, keeping his grip firm as the other dancers moved like ripples around them. "They'll whisper more than that. They'll spin tales of the mysterious woman who caught my eye, the one who seems far too composed for a physician's daughter."
She felt the bite of his words but kept her tone even. "Let them whisper. They'll tire themselves out eventually."
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. "You underestimate how much my court loves their games."
"And you underestimate me, Asher," she said, her voice soft but firm. "I've played bigger games than this, for stakes far higher."
His expression flickered, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes. For a moment, he didn't respond, simply leading her in a slow, graceful turn. Then, his grip on her tightened, and his gaze hardened once more. "Perhaps. But this time, you're playing on my field."
Zarafea leaned closer, her breath brushing against his cheek. "And yet, you asked me to play."
For a moment, the tension between them seemed to crackle in the air, the weight of their history, their pact, their unspoken goals pressing down on them. The dance, elegant and composed to the outside world, was a battlefield of its own—one neither of them could afford to lose.
Asher's smile was cold, his voice low. "I'll be watching you, Zarafea. Every move. Every step. Don't think I've let my guard down."
"I wouldn't expect anything less," she replied smoothly. "But remember—you're the one who sought me out. You'll get what you asked for."
As the music swelled to a close, Asher released her, stepping back but never breaking eye contact. The room erupted in applause, but Zarafea hardly noticed. Her heart raced, her mind spinning with every word exchanged, every veiled threat, every lingering look.
As Asher turned and walked back to the dais, leaving her in the center of the ballroom, Zarafea couldn't shake the feeling that their dance had only just begun.
Zarafea's heart was still racing from the intensity of the dance. As she curtsied and moved to step off the floor, the dizziness she had been suppressing began to creep up on her. She took slow, measured breaths, trying to stave off the growing fatigue, but her limbs felt heavy, and the edges of her vision were starting to blur.
The use of her magic—the strain of holding her corporeal form, of keeping the illusion alive—was taking its toll. No one in the room knew just how weak she truly was beneath the facade of grace and elegance. Not even Asher, for all his sharp-eyed suspicion, could see the way her knees threatened to buckle beneath the shimmering folds of her gown.
She smiled at a passing lord, nodding her head politely as if nothing was amiss, and continued walking. The murmur of conversation and the clinking of wine glasses faded into a dull hum as she desperately scanned the room for an exit.
"Miss," she murmured softly to a passing maid, her voice thin. "Would you kindly show me to the powder room?"
The maid, a fae girl with wide, curious eyes, nodded quickly. "Of course, my lady. This way."
Zarafea followed, each step becoming more difficult as they left the grand ballroom and entered a quieter, dimly lit hallway. Her hands clenched the fabric of her gown, trying to will herself to stay upright.
Just a little further.
The maid opened the door to a small, elegant powder room tucked away in the corridor. Zarafea gave her a grateful nod, trying to keep her voice steady. "Thank you. That will be all."
The door clicked shut behind her, and in that moment, Zarafea's strength gave out. She collapsed onto the floor, her knees hitting the marble with a soft thud as her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. Sweat dampened her skin, and her vision spun as if the world was tilting beneath her.
She pressed her palms flat against the cool stone, struggling to regain control. Her magic felt like a thread stretched too thin, and she feared it would snap at any moment. If that happened, her true nature—her ethereal form, her otherworldly essence—would be exposed to everyone. The thought sent a chill of terror through her.
"I can't—" She whispered to herself, her voice barely audible, fighting against the rising panic. "I can't let them see."
Closing her eyes, she tried to focus. The Nightmare Dimension, the voices of doubt, the gnawing whispers—they all pressed at the edges of her mind.
You're not strong enough. Helios will find you. You'll fail.
"No," Zarafea muttered, her jaw clenched. "I won't fail. I've come too far."
Time slipped by as she lay there on the cold floor, trying to steady her breathing, trying to pull herself back together. But even as she gathered what strength she had left, the sound of approaching footsteps made her freeze.
She wasn't alone.
The soft voices of women drifted in from the hallway outside the powder room. At first, it was faint, just a murmur of conversation, but as they drew closer, the words became clearer.
"Did you see the way she walked off the floor? She could barely keep herself upright," one of the voices said, dripping with derision.
A second voice laughed softly. "Oh, don't tell me you think she's a threat. That girl? Please. She's no one—just some physician's daughter parading around like she belongs here."
Zarafea's heart clenched, her pulse quickening. She pressed herself against the wall, straining to listen.
"Catherine seemed ready to claw her eyes out," another voice chimed in, amused. "She'll take care of her. The king won't look her way again after that."
The first woman snorted. "Catherine's jealous of anything with a pulse. But you're right. This… Zarafea, or whatever her name is, won't last long. The court won't tolerate some upstart who doesn't know her place."
There was a pause, and then one of them added in a conspiratorial whisper, "What do you think Catherine will do? Spread some rumors? Or maybe something more… direct?"
Laughter followed, the sound sharp and cruel. "Who knows? But one thing's for sure. She won't be on the board much longer."
Zarafea's hands clenched into fists, her fingernails digging into her palms. They were already plotting against her, scheming to destroy her before she even had a chance to establish herself. And Catherine—of course it would be her.
The humiliation she had felt from the taunts earlier in the evening began to burn in Zarafea's chest, but she forced herself to remain calm. She couldn't afford to react, to be rash. Not now.
The voices faded as the women moved on, their laughter echoing down the hall. Slowly, Zarafea exhaled, trying to calm the storm of anger and frustration swirling within her. She had expected resistance, but not so soon—not when she was still trying to find her footing in this strange new world of power and politics.
She struggled to her feet, leaning heavily against the wall as her legs trembled beneath her. With a deep breath, she pushed away the fear and doubt that gnawed at her insides.
This was a game, and they thought her too weak to play it.
But they didn't know her.
They didn't know what she had sacrificed to be here, the depths of her determination, the power that simmered beneath her skin, even in this weakened state.
With a final steadying breath, Zarafea smoothed the folds of her gown and adjusted her posture, summoning what strength she could. She would return to that ballroom and face whatever came her way. She would survive—no, she would win.
The gods had taught her well, and if the Fae court wanted a game, she was more than ready to play.