Isabella sat in the quiet of the mansion, the cool moonlight casting shadows across the hills. Her fingers traced the sketch in her book, though her mind wandered. The sudden loss of her father still weighed heavily on her, leaving a void that nothing could fill. Her gaze flickered to the worn sword at her side, a gift from him, a reminder of the strength he had always believed in her.
From the next room, Celine's laughter floated through the walls, soft yet tinged with something more—a longing, perhaps, for a life beyond their current one. Isabella knew her sister well enough to understand that the whispers about a certain prince had her in their grip. The Prince of Dawnforge, a figure of power and mystery, seemed to be everything Celine dreamed of—handsome, charismatic, and above all, a potential escape from the confines of their legacy.
Isabella felt a pang of unease. She had no interest in courtly games or royal ambitions. Her world was simpler, grounded in her swordplay and the solace of her art. Yet, as she glanced back at her sketchbook, she couldn't ignore the stirring within her—a faint longing for something beyond the hills of Dawnforge.
With a sigh, she closed her book, setting it aside. Tomorrow, she'd practice her swordwork. At least that was something she could control.
The evening air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers as Isabella sat in the corner of the parlor, the steady scrape of her blade against the sharpening stone filling the silence. Celine, in contrast, was a whirlwind of movement, standing before the mirror and adjusting the folds of her deep crimson gown, a perfect match for her fiery hair. Lumus, their lazy orange cat, lounged on the windowsill, indifferent to the drama unfolding before him.
"You know, Lumus," Celine purred, smoothing the fabric of her dress. "This gown will make such an impression at the party. The prince won't be able to resist. He simply must notice me."
Lumus blinked slowly, unimpressed, and stretched lazily, not bothering to offer a response.
Celine continued, unbothered, "His heart may be colder than a winter's night, but I know how to warm it."
Isabella rolled her eyes but kept her focus on the blade in her hands, resisting the pull of her sister's endless chatter.
"Celine," she spoke up dryly, "Do you really think the prince will be charmed by your... gown?" She glanced up at her sister, now fluffing her hair. "Or perhaps by your ability to engage in endless, meaningless conversation with the courtesans?"
Celine shot her a playful look, unphased by Isabella's sarcasm. "Oh please, Isabella. You may prefer your swords and sketches, but I have a plan. A well-thought-out, irresistible plan," she said, her eyes gleaming with confidence. "All I need is the right moment, and I'll have him."
Isabella snorted, her lips twisting into a smirk. "Winning his heart? That's adorable. I'm sure he'll be mesmerized by your ability to purr like a cat."
"Oh, don't mock me," Celine said, raising a finger as if making a serious point. "Prince Rasmus is known for his... dark allure. The cold prince, they say. Doesn't even look twice at women. But I will be the one to crack that ice, mark my words."
Isabella leaned back in her chair, arching an eyebrow. "Oh, really? And how exactly do you plan to do that? Throw yourself at his feet? Whisper sweet nothings into his icy, non-responsive ears?"
"I will not throw myself at his feet," Celine replied with a dramatic sigh, "I'm not some desperate commoner. I will entice him. I will make him fall for me."
Isabella's eyes narrowed, clearly unconvinced. "Right. And I suppose you'll also tame his icy heart with your charming personality?"
Celine smirked, undeterred. "You just wait. You'll see." She winked. "And in the meantime, you're coming with me."
Isabella's face soured. "Oh, no. Absolutely not. I'm not going to some royal engagement party to watch you prance around like a puppy on display."
"You are coming," Celine insisted, hands on her hips. "Barklington specifically requested your presence. He said something about how your sharp wit and... 'untamed' spirit would be a fine contrast to all the boring socialites."
Isabella let out a sharp laugh. "Sharp wit? He must be imagining someone else. But fine, if it'll stop you from pestering me, I'll come. But I won't enjoy it."
Celine gave her a victorious smile. "Perfect. You can sit in the corner and glare at the nobles while I work my magic on Prince Rasmus. It's a win-win."
Isabella grabbed her sword and slung it over her shoulder. "Do I at least get to poke people with my sword when they annoy me?" she asked, half-joking.
Celine raised an eyebrow. "Only if you promise not to poke the prince. He might find that... less enchanting."
"Fine," Isabella muttered. "But I'm only going because I want to see how you handle yourself around all these rich, pompous fools."
Celine tossed her head back, laughter bubbling up. "Oh, it'll be easy. All I need is a little charm, a hint of mystery, and my irresistible beauty."
"Sure," Isabella said, voice laced with sarcasm, "and if all else fails, you can always trip and fall into the prince's arms."
"I do not trip," Celine replied, deadpan.
Isabella raised a brow. "You do. All the time. I'm still waiting for the day you trip and fall right into someone important's lap. It would be hilarious."
Celine smirked. "You just wait, Isabella. The prince will be mine, and you'll see. Even you won't be able to deny my charm."
Isabella rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched in reluctant amusement. "Well, I do hope you have a good plan for when he looks at you and says, 'Lady, I think you may have tripped over your own delusions.'"
Celine shot her a pointed look. "When that happens, I'll remind him of your piercing wit—and tell him it was all your idea."
Isabella couldn't help but laugh, shaking her head as she adjusted her sword. "I can't wait for this night to unfold. At least it's bound to be... interesting."
Celine's eyes gleamed with confidence. "Oh, it will be. And when Prince Rasmus is hopelessly in love with me, you'll be the one who says, 'I told you so.'"
"Not a chance," Isabella smirked. "But I will be the one with the best seat for the entertainment."
Celine tossed her hair back with a grin. "Then consider it a front-row ticket. You'll see, Isabella. I'm going to make this prince fall for me. And you, well, you'll be witness to it all."
Isabella leaned back, sword resting across her lap, and watched her sister with a bemused smile. "I'll be the first to say, 'I told you so,' when you're caught in his cold, indifferent gaze and can't even form a sentence."
Celine laughed, unfazed. "You're welcome to try, Isabella. But trust me, this time, even you won't be able to stop me."
And as the two sisters shared a look, the evening air carried the faintest hint of anticipation—though neither of them could guess just how the night would unfold.