The seventh wife of the cursed dark prince

"You're doing that thing again," Isolde said. She looked up from the mirror, where two maids were pinning her hair into a complicated, glittering style.

"What thing?" I asked.

"The staring out the window thing. You do it every time something big is happening and you'd rather be anywhere else. You look miserable."

I forced my eyes away from the palace gardens, where servants were busy hanging lanterns between the hedges for tonight's party. I caught Isolde watching me in the mirror's reflection. After fifteen years of friendship, she didn't even need to turn around to know exactly what I was doing.

"I just like watching them work," I said. It wasn't a total lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. Deep down, I had a bad feeling about today. I couldn't explain what it was or why I felt it, but it wouldn't go away. Today was supposed to be perfect. The king and queen were throwing a massive ball to celebrate their twenty-third anniversary.

"Sure you do." Isolde smiled, letting it drop for now. "Twenty-three years, Elara. My parents. Can you believe it?"

I actually could. I had grown up watching King Edric and Queen Miriel just like any kid watches their own parents. I knew them well enough to see that their marriage wasn't just a show for the public. He still pulled out her chair at dinner, and she still laughed at his bad jokes like she was hearing them for the first time. Even though I knew she'd heard them a dozen times before.

My own parents were just as loving, which was probably why I never cared much for the fake, stuffy behavior of the rest of the royal court. My father, Elder Michael Dal Verst, and my mother, Lady Rosalind, weren't royalty, but they ran our wing of the palace like a real home. I never doubted for a single day that they loved me.

My brother Tristan would probably say I was being dramatic. Tristan always had an opinion.

"Your sister is in a terrible mood again," Isolde said, easily reading the look on my face. "I saw her in the east hall an hour ago. She looked like she was ready to blow up."

"She's eighteen," I sighed. "She's always in a mood."

"This felt different."

I didn't argue. Caron had been acting distant toward me for a long time now. It wasn't just normal sisterly bickering; it felt deeper and colder, enough to make even our parents uncomfortable, though no one ever talked about it out loud.

Wanting to see what was wrong, I headed out to the gardens to find her. I spotted her sitting alone on a bench by the fountain, her arms crossed tight, watching the servants hang lanterns with a scowl that could curdle milk.

"You look thrilled," I said, sitting down next to her. I probably shouldn't have, judging by the sharp glare she gave me.

"I'm thrilled," she snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I can't wait for another night of watching everyone fawn over the perfect elder's daughter."

"Caron..."

"Don't." She stood up before I could finish, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt with way too much force. "Save the sweet sister speech for someone who actually wants to hear it."

She walked away before I could say another word. I sat there for a while, wondering, not for the first time, why she seemed so tired of simply being in the same room as me.

Twenty minutes later, my mother found me. She sat down next to me on the edge of the fountain with her usual quiet grace.

"Did you have a fight with your sister?"

I just shook my head. Then, the question popped out before I could stop it. "Does she hate me, Mum?"

My mother’s face softened with a look of deep sadness.

"No," she said quietly. "She doesn't hate you. I think sometimes she's afraid of things she can't explain, and it comes out as anger because anger is easier to handle than fear." She reached over and tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear, just like she used to do when I was little. "You are deeply loved in this family, Elara. Whatever Caron is dealing with, it has nothing to do with you. Never doubt that you belong here."

I didn't fully understand why she said it with so much weight, as if she were answering a much bigger question than the one I had asked. But I let it go. Her hands were warm, the garden smelled incredible, and in just a few hours, the entire court would gather to celebrate a marriage I truly believed in.

Sitting there in the warm sun, I had no idea that by midnight, none of this would matter at all.

On my way back inside, I ran into Tristan. He was leaning against the stable wall, arms crossed, looking highly amused as he watched one of the guards struggle with a stubborn horse.

"You're not going to help him?" I asked, stepping up next to him.

"He's learning character," my brother grinned, falling into step beside me as we walked. At twenty-three, he was broad-shouldered from his years training with the knights, but he still looked at me the exact same way he did when I was small enough to ride on his shoulders. "You look like you're thinking too hard.

What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just Caron."

"Ah." He didn't pry, which was one of my favorite things about him. He always knew when to leave things alone. "She'll be fine. She always plays her part when it counts."

"That doesn't make me feel any better."

"It wasn't meant to. It's just the truth." He nudged my shoulder with his. "Go get ready. You have a massive ball to survive, and I plan to spend the night stealing food from the dessert table and watching you dance with nervous noblemen."

I couldn't help but laugh. I let him walk me back to our wing of the palace. The sun was still bright, the evening was still ahead of us, and for a few more hours, everything was completely normal.