The sound of falling water matched the rhythm of her breath.Arisha stood before the bathroom mirror, her hands still stained with Baco's dried blood. It wasn't hers, but it burned just the same.
—"Since when do my hands tremble?"—she murmured, turning the faucet with sudden violence.Water couldn't wash away what Mikhael had planted in all of them.Nor what was brewing behind the backs of the rebel camp.
Balt was gone.Morgana too.And for the first time in days, silence wasn't peace—it was a prelude.
Scene: Balt
In the deepest cell of the old underground prison, where the walls oozed dampness and rusted shackles still whispered tales of torture, Balt opened his eyes.His breath came fast, as if he had woken from a nightmare… or into one.
—"Where… am I?"—he croaked.
Before him, a hooded figure stood in silence.—"Who are you?"
The figure slid a piece of hard bread across the floor, saying nothing.Balt crawled toward it. The marks of fresh chains bruised his wrists. A suppression collar still circled his neck.
He remembered the scream. The shot. The betrayal.His eyes flickered with magic—but no power came.
—"Mikhael…"—he hissed, voice trembling with rage—"You didn't see it coming, did you, bastard?"
And yet, a dry, bitter laugh escaped him.
—"Neither did I."
Scene: Mikhael
—"Remember what I told you," Mikhael whispered, brushing Morgana's neck as his golden eyes gleamed with hunger rather than tenderness—"You don't need to lie… Just listen. They trust you."
Morgana lowered her gaze. Not from fear—but from shame.He had broken her. And rebuilt her in his own image.
Back to Arisha
She slid her palm across the mirror, wiping away the steam.—"I won't be the doll you expect me to be."
She stepped out with her clothes still damp, unfinished in drying off, as if the urgency to escape weighed more than comfort.She asked for new clothes. They handed them to her in silence, as if no one dared speak in the presence of Ghali Snova's heir.
The room—draped in blood-red velvet—was suffocating.The mansion where she had grown up, become a woman… was now a prison dressed in luxury.
A knock. The housekeeper entered without waiting for permission.
—"I hope you are ready and prepared for the invitation, Miss Arisha. Your beautiful and delicate dress will be brought to you shortly."
She handed over the invitation, engraved in gold.That very night.The words: "Imperial Dinner in Honor of Lord Mikhael Ghali Snova's Fiancée."
Arisha felt her heart freeze. And when the dress arrived, she understood why.
It was an imperial gown, passed down for generations. Hand-embroidered gold, silver details over black silk, diamonds forming the Ghali Snova crest… and at the center of the chest, the emblem of the heir's wife.
—"NOOO!"—she screamed, hurling the dress against the wall.Her face boiled with fury.She wouldn't play this game.Not by someone else's rules.
Meanwhile, Mikhael
He fastened the final touches: white gloves, an ivory cane—more symbol than necessity—and a crescent moon brooch.His suit was power restrained: night-black, woven with silver threads and embroidery so fine it shifted with the light.
He gazed at his reflection.
—"Tonight… no one will look away."
A smile tugged at his lips.
The Grand Hall
The place was a sea of crystal, floating lights, and intoxicating perfume.The floor shimmered as if walking on water.Golden masks veiled the faces of the oldest Houses.
Elizabeth, in a gown of shimmering greens and blues, stood like someone who knew every shadow of this world. Her sharp eyes watched the grand entrance—of the man once underestimated, now praised for his cunning and brilliance.
Mikhael appeared.He walked with elegance and radiance, a prince in his own right.
The oldest advisors lowered their heads just slightly, as if seeing a king before the crown.This was not just an entrance.It was a silent declaration of war on the balance of power.
A hush of awe echoed through the hall.Who was this man?
No cane. No chair.Just himself—tall, unyielding, reborn.
Arisha, dressed against her will in the imperial gown, was led through a side hallway.Her dress seemed crafted for an ancient goddess: silver at the shoulders, liquid gold cascading from her waist, sheer elements revealing just enough without vulgarity.Down her back, a golden chain linked her shoulder blades—an ancestral symbol of "eternal union."Arisha knew it was a shackle disguised as beauty.
Every step left a trail of subtle shimmer, as if the night itself walked with her.
The ballroom doors opened. Silence fell instantly.Not because of the dress.Not even her beauty.But because at her side, a tall figure announced solemnly:
—"The fiancée of heir Ghali Snova."
Arisha hadn't known he'd be there. Let alone waiting for her at the platform.Their eyes met.
And everything stopped.
Mikhael, standing without support, looked at her with the intensity of a man gazing at his most sacred possession.Arisha, for a heartbeat, forgot her hatred.
Mikhael reached out gently, smiling.
—"You could believe again… in this kind hand, and this brave smile," he whispered.
Just for a second.She turned to meet his eyes—and noticed the faint tremble in his fingers as he took her hand.Was it desire… or fear?
"No," she thought. "I don't believe it."
And in that second… destiny made its move.
From a shadowed balcony, a pair of eyes watched the wolfess shackled by the night.Morgana, clad in darkness, murmured:—"She hasn't fallen yet."