CHAPTER 437: THE GOLDEN JUBILEE: RIVALRY

In a quieter wing of the palace, a small cluster of servants fussed over Mira, smoothing fabrics and adjusting folds as though she were a precious work of art. Unlike the majority of the court, who would surely arrive cloaked in regal shades of crimson and purple, Mira had chosen to stand apart. She wore a gown of cream and gold, elegant in its defiance and designed to catch the eye.

The bodice clung to her form, its silk drawn tight to emphasize the delicate curve of her slender waist. The sleeves, a masterwork of cream silk edged in gilt trim, were crafted in multipart layers, each laced separately so they could be worn or removed at will. Pearls glimmered faintly across the skirts, scattering like droplets of moonlight, while threads of golden lace ran like veins of sunlight through the fabric. At her heart, the bodice bore a central motif, its sequins catching the light with a subtle, enchanting fire.

Mira had taken charge of her own beauty. With the skill of someone who had long practiced the art, she brushed onto her skin the refined creams and powders of the Gabriella Guild—treasures known to heighten natural allure. By her own hand, her features were sharpened, perfected, made luminous.

Just beyond the wall that separated them, Amielle was undergoing her own transformation. Her maids whispered and worked swiftly, but the crown princess’s true adornment was not silk or powder—it was the confidence she wore like a second skin. She chose crimson, bold and undeniable, her gown blazing with the authority of a crown princess consort.

Almost as if the palace itself conspired to draw their rivalry into the open, the doors of both chambers swung wide at once. Mira stepped into the corridor just as Amielle did.

The corridor stilled. Mira stepped forward in her cream and gold, just as Amielle emerged in blazing crimson. Their gazes collided, the air between them thick with fire.

Amielle stood radiant, her beauty undeniable, her posture steeped in the quiet assurance of one who was born to walk as a queen. It was that unshakable confidence that gnawed at Mira, more than the perfection of her rival’s face.

"Cream?" Amielle’s lips curved into a smile that was not a smile. "Bold choice. But then again, one must try harder when one has no crown."

Mira’s pulse hammered, but she refused to flinch. Instead, she lifted her chin, every gesture calculated. "And crimson suits you well. It makes your jealousy harder to disguise."

A flicker crossed Amielle’s face—too swift for the maids to notice, but Mira saw it. Saw and savored it.

Amielle recovered quickly, stepping closer, voice low enough for only Mira to hear. "Beauty, gowns, tricks with powders... You try so hard to look like a queen, don’t you?" Her eyes glinted, sharp and merciless. "But the crown doesn’t suit you."

Mira smiled, slow and cold, though her heart burned. So what if she glows in public?But what did beauty matter? Mira thought. At the end of the night, it is I who lies in Reuben’s arms. Not her.

With a deliberate arch of her brow, Mira turned sharply on her heel, the cream and gold of her gown whispering against the polished floor as she strode ahead. She did not look back, but she knew Amielle’s eyes followed her, sharp as daggers, all the way toward the banquet hall.

...

Reuben lingered before the tall mirror, staring at the man reflected there. The garments of a crown prince clung to him—an embroidered tunic heavy with gold thread, a mantle draped with ceremonial precision. On the surface, he was every inch the heir of a kingdom: regal, composed, unshakable.

And yet, his own eyes betrayed him. A shadow of unease lingered there, a heaviness he could not smooth away, no matter how flawless the silks or how rigidly he squared his shoulders.

Was Mother right? The thought pressed against him like an unwelcome hand. Are we truly ready to meet the Zurans head-on? Or are we marching into ruin wrapped in banners and pride?

His fingers lingered at his collar, fumbling for a moment before he straightened it. The fabric felt suddenly constricting, a symbol of duty that threatened to choke the man beneath it. He exhaled a long, slow sigh, as though trying to push the weight of the crown from his chest, before finally turning from the mirror.

The door opened with a muted groan, and waiting in the corridor stood Espiyor, his knight, as steadfast and immovable as the blade at his side. Just beyond, where the torchlight spilled across the polished floor, stood Amielle and Mira.

The sight of them pierced through the gloom of his thoughts. Amielle in crimson, a blaze of royal certainty. Mira in cream and gold, luminous as moonlight. Two women, so different in presence yet equally arresting, both bound to him by vows and tangled threads of rivalry.

A smile touched Reuben’s lips, unbidden but welcome. For a moment, the storm in his chest eased. If only briefly, beauty steadied him where duty did not. His stride quickened, the sound of his boots echoing softly as he moved down the corridor toward them—toward the only anchors he had before the banquet and the uncertain night that awaited.

...

The grand doors of the banquet hall loomed ahead, carved with intricated symbols of Northem and inlaid gemstones that caught the candlelight. Beyond them, the sound of laughter, music, and crystal glasses chimed in the air like a promise of spectacle.

Reuben entered the banquet hall before his mother. His arrival drew attention when the herald announced his presence and that of his consorts.

The guards swung the doors open, announcing the two women almost in unison. Mira in cream and gold, Amielle in crimson, flanking the crown prince.

The court stilled for a heartbeat, eyes flicking between them. The contrast was impossible to ignore—day and night, flame and moonlight, rivals walking side by side into the heart of power.

Mira felt the weight of those gazes and welcomed it. She let her gown sweep wide as she entered, golden lace and pearls glittering under the chandeliers. Every step was measured, calculated to whisper elegance and defiance.

Amielle, of course, did not need to calculate. She strode forward like she owned the very stones beneath her feet, her scarlet gown blazing, her smile radiant enough to blind. Murmurs rippled through the crowd—praise for the crown princess, admiration for her poise. But Mira caught the other notes, too. Curiosity. A few appreciative glances lingered on her.

"Darling Mira," Amielle said sweetly, her voice carrying just enough to draw attention from those nearest. "You’ve outdone yourself tonight. Cream is such... a brave choice. One must be careful not to disappear against the walls."

Soft laughter bubbled from a nearby lady, stifled quickly.

Mira’s lips curved. "And crimson is... predictable. But then again, crowns rarely allow for imagination." Her tone was light, playful even—but her words struck sharply.

A hush fell for a moment. Then a gentleman nearby chuckled approvingly, breaking the tension, though the weight of it still lingered between the two women.

Amielle’s hand twitched at her side, her smile hardening into polished perfection. "Careful, sister," she murmured as they passed into the hall, their shoulders brushing. "Pretty birds who sing too loudly often find their wings clipped."

Mira’s reply was a whisper, meant for Amielle’s ears alone. "Better clipped wings than pretenses."

They took their places among the glittering nobility, their smiles masks, their eyes weapons. All around them, the banquet swirled with music, laughter, and jewels—but the true spectacle was not the feast, nor the dancing, nor the wine. It was the silent duel of two women whose rivalry burned brighter than all the chandeliers combined.