I sat perched on the edge of the plush velvet seat in the carriage, feeling the soft fabric of my gown. I felt a bit awkward wearing what seemed like a work of art. 

The bodice hugged my figure like a second skin, and the skirt flowed in cascading layers of silken fabric. The dress was a deep shade of emerald that complemented my tan complexion perfectly, and the intricate golden embroidery that adorned it caught the sunlight, sending flecks of light dancing across the carriage's interior. 

My dark hair, usually unassuming in hue, now took on a reddish sheen as the sun's rays filtered through the window, mirroring the warm red undertones of the Marquess' own locks.

I had learned that, due to Alaric's friendship with the Crown Prince, our visit to the palace was scheduled sooner than most. Since receiving the summons, I had been plunged into a whirlwind of protocol and etiquette imparted by the strict teacher the Marquess' had hired.

Eamon, the adept student, had absorbed his lessons with an ease that bordered on familiarity. His explanation about preemptive readings did little to quell my suspicion that he knew more of court life than he let on. In contrast, I was still grappling with the intricacies of courtly etiquette, my mind a whirlwind of do's and don'ts.

Across from me sat the Marquess', gazing at the passing cityscape, his expression serene. I had called him grandfather only once, and the affection that bloomed on his face at that moment had not entirely left his features in the day's since.

As the carriage rolled smoothly down the street, I also turned my gaze to the window and watched the capital unfold before me. The people seemed to part like the sea before us, their faces a blur of curiosity and deference. The houses gave way to grander structures, with towers reaching toward the heavens and flags flapping proudly in the breeze.

As the iron-wrought gates of the palace came into view, I couldn't suppress the sharp intake of breath at the sheer magnitude of its walls. A cough from the Marquess snapped my attention back inside the carriage.

"Luciana," he said sternly, "remember who you are." His eyes held a glint of warning, tempered by the smile that touched his lips. "You will see wonders beyond your imagination today, but you must remain composed. You are a Kildare; let none question your place here."

"Yes, grandfather." I nodded, schooling my features into an expression befitting the heir apparent, my heart drumming a nervous cadence against my ribcage. As the carriage drew closer to the palace, my anticipation swelled—a mingling of fear and exhilaration for what lay ahead.

The cobbled stones beneath the carriage wheels whispered into silence as they rolled to a gentle halt. As the carriage door opened, I felt Eamon's steadying grip before I even saw his outstretched hand. With a practiced grace born of countless rehearsals, I descended from the opulent cocoon of my travel.

The Marquess descended with an air of accustomed dignity and turned to survey their welcoming party.

Standing upon the marble threshold was Crown Prince Sterling. 

He was a study in regal poise draped in a suit of velvets of deep amethyst and gold. His grand attire contrasted with his plain features, which hovered between handsomeness and mediocrity. He had eyes of light hazel and hair the color of burnished oak, styled neatly to accentuate a decent jawline, which did most of the work in salvaging his royal allure. Flanking him was a phalanx of imperial knights in the same purple and gold colors.

"Your Highness," intoned the Marquess, bowing his head respectfully. I echoed the gesture, sweeping into a perfect curtsy next to him.

"Marquess Alastair," Prince Sterling greeted, his voice betraying a hint of warmth as he turned to appraise me. 

I could feel Prince Sterling's gaze linger on me, though he did not try to hide how his eyes traced the contours of my face, the line of my shoulders, and down to where my gown hugged my waist and flared into a cascade of silken waves. 

I caught how the Prince's gaze lingered on my hair. He must have noticed how the sunlight played tricks with my hair, igniting threads of red amidst the brown, mirroring the color of the Marquess' mane. This detail seemed to snag on the prince’s scrutiny, knitting his brow ever so slightly. There was a flicker of doubt in his eyes, perhaps a waver in his conviction regarding Alaric's allegations of my illegitimacy.

With a gesture from the prince, we proceeded through the grandeur of the palace, down corridors adorned with tapestries and frescoes chronicling royal triumphs. It was a silent march, our footfalls echoing softly until we reached two large iron doors that seemed to materialize out of thin air in the middle of the hallway.

Inside the room was a sanctuary of knowledge, its ancient tomes bound in leather and vellum, perched on shelves that seemed to whisper secrets. Glass cases filled with arcane artifacts and enigmatic relics lined the walls, each encircled by glowing runes that hummed with latent power.

Alaric was already inside. He stood rigid, his attire immaculate—a tailored jacket of dark brocade with silver threads that matched the frost in his gray eyes. His lips curled into a scowl upon seeing me enter, the disdain unmistakable even at a distance. Beside him stood King Edmund, who regarded the newcomers with an amiable smile. His thick, graying beard did little to conceal his robust laughter lines as he addressed the Marquess without ceremony. 

"Alastair, always a pleasure."

"Your Majesty," the Marquess returned the greeting, his voice threaded with deference, as he bowed his head. I bowed my head and curtsied deep.

"Raise your head, child," King Edmund instructed me, to which I complied but lowered my gaze. With a chuckle that echoed off the high ceilings, he added, "So you must be Lady Luciana Kildare."

I answered with another curtsy, deeper this time, before daring to meet his eyes. The king's gaze locked onto mine, and his expression shifted to one of recognition. 

"Ah," he mused aloud, "your hair may not be the same copper mane, but those eyes... that is Kildare green if ever I saw it."

Alaric's scowl deepened, and his hands balled into fists by his side, betraying his irritation. I felt a tremor of vindication but remained silent as I fought to conceal a smirk.

Prince Sterling intervened smoothly. 

"To dispel all doubts, let us proceed with the chalice." 

The king nodded approvingly.

A cloaked figure emerged from a dark corner of the room, his presence as sudden as a thought. His attire was somber, a dark cloak enveloping him, the hood casting his face in mystery. With a respectful bow, he handed the king a round silver object adorned with back gems. Once in his hand, he approached one of the tall glass cases. The room held its breath as King Edmund's hand passed through the glass pane as though it were mere mist.

My heart skipped a beat at the casual display of magic, a sense of awe wrestling with the need to maintain composure.

With a flourish that seemed as much about the theatrics of the moment as it was about the ritual itself, King Edmund produced the Sanguine Chalice from within the glass case. It was a vessel of deep burgundy, almost black, with veins of gold snaking around its circumference. The chalice seemed to drink in the light, casting an ominous yet regal presence upon the marble pedestal where it was placed.

Beside it, the king laid a dagger of exquisite craftsmanship. Its handle was wrought from silver, encrusted with rubies that matched the chalice in their deep red hue, and the blade itself was a mirror finish, honed to a deadly sharpness. It was both a weapon and a work of art.

Alaric's smirk was a shadow passing over his face as he took hold of the dagger. 

"Ladies first," he said, offering it to me with a calculated casualness.

I met his gaze evenly, my pulse steady. 

I accepted the dagger with the calm composure of someone familiar with the sting of a blade. Without flinching, I extended my left arm over the chalice and made a clean cut across my forearm, eliciting sharp intakes of breath from onlookers.

"Luciana!" The Marquess' voice betrayed his shock. "Why would you cut your arm and not your hand?"

"Cutting my palm would hinder daily tasks," I explained calmly, my voice level despite the fresh wound. "This is less bothersome."

King Edmund let out a chuckle that resonated with warmth and surprise. 

"Infallible logic, just like your mother." A note of fond reminiscence tinged his words. "The palace has healers that would have mended your hand. Though I suppose now it will be your arm."

Heat crept into my cheeks as I realized my thoughtlessness, but there was no time for embarrassment as Eamon approached, wrapping my forearm in a cloth with practiced care.

Meanwhile, Alaric, with a disdainful twist of his lips, wiped the dagger clean on his handkerchief before slicing his palm. Blood welled up as he clenched his hand, forcing droplets to fall into the chalice.

At first, nothing happened, and the tension in the room thickened like fog. Then, gradually, the contents began to glow—a luminescent, deep crimson that cast an otherworldly light across our faces. The glow pulsed as if the chalice had taken on a life force.

A long-held sigh escaped me, relief washing away the doubt I didn't realize I had been harboring. Standing close by, Eamon could barely contain a triumphant grin as he watched Alaric, whose eyes remained locked on the now-dimming chalice, disbelief etching his features.

Once the glow subsided, leaving only the echo of its power in the air, King Edmund addressed the Marquess. "Alistair, I look forward to attending the succession ceremony, a grandeur befitting the Kildare name."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," the Marquess replied with a bow, humility and pride mingling in his tone.

"Take your time here," the King continued, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "It is Lady Kildare's first visit to the palace, after all." With a nod, he departed, leaving the echoes of his departure to fade into the vast collection of knowledge that surrounded us.

The Marquess turned to me, "Luciana, once the healers are done with you, please wait outside. I need to speak with Alaric." 

I nodded as a new figure dressed in a brown cloak approached me. The man undid the bandage and applied a clear salve that stopped the bleeding completely.

"The wound should be closed up completely by the end of the day," the healer whispered gently before turning and disappearing among the tall shelves of artifacts.

Stepping back into the grandeur of the palace hall, I looked around in confusion. The walls were still cloaked in rich tapestries depicting battles and coronations, but they weren't the ones I had seen on my way in, and the lush carpet had been replaced with polished white marble veined with the gold of centuries.

"The artifacts room must have an enchantment on it," Eamon finally voiced. "The entrance and exit must change every time to protect the items within."

I was both fascinated and frustrated by the magic I was witnessing used within the palace. It was unlike any I had encountered before, likely cast centuries ago when witches roamed freely without prejudice.

"Listen to him," Eamon chuckled, a sly grin crossing his face as Alaric's muted fury seeped through the door. "He is just wasting his breath. You are the heir, and there isn't anything he can do about it."

I, less amused, fixed my companion with a puzzled frown. 

"Please explain why I am to inherit everything over him?"

"Your eyes," Eamon stated simply.

"What does that mean?" I interjected, my impatience tinged with confusion. 

"What do my eyes have to do about it?"

Eamon released an exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"Have you read any of your family history?"

"No, I haven't had time," I admitted with a dismissive shrug.

I could see Eamon gearing up for a lecture, his brow furrowing. 

Preempting him, I said, "We've been in Aurorea for just over a week, and I've only known about my noble status for maybe five days. On top of that, I've had to take a crash course on etiquette for this visit, so no, I haven't had the chance to delve into my family's archives."

"Green eyes like yours, and the Marquiess', are rare—not just in Aurorea but everywhere on the continent, and even in Nimrea," Eamon explained, his voice softening with a touch of understanding for what I had gone through recently. "It was believed, long ago, that this green hue had its origins linked to magic. Those born with green eyes were said to have a strong connection and affinity with the ethereal forces of nature, drawing upon the ancient strength of the land itself."

"Like elementalists?" I asked, interrupting Eamon.

"Exactly. A few of your ancestors were known to be powerful elementalists before the purge of magical humans." Eamon continued, "Therefore, they were the ones to inherit the title of Marquess, no matter the gender. And there has always been only one holder of green eyes per generation. Your grandfather, then your mother, now you."

I mulled over his words, the gravity of my birthright settling heavily on my shoulders. I ventured cautiously, "What happens if the green-eyed successor or head of the family dies and there is no other with green eyes?"

"Then," Eamon said with a solemn stare, "the title is inherited by the next of kin until a new family member is born with the mark of inheritance."

Before I could contemplate the dangerous implications of my unique inheritance, the Marquess and Alaric appeared in the hallway. Alaric's face was stormy as he passed us without acknowledgment, prompting a rebuke from the Marquess.

"Alaric Kildare, have you forgotten your etiquette?" the Marquess' voice boomed down the hall.

Alaric halted, "I have not, father," he retorted, his displeasure barely contained. "But I am only to acknowledge the heir when they have been officially named as such. Until then she is beneath me." He turned sharply, his cloak billowing as he departed.

My gaze lingered on the Marquess, noticing the fearsome anger contorting his features for the first time. The sight sent shivers skittering down my spine. Sensing my trepidation, the Marquess attempted to regain his composure, addressing me softer. 

"I must talk with the King over some important matters, and it will take some time."

He signaled to a knight standing nearby. "Escort Lady Kildare to the carriage."

"Grandfather," I blurted, desperation lacing my voice, "the King said I could explore since it's my first visit. Please allow me to wait and return with you."

My affectionate plea seemed to reach him; his stern expression melted into a small, indulgent smile. He conceded and nodded to the knight. "Show my granddaughter around while I speak with the king."

"Of course, my lordship." The knight bowed deeply and introduced himself. "I am Sir Thaddeus. Where would you like to go first, my lady?"

"Let's start with the library," I decided.