Mila

Twenty-two years later

A languid afternoon sun filters through the arched windows of Vera’s bedchamber, casting long beams of golden light across the stone floor. Dust particles drift lazily in the air.

Heavy, red velvet drapes billow gently with the breeze, their rich fabric catching on the edge of the marble floor. Every corner of the room feels like it’s holding its breath, watching.

Waiting.

Vera stands in front of her towering mirror, her back straight, eyes narrowed with displeasure as she yanks at the bodice of yet another gown.

Folds of gossamer glisten in the light, the deep sapphire blue catching every slant of the sun, but Vera’s lips curl in a familiar expression of distaste.

“This won’t do,” she mutters sharply. She turns swiftly, pulling at the skirts, watching them fall limply to the floor as if they’ve betrayed her.

“None of these will do. How is it that I have nothing new for tonight?” Her words marry irritation to disbelief, as though the idea of her wardrobe being anything less than perfect is a personal insult.

The bedchamber is cluttered with gowns—emerald, gold, silver, every shade of royalty discarded carelessly across the floor. Each one is beautiful. Each one is luxurious, and yet they lie there worthlessly.

Vera steps over them, moving with the grace of someone who expects the world to make way for her.

I stand by the door, silent, as I often am in these moments. My fingers curl around the edge of my gown, smoothing the fabric absentmindedly, feeling the soft linen beneath my fingertips.

Every breath I take carries with it the scent of jasmine and rosewater, the perfumes Vera had insisted on bathing in earlier. The scent clings to the room, cloyingly sweet and suffocating.

“You,” Vera says abruptly, turning to face me. Her golden eyes flash, narrowing as she studies me, as though I am a dress she’s deciding whether or not to wear. “You’ll need to order the seamstress to make me something new. Something better. I won’t be seen in the same thing twice.”

Slivers of the sun glint off her dark hair, pulled back in intricate braids that gleam like polished ebony.

Her beauty is undeniable—every feature sculpted, every movement poised—but there’s a hard edge that makes all her beauty. . . indigestible.

She barely waits for my response. She never does.

I nod quietly, my throat tightening around unspoken words. My own reflection catches in the corner of the mirror, a fleeting image of myself standing in Vera’s shadow.

It is not that I lack the courage to challenge her, or the fire to meet her harshness head-on. But I cherish the knowledge that when this ordeal finally concludes, I can retreat to the sanctuary of my room.

Arguments with Vera are like trying to reason with a hurricane; futile and exhausting. And I, for one, value the serenity of my mind too much to squander it on such a tempest.

With a little sigh, I look downward.

My hair, just a slight shade darker than hers, falls loosely around my shoulders, and the plainness of my gown feels magnified in this room of excesses.

Vera’s gaze slides down to the dress I’m wearing. It’s a simpler one from our collection, nothing compared to the jewels she insists on draping herself in, but I don’t mind. I never have.

Something in her expression changes. A glint of—is it mischief? Cruelty?—flickers in her eyes.

“Here,” she says, grabbing a discarded gown from her bed and tossing it carelessly in my direction. It flutters toward me, the fabric heavy and cool as it lands in my arms. I look down at it—an older dress of hers, deep burgundy with faded silver embroidery along the hem.

“This will be perfect for you to wear tonight,” she says with a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes. “After all, you’re not the one everyone will be looking at.”

The words are like a slap, sharp and deliberate, but I bow my head in submission, accepting the dress without protest. I’ve been taught to smile through moments like these, to blend into the background, to support her.

This is what’s expected. This is what I do.

“Get ready quickly,” Vera says, already turning back to the mirror, her gaze fixed on herself. “The ball begins soon, and we need to make our entrance.”

Our entrance. But I know it is hers. It always has been.

***

The grand hall is filled with people by the time we make our way to the top alcove.

Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, glowing brilliantly over polished marble floors. Laughter and conversation hum like a distant melody, but it fades as soon as we step into view.

We stand side by side, above them all, our identical faces framed by the light of hundreds of candles. From this vantage point, we are untouchable, both gazed upon and distant.

Below us, the nobles and guests, all stare up.

Her hand, soft but firm, rests lightly on my arm as she leans in, her voice low. “Remember,” she whispers, “you’re my shadow tonight. As always.”

I nod, though the knot in my stomach tightens.

She steps forward to address the crowd, her voice softly sonorous as it echoes across the hall. “We gather tonight to honor the memory of our parents, the great King and Queen of Alisova. Ten years have passed since we lost them to an illness that swept the kingdom, but their vision remains alive in the heart of Alisova. My sister and I have carried their legacy forward, ruling as they would have wished.”

They hang on her every word.

I stand beside her, my hands clasped together, the burgundy gown tight across my chest. My pulse beats in my ears.

Applause rises, but I don’t hear it.

All I feel is the gaze of hundreds of eyes on us, on her—and the tightening grip of the past on my heart.

The ball begins. My vision swims trying to register the numbers attending, the sheer volume causing the grand hall to almost burst open at the seams.

Sweet notes of violins and flutes twirl through the air like threads of gold.

Laughter and conversation bubble from every corner, and the swirl of skirts and the rhythmic steps of dancers paint the floor with movement.

Chandeliers overhead illuminate the feast laid out along the banquet tables.

Lingering by the edge of the dance floor, my gaze drifts across the room. For a moment, I let myself soak in the joy around me, feeling it seep into my bones.

The table near me is overflowing with food—platters of roasted pheasant glazed in honey and rosemary, their skins crispy and golden. Bowls of fresh figs and plums sit alongside plates of crumbly pastries, their edges dusted with cinnamon and sugar.

Sweet-smelling bread, still warm from the ovens, fills the air with the comforting scent of home—home from when my parents were still alive.

Steaming trays of spiced venison peek from the table’s heart. I catch a glimpse of fruit tarts—bursting with raspberries, peaches, and cream—lined up in perfect rows, their crusts buttery and crisp.

Although my mouth waters, there’s more to savor tonight than just food. My eyes move away from the table to trace the figures spinning across the dance floor. Couples weave in and out of each other, hands clasping, skirts swishing in time with the music.

It’s beautiful, intoxicating even.

But then, my gaze lands on Vera.

She stands near the center of the room, surrounded by admirers, her laughter ringing out like silver bells. Her gown—a deep shade of emerald—flows elegantly around her as she moves, and her dark hair gleams under the candlelight, perfectly coiffed.

Nothing scares her. Nothing seems to weigh her down. She’s everything a queen should be—bold, beautiful, and commanding.

And though I love her more than anything, sometimes I wish I could be just a little more like her. Not the cruelty, not the sharp edge she sometimes wields like a weapon, but the ease with which she moves through the world.

Vera never hesitates, never falters. She never seems to question whether she belongs.

Me? I’ve spent my life watching her from the side, always her shadow, always a step behind. I admire her for it—truly—but there are times, like tonight, when I can’t help but feel the distance between us.

I love her, I do. She’s my sister, my twin, and we’ve been inseparable since birth. But sometimes, there’s a part of her that feels. . . impossibly distant and cold.

As I watch her now, laughing with ease, I wonder what it must feel like to hold the world in her palm.

“Princess Mila?”

The voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to see a young man standing before me with an inviting smile. He’s one of the noblemen from a neighboring kingdom, and though I can’t recall his name, I remember meeting him earlier in the evening. He extends his hand.

“Would you care to dance?”

I hesitate only for a heartbeat before I place my hand in his, feeling his warm fingers close around mine.

As we step onto the dance floor, the music swells around us, and a lightness sweeps through me.

His hand rests lightly on my waist, guiding me through the steps with practiced ease. I can feel the warmth of his touch, steady and sure, as we move in time with the music.

I glance up at my partner, catching the way his dark eyes shine with amusement. There’s something gentle about him, something easy. We twirl, and I laugh, swept up in the dance, in the music, in the dizzying whirl of colors around me.

But then, just as quickly as the moment came, it shatters.

A hand grips my arm—tight, cold—and I’m pulled away from my partner, stumbling slightly as the music falters in my ears.

I turn, startled, only to find Vera standing beside me, her golden eyes gleaming.

Her fingers dig into my skin, just shy of being painful.

“Mila,” she says, her voice low, smooth, and unmistakably edged.

She glances at the young nobleman I had been dancing with, her lips curving into a sneer. “Surely you can do better than that.”

The music continues behind us, but the joy I’d felt slips through my fingers, fading like the last note of a song.