The Marí

Part.1

The life of a girl they say, is but an extension of a role she will eventually assume, one where she is expected to live for the approval of another—always striving to align herself with what he deems right or wrong. We are molded for this destiny, each girl a rival to the other, consumed by envy and jealousy, even if they've never met. It matters not, as long as her pride remains untarnished. And so, we spend our lives perfecting music, art, and etiquette, preparing for the moment that will define us: the "Falciloz," a term that symbolizes the becoming, the making, the emergence of a lady into society. Growing up, I was taught that a woman's fate was shaped by three stages: conception, grooming, and marriage—if she was fortunate enough, even a rise in social standing. Today, it was my turn. Today was my becoming, my making—my Falciloz. When a girl turns eighteen, after mastering the arts of music, embroidery, and dance, when her beauty and poise are unquestionable, she is deemed fit to be introduced into society. And if she is lucky enough, she might find her partner during her own Falciloz ball. But my Falciloz was merely a formality, a performance, for my fate had already been sealed with my betrothal to Hugo Lanlard. Hugo, the attractive, controlling, demanding, unrestrained... brute. He is everything I despise, yet he is to be my future. All my dreams of becoming a warlord—yes, a warlord—vanished the day I realized I was a girl, an actual grown woman with a fully B-cup chest, wide hips, and an exaggerated large bum. In the queen's words, I am like a hen, full of eggs, primed to "receive and discharge" when necessary. The very thought of it stings—a bitter reminder of how my ambitions have been crushed beneath the layers of lace and silk I now wear. A faint shade of emerald, just like the distinct hue of my curly ginger hair, which had caused Regina endless frustration as she tugged and pinned it into a "princess-worthy" updo. I groan for the umpteenth time, seated at the vanity, feeling awkward and unsure of my appearance. From the ballroom below, I could hear the murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses, signaling the arrival of guests. A chuckle escapes me despite the weight pressing on my chest. I suppose my status as a princess did not fail after all. The humor fades quickly, though, as something catches my eye—a flash of green staring back at me in the mirror. My blue eyes, suddenly tinged with an eerie green. Frowning, tension pricks my skin as I lean closer to the mirror, searching for an explanation.
"There you are!" A voice chimes, jolting me from my thoughts. "I've been looking for you everywhere!" I turn to find my mother standing in the doorway, her expression tight with urgency.
"Jesus Christ, Your Majesty," I tease, forcing a smile as I rise from the vanity. "I understand the weight of my presence, but you don't have to take it out on my door."
Her stern face softens slightly as she approaches, taking my arm gently in hers. "You look so beautiful, Merald," she murmurs, her cool fingers brushing my cheek. "Flawless... perfect." She spins me around as if to confirm her own words. "Hugo is lucky to have you." Her voice cracks, a hint of emotion slipping through her composure.
"He definitely is," I reply, mumbling the words with barely disguised disgust.
"Let's go," she urges, leading me toward the doors. "The guests are waiting." she says, smoothing down the skirts of my dress as if that could also smooth over my reluctance. She offers me her arm, and I take it, glancing one last time at the work of Regina. My brows knit together as my blue eyes meet their reflection, free of the earlier green. Perhaps it was just my imagination. With a sigh, I let my mother guide me down the corridor, the silence between us heavy with unspoken expectations. As we approach the ballroom, I peek nervously from the top of the stairs, waiting for my father—King Ethan Greywood Knight—to make his announcement. My mother stands beside me, her grip tightening on my arm, a signal that my time is near. Below, the ballroom is a sea of faces and elegantly dresses, the chandeliers casts a warm glow over the guests. The clinking of glasses and chatter melds into a gentle hum. I scan the room, searching for Hugo among the crowd. But he's nowhere to be seen—a detail that sends a ripple of unease through me. "Well, that's odd" I murmur under my breath, my stomach tightening. My father, stands at the head of the room, clearing his throat to address the crowd.
"People of Brushtn, young and old," his voice booms, commanding attention, "we gather here to celebrate my daughter, Princess Emerald Annabelle Knight, on this momentous occasion—her Falciloz." Applause echoes through the hall, but it all feels so far away. "This achievement," he continues, "is a testament to the guidance of your Queen Hyacinth Aileen Knight. It gives me great joy to present to you... my heir."
My mother tugs my hand—a signal that it's time. With a practiced smile, I descend the staircase, all eyes turning to follow my every step. The heat rises to my cheeks, and I force myself to keep my gaze steady, even as my stomach churns with unease. The room falls silent, the weight of their stares pressing down on me. My father takes my hand from my mother's, raising it high as he exclaims, "Let the celebrations begin!" His voice reverberates through the hall, and the guests cheer in response. As expected, the King and Queen lead the first dance—after all, it's their daughter's Falciloz. Others soon join them, and I watch from the sidelines, lost in my thoughts as the night unfolds.
Compliments surround me—nobles praising my grace, handsome young men trying to charm me with flattery. I smile politely, though their words wash over me like the empty promises they are.
"Emerald," a familiar voice calls out and I turn to see Hugo approaching, weaving through the crowd with his usual air of confidence. He stands tall and athletic, his frame exuding both strength and grace. His dark hair is meticulously styled, framing a handsome face with sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline that seems to capture the light just right. Dressed in an elegant royal tunic of deep crimson, the fabric flowing elegantly around him, embroidered with intricate golden patterns that reflect his status. The richness of his attire enhances his striking emerald-green eyes, which sparkle with mischief and charm. His smile is disarming, revealing a confidence that can be both charming and infuriating, and it's all too easy to see why many are captivated by him. I suppress a groan, excusing myself from my current company, knowing that engaging with him will bring its own set of complications. Slipping away, I notice Regina, my head maid, caught up in a conversation with a suitor, she barely notices me as I step outside, into the cool night air. I walked gently into the gardens bathed in silver moonlight, a far cry from the bustling ballroom, I breathe in deeply, letting the chill seep into my bones. I needed to think, to breathe, away from the expectations that suffocated me. Finding a bench by the pond I settle onto it, staring out at the moon's reflection on the water's surface, I am suppose to be celebrating my future, but all I could think about is the life I'll never have—a life of adventure, of freedom, far from the gilded cage of duty.
"You seem quite carried away," a deep, sultry voice says, breaking the quiet. I startle, turning toward the sound, my heart racing as I look up sharply.
A man stands near the pond, shadowed by the trees, his face obscured by a mask that gleams in tune with moonlight. His attire dark and elegant, the fabric catching the light in silken ripples. He's tall, broad-shouldered, exuding a mysterious confidence that makes my pulse quicken. I roll my eyes despite my nerves, offering a wry smile. "You know, it's not a masquerade ball," I retort, though the curiosity in my voice betrays me.
He chuckles, the sound rich and velvety. "Says the princess hiding from her own Falciloz." His words strike a nerve, leaving me unsettled.
"Well, then," I counter, trying to regain control. "How about a trade—a dance for your mask?" I rise, extending my hand toward him in challenge.
He laughs again, low and dark, stepping closer. "You're as daring as I remember, Erald. But that hardly seems a fair bargain." His presence looms over me, and I struggle to steady my breath. "How about this—three questions. If you lie, you lose a piece of your facade."
"And how will you know if I lie?" I ask, raising a brow, refusing to back down.
He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "Oh, trust me, dearest, I will." His voice is a dangerous whisper, sending shivers down my spine. He takes my hand, guiding me into a slow, intimate dance beneath the stars. His left hand rests possessively on my waist, drawing me closer until I'm acutely aware of the heat radiating from him.
"First question, Princess," he murmurs, holding me in place. "Do you love him?"
I hesitate, caught off guard. "Yes," I say, but my voice wavers. I may not love Hugo, but I am loyal to him—or so I thought.
"Liar," he whispers, spinning me out and then pulling me back into his embrace. The accusation lingers in the night air, sharp and cutting. He leans closer, his lips almost brushing my ear. "Second question. Are you happy?"
I try to keep my voice steady. "Of course," I reply, but there's a crack in my words.
"Wrong again," he murmurs, twirling me through the moonlit garden. "You wouldn't be out here if you were." My breath catches as his words sink in, the intensity of the dance overwhelms me, the closeness, the heat, the forbidden nature of it all. I should pull away, but something keeps me rooted in his arms.
"Last question," he whispers, his voice like a dark promise.
"Can I touch you?" he asked. My breath hitched at the thought of his hands dealing with me in wicked ways, his lips giving me pleasure like never before. "No?" I mumbled, the word sounding more like a question than an answer.
"Wrong," he whispered, gently pulling off his gloves. His right hand slid to my side, giving my hand a firm squeeze as he tugged at my glove. A wave of desire washed over me as it slipped off. I closed my eyes as his rough, bare hands grazed my shoulders, slow and tempting. "You're mine, Erald. Mine," he whispered in my ear, taking my bare hand and placing it on his solid chest. He leaned in, swaying me in his arms, my body relaxing under his hold. I could feel his breath warm against my shoulder as he planted soft kisses. What was wrong with me? How could I share something so intimate, so precious, with a stranger? My hands, which were meant to push him away, now roamed over his strong arms as his teeth gently, seductively grazed my neck.
"Mi lady," a familiar voice called out, causing me to open my eyes, regret swirling within them. I had been caught. I turned sharply, my gaze falling on Regina's suspicious eyes.
"What are you doing out here all alone?" she asked, panic rising in her voice. I frowned, confusion washing over me. Alone? I wasn't alone. I turned back quickly, my heart racing at the thought of being caught, but he was gone—vanished without a trace. Panic surged through me, and I struggled to steady my breath. My mind reeled, trying to make sense of his sudden disappearance. Masking my fear, I forced a shaky smile, hoping it would be convincing enough to hide the disarray inside me.
"I was just looking for some fresh air," I replied sweetly, hoping she would believe me. I wasn't lying, yet it felt as though I was.
"Oh, okay," she replied uncertainly. "I brought you your cloak," she added, wrapping it around me against the cold.
"What happened to your glove?" she asked, pausing with a raised brow.
"Oh, I think it got lost while I was trying to push through the crowd," I said, laughing lightly, hoping to buy myself some credibility.
"I feel so tired, Reg. How about we call it a night?" I suggested, eager to escape.
"Yes, mi lady," she bowed, guiding me back inside the palace and up to my room. I asked her to inform my parents that I would be retiring for the night, and she nodded in compliance. Once back in my room, Regina carefully helped me undress and ran me a warm bath. Afterward, she dressed me in my nightgown, and I bade her goodnight. All I wanted was to bury the indecent encounter deep in my mind, knowing all too well that my father would have my head if he ever found out. God forbid! I shut my eyes tight, my mind still reeling from the encounter, even as exhaustion pulled at me. His touch, his voice, the intensity of his presence—it all lingered, making my skin prickle with a strange mix of unease and curiosity. I tossed and turned, trying to shake off the lingering sensation of his rough hands against my skin and the way his words had wrapped around me like a spell. Sleep eluded me as my thoughts churned, replaying every whispered word and fleeting touch, until finally, merciful darkness claimed me.