A Portrait of Deception

The engagement ceremony was nothing short of a fairytale, a display of wealth that left every guest in awe. Expensive trinkets hung from the ceiling, each one a symbol of good luck and prosperity. Lanterns which was glowing warmly were hung in every corner.

The invitees were dressed in their most luxurious attire. Wing ornaments crafted from precious metals and adorned with gemstones adorned their wings which they displayed proudly.

The hall buzzed with excitement and anticipation, as guests mingled, drinking and conversing.

At the head of the hall, the king sat with his entourage, his expression calm and composed. But inwardly, his mind raced with worry and doubt. "What if she runs away?" he thought, his heart pounding in his chest. "No, that can't happen. I will drag her back in chains if she dares try to leave."

Philippe, the groom-to-be, stood nearby, the picture of an anticipating bridegroom. His dark hair was perfectly styled, and his attire was immaculate but beneath the surface, his heart was heavy with dread. He didn't want Alita to show up. The thought of marrying her filled him with a sense of doom he couldn't shake.

The sound of trumpets echoed through the hall, announcing the arrival of the bride. All eyes turned towards the entrance as Alita stepped into the hall, her presence commanding the attention of everyone present. Her dress made of silk and lace flowed behind her, the train held aloft by a retinue of servants.

Charlotte, Philippe's sister, watched Alita's entrance with thinly veiled disdain. She knew her brother hated the princess, and it pleased her to no end. They were, in her eyes, a perfect match—a couple made in hell. She reveled in the thought of Alita's misery, believing it to be a fitting punishment for daring to enter their lives.

Alita reached the end of the hall, her steps faltering as she approached the throne where her father, King Aric, was seated. The customs of the Perest kingdom dictated that the king must be greeted before anyone else at such an event. It was a tradition she had followed countless times, but tonight, it felt like a cruel joke.

With her hands clenched into fists, Alita bowed deeply to the king, her face a mask of dutiful respect. "Murderer," she screamed in her mind, the image of Maya's lifeless body flashing before her eyes. Alita fought back tears as she straightened, the weight of her grief and anger almost too much to bear.

She marched towards the stage, where Philippe awaited her, his expression a practiced blend of charm and indifference. As she reached him, he rose from his chair, his movements smooth and graceful. To the onlookers, it appeared as though he were helping his beloved to her seat. But as Philippe leaned in close, his words dripped with venom.

"So we are finally doing this," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "In all my life, I never believed I would marry a fat and ugly half-blood like you. Honestly, you disgust me."

Philippe's lips curled into a smile as he spoke, his eyes glinting with malice. To the guests, it looked as if they were sharing a tender moment.

Alita's fists tightened, her knuckles white with the effort to maintain her composure. She glared at Philippe, her eyes burning with anger.

"Do you want to run off again, half-blood?" Philippe taunted, his voice low and mocking.

Alita turned her head away, her gaze drifting over the assembled guests as the event unfolded around her. She was present in body but absent in spirit, her mind wandering to memories of her mother. "Was this how her mother felt when she was getting engaged to her father?" she wondered.

Where was the prince charming she had always dreamed of? The one who would sweep her off her feet with sweet words and daring feats? This nightmare was a far cry from the fairytales she had cherished. It felt as though she was trading one prison for another.

When King Aric was called to make the toast, Alita's loathing for him surged anew, threatening to overwhelm her.

King Aric rose to his feet, his voice commanding the attention of the entire hall. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his tone regal and authoritative. "Tonight, we celebrate the union of two great houses. Let us raise our glasses to Philippe and Alita, and to the prosperous future that awaits them."

The guests lifted their goblets in unison, their voices echoing King Aric's toast. Alita raised her glass mechanically, the wine tasting like ash on her tongue. The falseness of the event, the forced smiles and empty words, made her stomach churn with revulsion.

The guests drank and made merry, their laughter ringing hollow in Alita's ears. She felt herself sinking deeper into despair.

Philippe, ever the consummate actor, played his part flawlessly. He mingled with the guests, his charm and wit winning over even the most skeptical attendees. But every so often, his gaze would find Alita, and his eyes would glint with a cruel satisfaction.

Alita endured the night in a daze, her mind a tumult of thoughts and emotions.

The king clapped his hands for attention. The room quieted instantly, all eyes turning to him.

"Ladies and gentlemen," King Aric began, his voice booming with authority. "To commemorate this joyous occasion, I have commissioned a portrait of our beloved princess Alita and her betrothed, Philippe. Let this portrait serve as a testament to their union and a reminder of this splendid night."

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd as the king motioned for a skilled portrait artist to step forward. The artist, a male fairy of middle age with keen eyes and steady hands, approached with his easel and supplies. He bowed respectfully to the king and then to the couple.

"Your Majesties, if you would be so kind as to take your places," the artist requested, his voice calm.

Alita and Philippe moved to the center of the hall. The artist positioned them side by side, Philippe's arm draped loosely around Alita's shoulders, their expressions fixed in what was meant to be a semblance of happiness.

Alita felt the weight of Philippe's arm like a shackle, but she maintained her composure, her face a mask of serene grace. Philippe, ever the actor, smiled warmly, his eyes betraying none of the contempt he felt.

The artist worked swiftly, his hands moving with practiced precision. He captured the delicate details of Alita's dress, the subtle shimmer of her wings, and the cold elegance of Philippe's attire.

As the minutes ticked by, the guests watched in awe, marveling at the artist's skill. Whispers of admiration filled the room, but Alita barely heard them. Her mind was elsewhere, lost in a world of her own.

She wondered how this portrait would be remembered. Would it be seen as a symbol of unity and love, or would the truth behind their smiles eventually come to light? The thought of future generations viewing this portrait and believing in its lies made her stomach churn.

Finally, the artist stepped back, a satisfied smile on his face. "It is done, Your Majesty," he announced, his voice filled with pride.

King Aric approached the easel, his eyes scanning the completed portrait. He nodded in approval, his smile broadening. "Excellent work," he declared. "This portrait will be displayed prominently in the royal gallery for all to see."

The guests erupted in applause, their enthusiasm genuine.

Alita felt her head pounding, the weight of the evening's charade pressing heavily on her. She couldn't bear it any longer.

"Father," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the din. "I have a headache. I need to excuse myself."

The king stared at his daughter before saying, "Of course," he replied, his tone dripping with concern. "Take care, Alita."

She nodded and slipped away from the throng of guests, her steps quickening as she made her way to her chambers.

Reaching her room, she saw Nadir waiting for her. Her concern was evident as she took in her pale face and tired eyes.

"Princess," she began gently, "let me help you with your dress."

Alita shook her head, her voice weary. "Let it be, Nadir. I just want to rest."

Nadir hesitated, her eyes filled with worry. But she bowed her head respectfully and stepped back. "As you wish, Princess. If you need anything, please call for me."

With that, she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Alita was finally alone. The facade she had maintained all evening crumbled, and the tears she had been holding back began to flow freely.

She sank onto her bed, her body wracked with sobs. The enormity of her situation crashed over her, wave after wave of despair and helplessness. She had never felt so trapped, so utterly powerless. The engagement, the portrait, the forced smiles and empty words—it was all too much to bear.

As she wept, her mind drifted to the memory of her mother. She wondered if her mother had felt the same way on the eve of her engagement to Alita's father. Had she felt the same sense of entrapment, the same helplessness? The thought only deepened Alita's sorrow.