Her Royal Encounter

[ROTHNIA, DEMESNE EMPIRE, 456TH CENTURY, WINTER]

The morning sun pierced through the slightly parted curtains, casting a soft glow upon Ophelia's bedroom. She lay peacefully in slumber, unaware.

Suddenly, a shadowy figure darted past the foot of her bed, eliciting a sharp gasp from her lips.

<schwap >

In an instant, the room was illuminated by a brilliant flash of lightning followed by someone's voice saying "Please, wake up, miss Ophelia" 

By that, Ophelia jumped awake to see an old woman clad in simple, well-worn attire standing before her.

"Who are you!?" Ophelia confronted.

"Pardon me, I am Viviere. From now on, I would be your head butress," she said, walking across the bedroom with a deliberate and measured gait. "The dukes sent me to take care of you," she added.

"What? The dukes? Take care? What do you mean?"

"As a senior maid, I was given the responsibility to ensure you are prepared for your marriage," the old lady answered. "Now, please, move," she signaled Ophelia to get out of bed as she pulled Ophelia's blanket to fold it.

Ophelia moved with widened eyes, locked, unblinking, and uncomprehending. "Marriage? What is all this? Where is Damien?"

"As soon-to-be queen, you are going to get married soon to one of the duke's sons," she answered, adding a question. "Then, about Damien? Who is this person? I never knew him."

"Never mind. Well, please, get out. I don't need a caregiver. Tell the dukes," Ophelia turned her back.

"Miss Ophelia, I have been a great servant for all the dukes and duchesses in this kingdom. And for political reasons, I think it would be enough explanation for me to help you in your preparations for becoming a queen," she stated.

"The people need their rightful ruler." Madame Viviere's eyes were piercing, framed by wire-rimmed glasses.

Ophelia's mouth hung agape, unable to say anything towards the old lady. She stood frozen in place, her face contorted in a mask of disbelief.

In that moment, the world seemed to spin around her, and she was suspended in a state of sheer incredulity.

<clap, clap>

"Preparations begin!" Madame Viviere shouted, followed by a line of maids entering Ophelia's room.

Each maid wore neatly pressed uniforms, and their soft-soled shoes barely made a whisper against the polished floor. Their arms were laden with tools, from feather dusters to fragrant oils.

Madame Viviere approached Ophelia, commanding her to sit in front of the mirror. With gentle reverence, she began the meticulous process of preparing the lady.

Combs and brushes worked through her hair, creating an intricate coiffure. Her makeup was applied with a skilled hand while another maid carefully brought an emerald green gown.

Another maid arranged an array of precious jewelry, glistening like captured stardust. A pair of maids knelt to tend to the lady's dainty feet, ensuring her shoes fit perfectly, while the touches of fragrance were applied.

The room buzzed with activity as combs and brushes danced through her hair, cosmetics were applied with deft strokes, and opulent garments were draped upon her form.

As the final touches were put in place, Ophelia gazed upon her reflection in the mirror, scarcely recognizing the woman staring back at her. She had been transformed, not just in appearance, but in purpose and destiny.

"Now, we are ready. Return to your positions," Madame Viviere proclaimed, her voice resonating with authority.

"Miss, your future awaits. We will be at our positions," she added with a sense of finality before turning to leave the room.

As Madame Viviere's footsteps faded into the distance, Ophelia was left alone with the weight of her destiny pressing upon her shoulders. 

With a heavy sigh, she braced herself for the challenges that lay ahead in her gilded cage, she couldn't help but wonder what price she would pay for the crown she was destined to wear.

Ophelia stood before the mirror, her reflection a portrait of worry and unease. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of distant voices echoing through the halls. 

With a heavy sigh, she lifted her wrist, fingers tracing the faded scar that marred her skin, a lingering reminder of the pact she had made with Damien.

"He left…" Her voice was barely a whisper, the words hanging heavy in the air as she stared at the mark left by his touch.

A bitter smile tugged at the corners of her lips, betraying the sorrow that weighed upon her heart. The room seemed to darken around her, the shadows of doubt and longing creeping in to fill the space. 

Her once-confident posture faltered, shoulders slumping under the weight of her emotions. Standing before the mirror, Ophelia wrestled with the pain of Damien's absence. 

Despite the turmoil inside her, with a graceful inhale, she straightened her posture and lifted her chin, a silent symphony of strength and resilience echoing in the hallowed halls of her heart.

"I refuse to falter," she whispered softly, her voice a melodious refrain of unwavering resolve. "Damien will return. I believe."

With those words, Ophelia made a silent promise to herself, her determination strengthening her resolve against the challenges ahead.

Taking another deep breath, she tore her gaze away from the mirror, her steps purposeful as she approached the door.

As she entered the main room, she was met with a breathtaking tableau of elegance and splendor. The air was alive with the sweet fragrance of fresh flowers, their delicate petals unfurling like whispers of love in the breeze. 

The maids, standing in perfect formation, greeted her with gentle smiles and reverent bows, their eyes alight with admiration and respect.

But it was the three men who rose from their seats that captured Ophelia's gaze, their noble countenances illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight. 

Bowing deeply, they paid homage to her with gestures of profound reverence, their eyes alight with wonder and awe.

Descending the grand staircase with a grace that seemed to defy gravity itself, Ophelia moved like a vision of beauty, her gown trailing behind her like a cascade of moonlit silk.

The soft glow of the chandeliers bathed her in a golden halo, casting her in a radiant light that seemed to transcend mortal realms. As she reached the bottom of the staircase, her posture remained regal and her demeanor poised, a vision of timeless elegance and grace.

The men looked on with admiration, their hearts stirred by her presence.

"Miss Abellone, my name is Leander Deliante, the eldest son of the Deliante Family. I am very glad to meet you here," His gaze, sharp and penetrating, swept over the assembled guests with an air of authority that left no doubt as to his standing. 

He extended his hand to Ophelia with a graceful flourish, his movements confident and practiced. Ophelia found herself captivated by his piercing eyes, which seemed to hold many secrets.

In his demeanor, she sensed ambition mixed with charm, making her wonder about the complexities hidden beneath his polished exterior. Each gesture and word hinted at his expertise in politics.

Observing him closely, Ophelia couldn't shake the feeling that Leander was a master manipulator, skilled at wielding influence to his advantage. Yet, she also sensed a burning desire for power lurking beneath his facade.

Before she could dwell further on Leander's presence, another figure stepped forward. "Castor Alamos, my lady," he introduced himself.

The man exuded strength and authority, his imposing frame and unwavering gaze commanding respect. With his unwavering confidence, he wash over her in his presence. Determined to prove himself worthy of her respect.

As expected from the Alamos Family, Ophelia thought. 

The tension peaked, and another figure emerged. Yet, before he could speak, Ophelia recognized and greeted him warmly. 

"Well, well. Who is this gentleman?" she smiled softly.

"Welcome home, Ophelia,"

- - - - -

—to be continued.