Vhalla’s eyes followed the round man out of the room, until the muscled form of the prince broke her vision.

“Vhalla,” Prince Baldair spoke softly.

“My prince?” she whispered. Just like the last time, his palm was on her cheek before she was even aware of the movement of his arm.

“Chater is right, it is unconventional for a gala,” he noted thoughtfully.

“How unconventional is black?” Vhalla made no motion away from the prince’s touch.

“Very.” She was vaguely aware of his thumb moving over her cheek as he spoke. “Vhalla, you’re a pretty girl, you know. You don’t need to go down the unconventional road to be noticed. Good men will notice you without all that, the men you want to be noticed by. I’m sure good men have already noticed you.”

“I-it’s not that,” her voice wavered. Vhalla struggled to find an explanation.

“I will show you.” The golden-haired prince smiled encouragingly. “You can have your black, but I will be the one who shows you how dazzling you are.”

The designer returned, and Vhalla’s face flushed red hot as the prince made no haste in removing his hands from her person. She took a chaste step away. Chater was unbothered by what he had seen and continued to talk on about silhouettes and skirts. Vhalla found herself focusing more on the prince’s easy smiles and his input during the process than the designing. What men did he think would be noticing her?

When Chater left, the sky was ablaze and she was uncertain what dress had been designed for her.

“Now remember, Vhalla,” Prince Baldair offered her his elbow. She took it and they started for the door. “Come back to the servants’ entrance around noon tomorrow. I’ll have someone there ready to help you prepare.”

“My prince, that isn’t necessary,” she denied with a shake of her head.

“It most certainly is!” Prince Baldair chuckled. “You don’t think I’d put you in a Chater dress and have your hair and makeup be left undone, do you?”

“No, of course not...” Vhalla’s free hand went up to her head, feeling the frizzy mass that was her hair.

“Don’t fret, you’ll be beautiful.” The prince smiled, his hand on the door latch. “Just remember to save a dance for me when every man of the Court is begging to be your partner.”

“I doubt that will happen.” Vhalla laughed, looking up at her companion with a light smile.

“Then I have a dance?” Prince Baldair asked again, as they stepped into the hallway.

“You’ve already had one.” Vhalla’s lips pressed together in a little grin.

“Another?” He leaned closer to her.

“How could I refuse?” She laughed lightly, beginning to grow more accustomed to his proximity and casual nature.

The prince’s footsteps paused, and Vhalla’s gaze swung forward. Standing little more than five steps across the hall was a tall silhouette that made her jaw slack. She felt Prince Baldair’s bicep tighten under her palm, trapping it. Aldrik’s eyes flicked from her to the golden-haired man at her side.

“Hello, brother,” Prince Baldair hummed sweetly.

Ebony eyes bore deep holes into Vhalla. If Aldrik had heard his brother, there was no response other than a twitch under his eye. Vhalla suddenly felt very small, small enough to fall off the earth. It was uncomfortable. It hurt.

“How did the war council go?” The golden prince seemed to be pleasantly unaware of the tension that resonated between his company and his brother.

“Fine.” Aldrik’s voice brought her cowardly eyes back to him. The word was as cold as it was curt.

Vhalla opened her mouth to speak but there was nothing she could say, not in front of Prince Baldair.

“I look forward to marching on the North again as soon as this nonsense of a festival has ended.” The elder prince’s words were punctuated with the slamming of his door and the laughter of the younger.

Vhalla must have missed the joke because she didn’t feel like laughing. If she tried, she may end up being sick.

With a kiss on a numb cheek, Prince Baldair left her at an entrance to the servants’ quarters.

Agony, her blood had been poured out and replaced with something cold and painful. Vhalla raced through the halls and when she reached her door, she shut it as loudly as possible, which made her feel no better. She threw herself onto her bed for her pillow to muffle a cry.

She didn’t want any more princes. She was finished with nobility, and the last thing she was inclined to do was go to that pointless Gala. Vhalla rolled onto her back, her eyes stinging with something resembling anger. Everyone was right, Prince Baldair was the better of the two princes. He was kind, thoughtful, lighthearted, and simple to understand.

But he didn’t have the same wit of his brother. He didn’t possess the same flair with his words nor grace in his step. He couldn’t command a room in the same way. He certainly didn’t have shoulder-length raven hair nor wonderfully pronounced cheekbones.

Vhalla groaned. She was a foolish girl. Mixing with princes only led to pain. She was done.

A knock on her door pulled her to her feet.

“Just a minute,” Vhalla called, running her palms over her face. She was pleased that no tears had escaped, whatever the tears would have meant. But she was certain her eyes were red. The person knocked again and each rap sent a small tickle of pain between Vhalla’s temples. She yanked open the door. “What?”