The melodies of the guzheng echoed through the grand hallways of Rózhaven Castra, the royal palace of Corvallis. The sound resonated like whispers of the Great Mother Cordianna herself, as the Aultanshe dancers swayed with ethereal grace. The intricate lace of their dresses fluttered softly, kissed by the sacred breeze flowing through the palace.

At the forefront of the performance was none other than Aithnee Hestia Valeria, the heiress of Corvallis. Her movements were poetry in motion, fluid and expressive, weaving a story with every delicate turn of her body. This was Tianarvora, the Corvallian art of storytelling through dance—a language of wind and sky, of grace and spirit. Like swans gliding through tranquil waters, the dancers' limbs seemed to mimic wings, painting tales of love, duty, and sorrow.

The performance was meant to be a celebration of joy—or so it seemed. The princess, Tsaritsa Aithnee, was to be married soon to a wealthy nobleman, Lucian Varnov. Nobles from far and wide had gathered to witness the festivities, including Regnyara Xandria Drakonys, queen of Tenebralis, and another ruler from Empathraxis. Yet, as the crowd cheered, Aithnee's hazel eyes betrayed her true thoughts. They did not seek her betrothed, seated proudly in the front row. Instead, her gaze lingered on the daughter of the palace seamstress, her childhood friend and secret lover.

Later, after the ceremony, Aithnee found herself in the quiet seclusion of the palace's art room. Lucian was there, looming over her, his presence suffocating. How she despised him. Though their engagement was still fresh, his true nature had already surfaced—possessive, cruel, and domineering. He sought to mold her into a perfect, subservient wife, a pawn in his quest for power.

But Aithnee's attention was not on Lucian. It was on the painter standing across the room. Her serenavita, her heart of life. The one who understood her in ways Lucian never could.

Her hazel eyes softened as they met the painter's, a fleeting moment of solace in the storm of her life. Yet even now, she could feel the chains of duty tightening around her. She was a princess, an heiress. She had a kingdom to prepare for, a man to marry.

Still, the painter's honey-sweet voice called her back to the present. Oh, how she longed to drown in its melody, to let the world fall away, leaving only the two of them. But she couldn't—not here, not now. Maybe later, in the garden at twilight, when Lucian had left the palace. Then she would steal away, just for a little while, to be with her heart's true desire.

"Is this better?" she asked, shifting ever so slightly closer to Lucian, forcing herself to endure his presence. Her heart burned with the desire to break free from this cruel, abusive man, but her defiance faded when her eyes found the painter's once more.

In her lover's gaze, she saw her only refuge, her only joy. And as the sun dipped low on the horizon, she knew she would find her way back, no matter the cost.