MistNovel - Read Web Novel Stories & Fiction Online

Memory arrived unbidden while Amelia prepared for the day’s festivities. She was seven years old again, standing perfectly still in her mother’s solar while Queen Seraphina adjusted the small, severe circlet on her head. The metal was cold against her skin.
"Grace, Amelia. You must always show grace." Her mother’s voice was the sound of cool perfection, a melody with no room for a discordant note. "You carry two bloodlines, but you must present only one to the world. The court must see the angel, never the witch."
Later that same day, in the garden where wild roses grew in tangled defiance of the gardeners’ shears, her father had knelt beside her and whispered different truths. "Your mother fears what she does not understand, little one," Lord Alaric had said, his voice warm with a secret knowledge. "But magic is not something you should hide. It is part of you, as essential as your breath."
He had taught her to feel the pulse of growing things, to sense the quiet spirits that moved through shadow and firelight. Her shamanic gifts had been a secret shared between them, nurtured in stolen moments away from the palace’s watchful eyes, while her mother groomed her to be perfectly, acceptably angelic. It had been an exhausting performance, a life spent balancing two incompatible truths.
"Are you lost in thought again?"
Amelia blinked, the memory receding as the present returned. Harry stood in the doorway of her dressing room, already resplendent in his formal attire. He looked magnificent, every inch the prince who would unite two realms. But his eyes, when they met hers, held that familiar warmth, that hint of humor that was entirely his own.
"Just remembering," she said. "My father used to tell me I was a bridge between worlds. I do not think I ever truly understood what he meant until now."
Harry crossed the room to her, his movements fluid and sure. He reached out and adjusted the silver clasp at her shoulder, his fingers lingering for a moment. "Does it bother you? Being both?"
"Does it bother you?" she asked, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "Being too angelic for your own good?"
He laughed, a genuine sound that seemed to fill the room. "My mother says I inherited too much of my father’s mercy. She believes it makes me weak."
"And what did your father think?"
Something flickered in Harry’s expression, a shadow that was there and gone in an instant. "He believed that compassion was the highest form of strength. The court, however, disagreed with him."
They had never spoken much about Harry’s father, Amelia realized with a jolt. The topic seemed to carry a weight that neither of them wished to examine too closely. She observed the way Harry’s posture had subtly stiffened and filed the thought away for later consideration.
The dinner that evening was a spectacle of forced civility. The grand hall glittered with captured celestial light, every surface polished to a mirror shine. Angelic nobles in robes of white and gold mingled with practiced care among the advance delegation from Vareth, whose darker attire and sharper features created a stark, almost jarring contrast.
Amelia felt their eyes on her throughout the long meal. The nobles of her own court, who had known her since childhood, watched her with expressions that ranged from pity to a thinly veiled disdain. To them, she was a necessary compromise, a half-breed elevated beyond her station to serve a political purpose. She was a tool, not a princess.
"Lady Amelia," an elderly duke inclined his head, the gesture containing the bare minimum of courtesy. "Your mother must be so very proud."
The words were polite. The tone suggested she was a disappointment that had, against all odds, proven useful.
Harry’s hand found hers beneath the table, his fingers intertwining with hers in a silent, firm show of support. When the duke had moved on, Harry leaned close and murmured into her ear, "He is a pompous fool who once attempted to have me betrothed to his granddaughter. You should consider his disdain a compliment."
Despite herself, a small smile touched Amelia’s lips.
But the scrutiny continued relentlessly. Every gesture she made was analyzed, every word she spoke was weighed. She could feel the court’s collective doubt pressing against her like a physical force. Will she be angel enough? Will her witch blood somehow taint the union? The unspoken questions hung in the air, thick and suffocating.
"Ignore them," Harry said softly, his voice a steady presence beside her. He had always been able to read her tension. "Tomorrow, we will prove them all wrong."
"You have a remarkable amount of faith in a single ceremony," she murmured back.
"I have a remarkable amount of faith in you."
His words settled something deep within her chest. She had spent so long feeling divided, torn between the two halves of her heritage, performing a role for everyone she met. But Harry looked at her and saw only Amelia, complete and whole. Perhaps that was all that mattered.
As the long evening drew to a close, she allowed herself to hope. The political tensions were real, the ancient prejudices ran deep, but they had something stronger. They had each other.
"What are you thinking about?" Harry asked. They were standing on a balcony overlooking the royal gardens, and the warm night air carried the heavy scent of night-blooming jasmine.
"That I carry a secret burden," Amelia said quietly, the confession surprising even herself. "And that I hope our union can finally resolve it."
"Whatever burden you carry," Harry said, turning her to face him, his hands gentle on her arms, "you do not have to carry it alone anymore."
His kiss was a soft promise sealed in the darkness. Around them, the city prepared for tomorrow’s grand ceremony, entirely unaware of the ancient powers already stirring in response to a union that would challenge the very foundations of their divided world. But in that moment, Amelia let herself believe in simple things: love, partnership, and hope. Tomorrow would bring what it would bring. Tonight, she had this.