Veiled Among Kingdoms - Book One of Thrones Entwined

The studio didn't feel like a studio anymore.

It had transformed.

No longer a sanctuary of artistry and order—it was now a battlefield.

Silk billowed like war banners, sequins scattered like shrapnel, and steam hissed from irons that never stopped. Scissors sliced through fabric with mechanical precision, while sewing machines roared like engines.

Assistants darted across the marble floors, arms full of garments and tension, heels clicking like countdowns. Someone cursed as a mannequin toppled. Someone else shouted about rhinestones—lost, again. The air pulsed with pressure.

"Secure the hemline!"

"Where is the cream silk wrap?!"

"Do not—do not—drag that across the floor!"

In the eye of this beautifully dressed storm stood Kourtney.

Sleeves rolled, clipboard in hand, steps measured. Calm on the surface—but only barely. Her jaw was tight, her gaze sharper through the lines at the corners of her mouth hinted at pressure.

It wasn't just any fashion day.

It was the day.

The final gala.

And her final hours in Hillgovia.

"Jenna," Kourtney called, eyes on a sketch, "that neckline still screams suffocation, not subtle allure."

"Already handled!" Jenna shouted back, crouched with thread in hand. "Also—someone smeared lipstick across the train. I improvised."

Kourtney didn't look up. "Do I want to know?"

"Nope."

"Then don't tell me."

Kourtney moved to the next rack, flipping through hangers as her eyes scanned the lineup like a general surveying troops.

"Is Perrie still alive," she added, "or has the velvet heap swallowed him?"

Right on cue, Julien Perrie appeared in a blur of satin and exasperation, measuring tape trailing from one shoulder like a battle sash.

"This," he declared, flinging the tape onto the nearest table with tragic flair, "is the last time I say yes to two events in one blasted week. My hands are shaking, my tailor just quit, and I'm 90% sure my interns are plotting a coup."

He paused, then narrowed his eyes at the two girls in front of him. "And you two—"

"—are leaving tonight," Kourtney said quietly, without looking up.

The words didn't land loud—but they landed hard.

Jenna stilled mid-motion. Even Perrie's dramatics faltered, his breath catching, as if the words finally made something real. Inevitable.

Around them, the studio kept spinning—steam, movement, fabric, urgency—but a subtle hush gathered between the three.

"I know," Perrie said softly after a beat. "But not now. Not yet."

And just like that, the storm rolled back in.

As evening fell, the Hillgovian skyline turned molten gold, palace spires gilded in the sun's final light. The city seemed to hold its breath.

The moment everyone had been preparing for had finally arrived.

Sleek black cars lined the cobbled drive, velvet ropes glinting beneath golden lanterns.

The air shimmered with jasmine, perfume, and soft citrus. Nobles, designers, and royalty flowed in like a living constellation—flashes of silk, flashes of cameras.

Inside, the ballroom stunned.

White lilies curled with sapphire roses into grand floral arches. Gold-brushed tables gleamed beneath chandeliers. Waiters glided silently with champagne and silver trays.

By the side entrance, Kourtney paused—statuesque in a deep velvet gown that whispered elegance. Her hands clasped gently as a breeze lifted her auburn blonde waves.

Jenna stepped beside her, clutching a jewel-toned purse a little too tightly. "Are we ready?"

Kourtney didn't speak. She just nodded once, slowly.

Because ready or not—

Tonight was their final note in Hillgovia.

The ballroom bloomed with movement and light. A waltz drifted beneath the murmur of conversation. Compliments floated through laughter like ribbons through silk. Models twirled between exhibits, guests leaned in over gilded menus, and champagne shimmered in glass flutes like liquid starlight.

Julien Perrie stood at the center of it all—glowing like a crowned monarch, radiant with victory and just enough champagne to make his presence even grander. The unofficial ruler of the night, basking in applause.

Kourtney and Jenna lingered along the velvet-draped corridor just beyond the crowd's reach, observing from a quiet edge. Kourtney's shoulders had relaxed, but her eyes still scanned with sharp intent. There was a stillness to her—poised, but unreadable.

Then—

"Miss Bethaway," came a voice behind her. Warm. Measured.

Kourtney turned—and paused, surprised.

It was Prince Edward, ever composed, stepping forward with the kind of grace that didn't announce itself. And behind him came the rest of the princes, one by one, a quiet procession of crowns without ceremony.

She hadn't expected them here.

Not really.

Her brows lifted just slightly, the faintest tell of surprise as her gaze moved from one to the next.

"Well," she said, cool and even, "I didn't think any of you were idle enough to spend your evening at a fashion gala."

Jacen was the one who answered, voice level, as if he were discussing strategy at a council table. "We've always attended Julien Perrie's galas. He's begged for our presence every year."

Kourtney nodded slowly, absorbing that.

"Persistent man," she muttered under her breath, before shifting her attention back to the group. "Well, then. Welcome."

Prince Robert stepped forward first, his grin already in place—easy, irreverent, and impossible to miss.

"Stunning," he said, giving her a slow once-over that stopped just shy of indecent. "Though if I go on, I'll sound dangerously rehearsed."

Then he leaned in just a touch, dropping his voice with a stage-whispered flourish. "Even Prince Keith agrees. Though he'd rather bite his tongue than admit it."

Behind him, Prince Keith let out a sharp breath. "Prince Robert, shut up."

Kourtney's gaze flicked to him, one brow rising in mild amusement. "I wouldn't have guessed he was capable of complimenting anyone without it sounding like a warning."

Prince Nicholas gave a dry hum. "You're giving him too much credit. That would imply he offers compliments at all."

A ripple of stifled laughter moved through the group.

"You do look exceptional," said Prince Edward, voice calm and sincere. "The gala wouldn't be what it is tonight without your hand in it."

Kourtney gave a poised nod, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you. But if this room is anything, it's Julien Perrie's. I only helped it breathe."

Prince Jacen studied her a moment, gaze steady. "Still. Your presence changes the air."

For a moment, silence held—thin and fleeting, but weighted. A quiet understanding passed between them, even if no one gave it voice.

Then came the inevitable.

Prince Keith's voice, dry as ever. "So now that you've acknowledged we're royalty, you've finally found your manners."

Kourtney turned toward him fully, her expression smooth as glass.

"I don't tailor manners to titles," she said, voice low but clear. "I treat people based on who they are. Not what they're called."

Her gaze didn't waver, sharp and unreadable.

"And if it's deference you're after, Prince Keith… you'll have to earn it."

A hush fell over the group. Subtle. Still.

Prince Keith's eyes narrowed—his usual retort caught somewhere behind his teeth. But he didn't look away. His stare held hers longer than expected. And something in it shifted—not offense, not anger.

Something else. Measured. And watching.

Kourtney didn't give him the chance to speak.

"Enjoy the gala, gentlemen," she said coolly, already stepping back.

Jenna gave a small nod of parting and followed.

After a while -

"I think…" Jenna began softly, "this was the perfect close."

"It was," Kourtney agreed. "More than we expected."

"I can't believe it's really over."

Kourtney let out a breath, this one softer.

They watched the glittering crowd one last time before making their way to the man who had given them more than just a place to work.

Perrie caught their approach, stepping away from his conversation and joining them beneath the quiet shadows of a gallery arch.

"It's time, isn't it?" he asked, though he already knew.

Kourtney nodded.

Jenna added gently, "Tonight should be about you, not our goodbye."

He paused, emotions tucked behind tired eyes, then pulled both of them in for a brief, tight embrace.

"You two make it feel like pages turning."

Kourtney smiled faintly, for once letting her mask fall just enough to soften.

"Then let's make sure it's the right chapter."

She took his hand—briefly, firmly.

"Thank you. For trusting us."

Perrie held her gaze. "No. Thank you for making this place unforgettable."

Jenna gave him one last hug, and then—no fanfare, no flashbulbs—the girls stepped into the night.

Just the echo of heels on stone, and the muffled hum of celebration left behind.

And the music swept on.