Oliver hated his mansion. It was grand and gilded and about three times larger than it needed to be, and he hated it. He loved that it sat on top of a cliff, that looked over the ocean. He loved that it was beneath a clear sky, a swirling coalescence of sparkling stars that reflected in the lapping waves below.

But he hated his mansion. He hated his birthday party.

Despite the haughty celebrations distantly booming from the ballroom, the host of honour stood beyond the walls of his room, staring distantly at his pale, thin fingers that rapped anxiously on the bannister overlooking the bay. His teeth snapped and bit at the swirling, sparkling designs painted atop a pair of sharp, false nails stuck on his other hand.

His mind drifted with the cold, salty breeze that tickled his arms unpleasantly, causing his body to convulse with a shiver that dragged a shuddering breath from his lips. His arms desperately clutched together in some protection from the aggressive ocean air.

He cast his eyes to the horizon, a dark stormy cloud was brewing over the ocean beyond the bay. He sighed, curling his fingers around the railing and pulling back, leaning his weight to angle his head toward the thousands of glittering lights above.

His bright eyes almost seemed to glow with the light of the stars, and they widened ever so slightly. He stared. His gaze flicked across the path of celestial suns, connecting the constellations with his mind, and following the trail that awaited him, until it led him back to stare at the horizon once again.

A scoff escaped his lips. After a moment, he deflated in on himself, a hand running along the back of his neck. He let out a cynical chuckle, fighting the urge to look back up to the sea.

"... all paths lead back there, don't they?" He remarked to himself. "I can read your map perfectly, but I always find the trail leads out there." He muttered to the stars, throwing a hand at the water that stretched endlessly before him, at the gentle lapping movement of the ocean that never seemed to settle. He took in its sound, the distant string quartets and bustling courtesans falling deep into the back of his mind, leaving only the wind and the back and forth of the waves. Even the assaulting bitter air seemed to soften, becoming no more than a gentle cool autumn breeze.

"Where are you intending to lead me?"

He fell silent and looked back at the waves below, a solemn grimace growing on his face. Deep in contemplation, his eyelids flickering with thought, he slowly reached up to touch his forehead, still for a moment. The wind picked up, ruffling his long, shimmering braid and the layered skirt of his ostentatious, impractical, pompous dress out toward the railing as if the breeze itself was fighting for his attention, for him to listen to is masked words.

He grumbled, ignoring its call, and aimed his face to the cold floor beneath his feet. Despite his attempts to ignore the howling song of the sea, he found his head rising once more to stare at the ocean. The stars made his eyes shine, as they flicked onto a faint silhouette emerging from the horizon, thrashing through the waves.

At first, he squinted, attempting to define its shape. Then, his eyes widened, and he inhaled a restrained breath. For a moment, he was still, watching the ship get slowly closer with a stunned gaze. The cold tingles on his skin from the freezing night breeze gave way to a warmth radiating from his chest. Without even noticing he had done so; he had placed a hand upon his heart.

He shook his head, shoving off the railing and turning into his room through the detailed glass doors. He paused for just a moment longer, feet lingering in the doorway.

The call of the sea pulled his heart to the warmth he left waiting for him beyond the railing of the balcony.

But he ignored.

The tightness of his silver embroidered bodice and corset did nothing to add to the strained sigh he let escape his lungs and he rested a hand on his aching ribs. He swept through the doors, failing to ignore the piercing click-clack sound of the high-heeled shoes that were a size too small and pinched his toes. His reluctant shuffle into his room left the approaching ship and the warmth it dragged forth behind.

Although the ostentatious room was filled with jewels and comforts, duvets and pillows, dresses and garments made only by the best of this season's designers, both local and foreign – the room, the mansion, the money – was nothing but a prison for an illegitimate daughter.

This ball he was attending was for him. But it was not for... him.

After many years of waiting, his father decided that on her 18th birthday, Ophelia Guerriero, the only daughter of Duke Alastair Guerriero, was to debut in high society. Effectively, he decided he was done waiting for his "daughter" to make the choice herself, that her coming-of-age ceremony would double as an introduction into the battlefield that was the court.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Though, this so-called... daughter... was much more fond of the name Oliver (though, he'd never say that in front of his family, let alone the court.) To Oli, he bet his father wanted nothing more than to have him engaged and shipped off to a country town owned by some insignificant Viscount, at best. All the more reason for them to see each other less.

He caught his reflection in his mirror's dresser, and he felt his spine immediately straighten, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.

To any man at the ball, Oliver - well, Ophelia - was the definition of beauty. "Ophelia" Guerriero had long, shimmering raven hair, as dark as the night sky itself, and shiny enough that light caught on its surface briefly, before slipping off like a shooting star would fly across the sky. The strands of dark hair were twisted and braided amongst bands and branches of blue-toned silver, jewellery that complimented the deep blue tinge that hid beneath the darkness of her hair. The long braid trailed behind her as she walked, emphasised by the length of the skirt of her modest dresses or robe she was generally seen wearing.

She had pale, smooth skin, devoid of blemishes and as clear as a porcelain doll. Her features were dainty, with full, yet delicate lips, tinted red by birth and bright, wide blue eyes as deep as the ocean, accompanied by flecks of sunny, orange gold. Many bachelors described her eyes as looking like a sunset over an ocean view, and there was no shortage of those descriptors among the men trying to court her. “A blessing from Solari himself” they’d say, “a sign the sun god was watching over her”.

Oliver did not know if the gods were real, but he knew Solari gave none of his attention to some woman.

Though today, the day of her debut, the day betrothal to the beauty would be made possible, she looked stunning.

Her hair, when unbraided, fell below her thighs. However, for the occasion, it was styled like a princess', with half of her hair in a pair of long plaits starting from either side of her head, meeting to form one that waved down and down over a free-flowing mass of curls that sat just below her butt. Intentionally, no doubt. Her bangs waved over her forehead gently, with long sections that fell over her ears and shoulders. There was not a hair out of place.

Her jewellery was specifically chosen and deliberately placed. The ridgid hair pieces matched her well, with glittering branches of silver weaved throughout the braids, and a hanging silver feather where they intertwined. The branches of silver in the braids almost made it look like a crown, and if it weren't for the fact that gold looked terrible on her pale skin and blue-toned raven hair, one could assume she was making a declaration for the crown.

Her debut dress was a deep purple gown, with an open back, that consisted of two layers. The bottom layer was a thinner, lighter lavender with swirling embroidery of tree branches and wheat, covered slightly by the ruffled top layer of royal purple. The top layer had a slit that was intentionally asymmetrical, and the ruffles ascended and met at her waist, where a shining silver statement piece pinned them together. The chunky pin was shaped to replicate the Guerriero family crest, with a shining purple gemstone in its centre. Connected to the centrepiece was a series of thin silver chains that threaded around her waist to make a delicate belt around the complex design of her corset and bodice.

Traditionally, coming-of-age gowns were a mix of modesty and outright debauchery; they often covered enough of one's body to be considered appropriate but exposed enough to attract the right - or wrong - kind of man. And to prove that the wearer was "adult" enough to enter the realm of the court.

Ophelia's dress in particular pushed her breasts up to create an uncomfortable amount of cleavage that was covered by a translucent mesh that met and wrapped around her neck. Said mesh was also subtly embroidered with the same motifs of branches and wheat as if she were a walking advertisement for the duchy's wheat production and her father's companies.

"Ophelia's" beauty was the only reason his father hadn't thrown him out. It was the only reason his illegitimacy was disregarded. "She" was a bargaining chip. "She" was merely a spare piece of coin in a business agreement. "She" was an investment.

He puffed out his chest with a huff, as if trying to intimidate the stranger in the reflection, only to grow more disgusted by what he saw. A scowl formed on his lips.

Each second, this outsider before him drifted further and further from himself. Each second, the urge to run, to flee, to survive grew more and more, consuming his mind. Each second, the more he couldn't look away. Each second, the more the world around them disappeared. Each second, the less there was to run to. Each second...

By the time the urgent, rapid knocking sounded from his room's doors - to him - there was only the mirror and himself.

The world came crashing in on himself as he pulled his head to face the door. The distant music and chattering guests, the waves and the breeze but most importantly the growing chill in his chest rippled through his senses.

For a moment, Oliver was dumbfounded, as if he had just woken from a long sleep. Then, after a final few seconds of staring around the room, he took a last glance in the mirror. At his impeccably styled hair, his specifically chosen jewellery, his scowl.

Right.

His scowl.

He quickly adopted a softened smile and smoothed the crease between his brows with his fingers, leaning toward the reflection.

His eyes caught on his bodice once more and he froze. The pit of his stomach suddenly felt empty, like a slowly expanding black hole that threatened to tear him apart from the inside out. He blinked, ignoring the feeling to inspect his face, smudging his blush ever so slightly.

But it did not stop, nor did it shrink. It simply grew, and grew, and grew, and every second he ignored it, the closer it was to consuming him.

The knocks reverberated through the room again, more deliberately than before, with a pause between each one, and Oliver considered leaping from the balcony. He stood up straight, planting his hands in front of him, one over the other, before he walked to the door, opening it to greet his so-called father.