Listen Along: Indila - Love Story
~x~
You enter, and a grandeur sight awaits your sleep-deprived eyes. Greek-style columns line the walkway, with spaces in between for dancers to weave in and out. The lights are dimmed, yet you see people wearing jeweled masks with exotic feathers poking out from the sides. Your own dress, of chiffon lace and the finest cerulean satin, bounce with every step you take. Your painted nails find themselves on the brow of your mask, not concealing the powdered tufts of navy blues and shades of silvery purple around your eyes. A bust of Pallas flanks each side of the doorway. Music begins, starting off in the minor key, with simple motifs dotting the rest of the melody. Many meters in front of you is a raised dais, and a throne sits on the top. A small girl reclines, and you take a respectful curtsy, satin meeting satin as you lift up your skirts the slightest. This girl is Her Royal Majesty, Empress Maria Petrova the II. As the lighting of the room shifts, you see the glimmering of the jewels that embedded themselves in her tiara.
“Rise.”
Her voice startles you, her being nearly a silhouette in the dark. It rises above the dull, aimless murmurs of your fellow aristocrats, like a small light in the dark. Waiters rush around carrying drinks, one bowing lowly and handing you a glass of sparkling water while doing so. Without a thank, the waiter scurries off, and you find your gaze at Empress Maria’s level again. The plush velvet carpet beneath your feet feels like it’ll be snatched away any moment, a crevice opening in the ground for you to fall through. A strange chill settles through the room, your diamond-sapphire necklace feeling heavy and cold upon your neck, feet trembling in three-inch heels.
You proceed onwards, looking for your dance partner, supposedly clad in midnight blues and blacks. Something about this seems off, because in the capital, all the prominent figures of society would stand out. You would stand out. And the music’s a blur, like the lights and how every other dancer wears an outfit that blends with the night. But yours is the color of a clear, midday sky. And maybe for that reason, the Empress is watching you.
She pushes aside her guards and steps down the dais, her gaze not leaving you for a split second. Her eyes are furious, and blonde pigtails swing at either side of her face. Empress Maria Petrova the II is but a child, yet her grip on the country is firmer than any king’s. You step to the side, startled, expecting her to pass through the door to handle royal matters that do not concern you, but what she does is unsettling.
“You do not belong.”
I would suggest writing instead, "you see the glimmering of jewels 
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