Seraya’s POV
The masquerade was meant to be a celebration.
A final show of unity before the treaty’s official signing. Every noble from every kingdom was here—draped in velvet, dripping in gold, hiding their faces behind delicate masks while whispering rumors behind gloved hands.
The royal ballroom gleamed under hundreds of candles. Music floated through the air, soft and sweet, covering the rot underneath.
Theron stood near the head of the hall, dressed in gold and white, a shining image of Virelia’s future. Elowen stood at his side, pale and perfect, her mask a delicate piece of ivory lace.
He didn’t look at me when I entered.
Not once.
But everyone else did.
I wore black and silver.
My gown dipped low across my back, sharp at the shoulders, slit high along the side. My mask was thin, cut to frame my eyes like a blade.
Whispers followed me with every step.
A few courtiers bowed stiffly. Most just stared. Some turned to hide their faces when they thought I wasn’t looking.
Let them.
I was done hiding.
I moved through the crowd slowly, ignoring the way conversations broke off around me. I didn’t glance toward Theron. I didn’t give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I found Caelum.
He stood near the refreshment table, half-shadowed by a marble column, his coat black, his mask plain but striking. He wasn’t drinking. Just watching.
Watching me.
I stopped in front of him, close enough that the candlelight brushed my bare shoulder.
He said nothing.
Neither did I, at first.
Then, slowly, I extended my hand.
He glanced down at it, then back at me.
“Is this part of your revenge?” he asked under his breath.
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe I just needed a partner who wouldn’t tremble at the sight of me.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost a warning.
“You should be careful what you ask for,” he said.
I lifted my chin slightly.
“I’m not afraid of you, Caelum.”
Without another word, he took my hand.
The music shifted into a slower rhythm as he led me onto the floor.
We danced.
Every step between us was sharp, deliberate, controlled. No flourishes. No wasted movements. Just heat under the surface, waiting for one of us to break.
I leaned in as the music dipped low.
“Still pretending to hate me?” I whispered.
He didn’t smile.
“Still pretending you’re not enjoying this?” he replied.
I pressed closer, feeling the steady line of his body through the thin layers of fabric between us.
We turned. We spun. Each touch more precise than the last. Each breath more strained.
At the final turn, I caught his sleeve, pulled him back toward me.
Without giving myself time to hesitate, I rose up on my toes and kissed him.
Slow. Deep. Full of every sharp, broken thing we didn’t dare say aloud.
The room stilled.
The music faltered and stopped.
Gasps scattered like falling glass around us.
I pulled away slowly, savoring the stunned silence.
Caelum’s hands lingered at my waist a second too long.
I turned slightly and caught sight of Theron across the ballroom.
For the first time all night, he was looking at me.
His mouth parted, stunned, his mask forgotten at his side.
I smiled—small and sharp—and let Caelum’s hand slip from mine as I stepped back into the crowd.
Let them whisper now.
I wanted them to.
30
