Or is she testing me, watching, waiting? Hoping to unearth something raw, something visceral?
Perhaps she only wishes to see me feel so that, for just one fleeting moment, she might feel something, too.
I carry on, my steps steady, my gaze fixed ahead as Zyphoro melds into the others without so much as a backward glance.
She has sworn to take my life if the darkness within me rises.
If my curse fights its way to the surface.
And I am beginning to think I must be ready to return the favor.
Chapter 10
Daed
As we near the domed building, the low thrum of music pulses through the air, muffled yet insistent, like a heartbeat beneath stone.
We ascend the stairs, and from the city’s darkened corners, figures slip from the shadows. Their faces remain obscured behind masks that catch and refract the moonlight, their eerie smiles dipped in a courtesy that feels strangely familiar, though we have not earned it.
Good. That means we look as though we belong.
At the top of the landing, two tall, lithe males stand in silence. Even before I see the sharp angles of their faces or catch the faint glint of eyes beneath their hoods, I know what they are. Fae. Their scent confirms it.
Tamis takes a step forward, and Zyphoro slinks her arm through his, the perfect illusion of a doting consort rather than his beautiful tormentor. Orios moves in close to Solena, silent and imposing, a wall of stone at her back. I catch the flick of his glare, the bitter twist of his mouth. He says nothing. Of course he doesn’t. He's a Reaper of the Ebon Flight, centuries under my command, forged in loyalty and discipline. That loyalty is carved into him, and it runs deeper than blood.
But I know the lengths a male will go to for what he loves. What violence he will endure and what violence he will inflict just to keep her close.
We Fae pretend we are refined, detached. Above petty emotions. Weakness is for humans, we say. But the truth is, time doesn't dull us. Not always. Sometimes it sharpens the edge, deepens the hunger. And I would not be surprised if one day it overtakes Orios entirely. If his restraint snaps, and I feel his blade between my ribs.
I hope it never comes to that.
It would be a shame to cut him open—throat, belly, and balls—and let him bleed out into the dirt.
What a waste of a fine warrior.
At the entrance, the guards square their shoulders as Tamis approaches. But their posture falters the moment Zyphoro steps into view, impossible to ignore, like an eclipse slipping across the sun.
“Tamis Efrain,” he says with cool confidence, gesturing to us. “And these are my guests.”
The guards make a show of inspecting us, but their eyes keep dragging back to my sister. They hesitate too long, caught somewhere between suspicion and awe.
Then the doors swing open, spilling golden light across the worn stone steps.
We step through the threshold with the feigned ease of those who have walked these halls before. Our eyes, however, betray our caution, scanning every alcove and shadowed corner, sweeping the balcony above. Our heads snap toward each burst of laughter, each ripple of conversation.
Because though we may be Fae, we were not invited.
And if House Taramethos holds the same contempt for me as Ithranor does, then my title will be worth nothing here.
On this side of the Untold Sea, I rule no one.
The doors slam shut behind us with a thunderous boom, sealing us inside the opulence of the masquerade.
The ballroom is vast, its domed ceiling a decadent masterpiece—a mural of Fae desire and ruin. Celestials and demons entwine in an eternal embrace, hands reaching through a shimmer of stars, faces caught between rapture and despair, ecstasy and agony made one. Golden constellations glimmer faintly in the lacquered paint, the illusion of motion making it seem as though the figures still writhe, still yearn.
Soft light spills from crystal sconces, gliding across walls of black marble veined with smoke-grey. It fractures through curtains of silver beads that drape the obsidian floor like falling starlight, swaying with every pulse of sound and movement.
Within those shifting veils, masked figures move as one, swirling beneath the mournful wail of violins. Every step deliberate. Every turn flawless. Not a single misstep, only the seamless rhythm of dancers who’ve known this waltz for lifetimes.
