“Don’t even think about breathing a word of us to anyone,” I call after him, voice low and lethal.
But he doesn’t bother to answer, too busy dragging his sorry carcass to the bar.
And now I am left standing with Orios and Solena.
The Reaper still glowers at me, his silence deadlier than any sharpened steel, his gaze an unspoken accusation.
But Solena, ever soft where he is hard, runs a delicate hand over his forearm, leaning into him as if she alone has the power to thaw the ice beneath his ribs.
“Come, my love,” she whispers, and the words coil around him like a spell, drawing the anger from his blood, smoothing the edges of his rigid stance.
Orios exhales slow. “Yes, my love.”
It is spoken to Solena, and yet, somehow, it is meant for me to hear too.
A warning. A reminder. A parting word.
Then he takes her in his arms, their bodies molding together as they step onto the floor, slipping into the dance. They twirl and glide in perfect synchrony, arms taut, hands clasped, leaning back as they spin.
I shouldn’t watch.
But as Solena moves, the candlelight catches her face just enough, and the world warps.
For the briefest moment, I see Amara once more.
Smiling at me, beckoning, her eyes bright with something she never got to say.
My breath stumbles. My fingers twitch. Before I can stop myself, my hand lifts, reaching but just as swiftly, the illusion splinters. I grit my teeth, curling my hand into a fist, wrenching myself back from the brink.
Zyphoro was right.
This journey, this grief, is unraveling me thread by thread, leaving nothing but frayed edges and shadows where certainty used to be.
I know she is not Amara.
And yet, my twisted heart still wants so desperately that it is willing to deceive me.
This is madness.
And I cannot afford to lose focus. Not when, for the first time in weeks, I am close.
I turn away from the dancers, pushing through the beaded curtain and slipping toward the stairs.
I move like a whisper, curving around the guests who flock to the dance floor, careful not to brush too close, careful not to let the guards catch the shift in the air as I slip past. They stand vigilant, but I’ve long mastered the art of being unseen.
Then, as if on cue, a heavy thud shakes the floor, followed by a sharp shriek.
The music screeches to a halt.
“My apologies,” a voice calls from the dance floor, dripping with false remorse. Even through its disguised lilt, I recognize the mischief woven through Zyphoro’s words. “How clumsy of me.”
A ripple of irritation spreads through the ballroom, the warmth of idle conversation turning to annoyed whispers. Raised voices grumble, and that is all it takes.
The guards at the base of the stairs abandon their posts, moving toward the commotion.
Perfect.
I slip into the shadows along the wall, silent as smoke, and ascend the staircase.
