And that was when she noticed.
Alaric was watching her.
His expression was thoughtful, eyelids half closed. He smiled—just the corner of his mouth. Then, without breaking her gaze, he raised his goblet, taking a slow, deliberate sip. His eyes never left hers, watching from beneath lowered lashes.
Panic and heat jolted through her. She quickly looked away, cleared her throat, and took a slow sip of wine, hoping the cool liquid would chase away the warmth creeping up her neck.
It didn’t.
Moments later, the music changed. Laughter began to ripple more freely through the hall, and at last the long-anticipated dances took their turn across the polished floor.
In Edrathen, dancing was carefully structured, perfected over years. It was never spontaneous. Every movement was rehearsed, every turn intentional. Only a few couples danced at a time, while the rest of the court observed.
Evelyne took her opportunity to excuse herself from the group of ladies, offering them a polite nod before moving towards the raised platform where her father sat along with her brother and stepmother. She preferred to watch rather than partake—there was something mesmerizing about it, how the dancers moved as one, like a flock of birds shifting effortlessly in unison. It was beautiful.
She had just begun ascending the steps when a voice interrupted her.
“Leaving so soon, Princess?”
She turned and saw Alaric at the base of the stairs, watching her with that familiar spark of amusement in his eyes. For a heartbeat, it felt as if he had caught her in the act of something she hadn’t meant to reveal.
He bowed slightly. “Would you honor me with a dance?”
Evelyne blinked a few times.
“The dances of my country are difficult. It would be better if we both observed,” she explained quickly.
She had meant it as a kindness. He could not have learned these steps—young nobles trained for years to perfect them, and she had no intention of watching him fumble through what could easily become a humiliating display.
But Alaric only smiled. “Trust me.”
Evelyne hesitated. The weight of his gaze was unwavering, filled with something she could not quite place.
She had no reason to trust him. And yet, she did.
Without another word, they walked side by side onto the dance floor. The room fell into its expected formation—four couples gathered behind them, ready to follow their lead. The rest of the guests formed a circle around the ballroom. The traditional opening of every grand ball.
Evelyne’s father watched from the raised dais at the far end of the hall, seated in a high-backed chair. A silver-gilded goblet sat at his side, and though a tray of carefully arranged food sat before him, untouched. He sat motionless, hands folded, gaze sharp.
Alaric’s gaze lingered, steady and unhurried. Evelyne kept her expression smooth, but a pulse ticked traitorously at the base of her throat.
What was he planning?
She had seen men attempt this dance before, foreigners who did not understand the nuances, who treated it as a mere performance rather than a ritual steeped in meaning. She feared Alaric would do the same—improvise, turn it into something suited to his own customs, humiliate her in front of her court.
The first notes rang out—and Alaric moved. Not in imitation. In precision. His mount curved.
He knew it.
He stepped into the first movement, one step forward and two to the side, into her direction. Flawless. She barely hid her surprise as they began the Elerane Waltz, a dance of grace and restraint, one where the partners never touched but existed in perfect proximity. It was slow but intricate, requiring exact precision and unbroken focus.
Alaric met her gaze. Evelyne held it, her own balance instinctive, guided by the rhythm embedded in her soul. She should have looked away, should have focused on the steps. And yet, she didn’t.
Their hands lifted and fell in mirrored motion, fingertips grazing the air between them, never quite connecting. His palm hovered near her arm, tracing the air just above her sleeve, following the arc of her movement as they pivoted. The heat of him, so close yet untouchable, sent shivers down her spine. An invisible thread drawn taut, tighter with every step.
She inhaled, feeling the brush of his presence, his breath ghosting over her temple as he swirled past her. The distance between them made every near-contact feel sharper. The waltz demanded discipline, a constant awareness of one's partner without the indulgence of physical connection.
And yet, she felt every movement he made.
