“Look at me,” he says softly.
I open my eyes to find him gazing down at me with an expression that makes my chest ache. His face is slick, his lips swollen, his grey eyes dark with reverence.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead, then my temple, then the corner of my mouth. “Undone. Real. Not the Sun Queen everyone expects, just … you.”
He kisses me properly then, slow and deep, letting me taste myself on his tongue. It should be obscene, but it feels intimate instead. Sacred, almost.
When he pulls back, he brushes a strand of hair from my face with infinite gentleness. “I want you again tonight,” he promises, his voice rough but tender. “After the ball, after the politics, after all the masks come off. I’m not done with you yet.”
I reach up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw. “Good.”
He smiles – a real one, soft and genuine – and presses a kiss to my palm before carefully helping me sit up. His hands are gentle as he rearranges the layers of my gown, smoothing silk and adjusting the fall of fabric with surprising skill.
“Can’t have you walking into that masquerade looking thoroughly ravished,” he says, though his tone suggests he wouldn’t entirely mind if I did.
“You’re one to talk.” I reach up to wipe the evidence from his chin, and he catches my hand, pressing another kiss to my wrist where my pulse still races.
“I’ll see you there,” he replies, helping to pull the layers of my gown back down.
I watch as he slips out the door, leaving me to compose myself.
As I look in the mirror – fixing the strands of hair that came loose, putting the golden tiara back in place, and reapplying my lipstick – I realize that whatever happens tonight at the ball, whatever enemies we face or truths we uncover, this moment belonged to us.
I stand slowly, testing my legs. The crescent moon pendant catches the light at my throat, and above it, woven through my braids, the golden solar rays gleam.
Sun and moon in balance.
The ruler I’m becoming.
The observatory gardens look like something out of a dream.
Floating crystals drift overhead, casting shifting light – gold to silver to midnight blue – across terraced gardens carved from ancient white rock. Silver-barked trees frame the alcoves, their branches heavy with white blossoms that glow faintly in the dusk.
An orchestra plays from a platform suspended thirty feet above the courtyard, their melodies weaving between House styles – Mercury’s rapid string flourishes bleeding into Venus’s sensual harmonies, rising into Neptune’s eerie, otherworldly crescendos played on instruments I don’t recognize, stringed and delicate.
Tables laden with delicacies crowd the edges. Jupiter’s offerings are massive roasted meats that smell of rosemary and char. Mercury provides elegant finger sandwiches and caviar. Neptune’s dishes are artfully arranged – translucent dumplings and grilled seafood skewers. Uranus’s table features experimental molecular foams and foods that shift temperature as you eat them. Saturn contributes aged cheeses and crusty breads. Venus displays slow-roasted meats in rich sauces and decadent rum-soaked cakes. Mars offers saffron paella studded with chorizo and peppers.
The scent alone is intoxicating – a thousand flowers mixed with spices I recognize from home and foods I’ve never imagined.
But it’s the guests I can’t take my eyes off of.
I stand at the entrance beside Ren, and take in the most powerful people in the solar system masked and dressed for intrigue.
Isolde glides through the crowd in a gown that seems made from actual amber gemstones, the fabric clinging before it flows. Her maskis a masterpiece – gold filigree set with white diamonds that catch the floating lights above. She looks like a goddess, and every person she speaks to seems to fall a little under her spell.
Lord Castor commands attention without effort, his broad frame clothed in rich blacks and greens. His mask is bold – bronze and gold shaped like a stylized storm cloud. He’s already surrounded by military advisors, but his eyes scan the crowd like he’s assessing threats.
Commander Kaelix has rejected formal wear in the most sophisticated way possible. Their black and white outfit is cut in sharp, unconventional lines. Their mask – made of metal with lightning patterns that seem to move when they turn their head – is a work of art. They’re holding court near the technological displays, gesturing about something that has their audience looking both fascinated and terrified.
I catch sight of Astrid next to them, her midnight blue dress simple compared to the elaborate gowns around her, but the dark fabric suits her practical nature. Her hair is braided as always, woven with silver thread that catches the light, and her mask is understated – plain black that covers only her eyes. She’s speaking with someone who looks to be a Uranus tech engineer. The engineer gestures animatedly while Astrid leans in, listening intently, asking questions I can’t hear from this distance. She’s hunting for information about Uranus’s systems, their technology, anything that might prove useful to get closer to Commander Kaelix. Her posture is focused, determined, gathering intel while everyone else is distracted by spectacle.
Then there’s Zevran.
He stands near the centre of the gardens, admiring the blossoming trees. Even with half his face hidden behind bronze, he’s unmistakably magnificent. The cut of his jacket emphasizes his shoulders and the lean strength of his torso. The way he holds himself radiates confidence and barely leashed power.
Our eyes meet across the garden. The memory of his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine – heat courses through me despite the evening’s cool air.
“Remember,” Ren interrupts the moment, “everyone here has an agenda.”
