Movement catches my eye near the garden’s edge. A figureemerges from the shadows between the columns, and the crowd seems to part without realizing why.
Lord Lucien.
He moves with effortless grace; his black tuxedo so perfectly tailored it seems woven from darkness itself. The white mask covers half his face, leaving only his sharp jawline and mouth visible. Other guests step aside as he passes, some unconscious part of them recognizing something dangerous.
“The Lord of Pluto,” Ren breathes beside me, her hand drifting toward her concealed blade. “I didn’t think he’d show himself so publicly.”
“He’s been in the shadows this whole time,” I say quietly, watching him approach. “Tonight, he wants to be seen.”
But why?
He stops before me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of winter air and roses.
“Lady Cyra.”
My throat tightens. “Your Grace.” I manage to keep my voice steady.
“Please, we are past such formalities. Call me Lucien,” his dark eyes meet mine behind his white mask. “Would you honour me with a dance?”
The request sends a shock through the immediate crowd. Someone gasps. Conversations halt. I catch sight of Zevran’s face – his expression going from surprise to something dark and dangerous.
“I…” I glance at Ren, who nods almost imperceptibly. “Of course.”
Lucien offers his arm with perfect courtesy. I take it, feeling immediately how different his touch is. Where Zevran is warm passion and contained fire, Lucien is cool shadows and infinite depth.
The moment we step onto the dance area, the energy shifts. Gasps erupt as people recognize the man behind the mask. This isn’t just any dance – this is the exiled Lord of Pluto, thought by many to be dead, publicly claiming a dance with the Sun King’s daughter.
The orchestra begins a new piece – slower, a sweeping waltz with haunting melodies that wind around us.
“Your beauty outshines even the stars tonight,” he says quietly as his hand settles at my waist.
The tremor under my skin stills. The craving – always there, always clawing – simply vanishes.
I inhale sharply, the absence so sudden it’s almost painful. Like stepping from a freezing room into warmth, the relief is disorienting. My hands steady. The nausea recedes. For the first time in days, I can think clearly.
I look up at him, searching his masked face for explanation.
“What did you?—”
“Later,” he says softly, his thumb brushing once against my waist. A gentle warning. A small voice emerges in my mind:Not here. Not now.
I swallow hard and force myself to focus, confused and disoriented by what is happening. “You look … less shadowy than usual.”
His mouth curves slightly. “I can be presentable when the occasion calls for it.”
“Though I have to ask,” I continue, finding my voice again, “why reveal yourself so publicly?”
“Because hiding in shadows serves no purpose if I’m not willing to step into the light when it matters.” His dark eyes never leave mine as we begin to move. “And you matter, Cyra.”
I let my body be guided by him. It feels effortless, like floating through a dream. His lead is so subtle I barely register the guidance – a gentle pressure at my waist, the slightest shift of his hand in mine, and suddenly I’m executing steps I don’t know. He moves with impossible grace, making the dance feel natural rather than choreographed. Like we’re not following the music but creating it.
I catch sight of Zevran across the garden. He’s standing perfectly still, but I can see the tension radiating from his frame. Even from this distance, even through his mask, his fury is palpable. Several Jupiter nobles are speaking to him, but his attention is fixed on me.
“What you said before – about my mother – is she?—”
“She is safe. She continues to gather support for you.”
I blink, furrowing my brow.
