“Do you know what this is?” I murmur, keeping my voice low.
She shakes her head. “Only that I was warned. If I didn’t dress and cooperate, they’d hurt us both.”
A hot spike of anger prickles beneath my skin, but there’s no time to answer before we reach a spiral staircase, its stone steps slick with frost. My gloved hand trails the frozen iron rail as we descend, each step colder than the last. Narrow windows slit the walls here and there, each one clouded with frost so thick, the outside world is little more than a blur of grey and white.
As we descend, the faint strains of music drift up to meet us. Not lively or bright, but slow and somber, like a dirge dressed up in velvet and lace.
When we reach the bottom of the staircase, the guards lead us down another corridor, darker than the last, until they halt before a towering set of iron doors, filigreed with twisting patterns of thorns and skulls. Without a word, one of the guards heaves the doors open.
The sound of the ballroom swells around us—the hollow echo of strings, the low, heavy pulse of a drum like a heartbeat slowed to near death.
The ballroom itself is a cathedral of stone and shadow. The walls are lined with columns of grey marble, each etched with grotesque reliefs of vultures and serpents twining together. Frost coats the windows high above, muting the scant moonlight that filters through. A vast chandelier of black iron hangs from the ceiling, dripping with glass pendants that catch what little light there is and scatter it in muted, ghostly reflections across the floor.
The guests stand or waltz in slow, gliding circles, all cloaked in dark fabrics—deep reds, bruised purples, storm-cloud greys—every neck high, every sleeve long, every gloved hand pristine. Their masks gleam in shades of tarnished gold, bone-white porcelain, silver, or black lacquer, each one resembling an animal’s face. No one smiles. Even in dance, their movements are stiff, mechanical, as though they were marionettes strung from the rafters.
I try to see their eyes through the masks, but I can only sense it. Thatpalpable weight of their stares, each one heavy with judgment. As if I’m some curiosity on display. An exhibit in a gallery of cruelty.
Who are these people? Were they once courtiers of the last tsar? Were they forced to stay, their loyalty bound by fear? Or did they adapt easily, shifting their allegiance from one tyrant to the next as easily as changing a mask?
I wouldn’t be surprised. Dulcamar has always had a taste for rot beneath the silk.
The music slows, taking on a darker timbre, as a ripple passes through the masked crowd.
My eyes land across the room on Torbin, who steps forward from the shadows near the far archway, his golden hair slicked back from his sharp, familiar features. His mask is a grotesque imitation of a vulture’s face—hooked beak, angular cheekbones, deep hollows around the eyes. The dull red of the painted feathers around the edges makes the resemblance unmistakable: the red griffon vulture of Dulcamar. An omen of death.
His glacial-blue eyes are unchanged. Barely hidden behind the hollow sockets of the mask and still piercing enough to chill my blood.
He moves with easy grace, parting the crowd like a knife through silk, until he stops before me and extends a gloved hand.
I stare at it. The urge to refuse, to spit a rejection in his face, rises sharp and wild in my throat. But my gaze flicks to Nadya, standing silent and pale near the doors, and the memory of her saying she was threatened rings too loudly in my head.
I have no weapon. No dagger tucked at my thigh. No hidden blade to pierce his heart.
Only the hope that Nadya’s spell worked.
So I place my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine—firm, sure, possessive—and he leads me to the center of the floor. The masked courtiers part to make way, their hollow stares following us.
When he pulls me into the dance, I expect roughness, some cruel assertion of control. But his grip is steady, almost reverent, his other hand pressing lightly to my waist, the heat of him bleeding through layers ofsilk and velvet.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping over me. “I always imagined you in our colors.”
He means Dulcamar’s colors, and it’s unnerving how easily he’s let go of his loyalty to Hedera.
He tilts his head, a smile just curling at the corners of his mouth. “Black and red suit you, Celeste. Just as ruling by my side will suit you.”
His words grate against my ears. “What is this? A charade of politeness after you practically tore a hole in my neck? What game are you playing?”
“No game,” he says, spinning me gently, his steps precise, as smooth as water. “I’m presenting you to the court. Their future queen.Myqueen. As it was always meant to be.”
I scoff under my breath, but the sound feels weak. His presence is suffocating, his body solid and strong beneath his tailored jacket, every movement calculated, measured. I can feel the ridges of muscle through the fabric where his arm supports my back. There was a time when I loved how strong he was, when that strength felt like safety.
But now, it feels like a cage.
His gaze locks on mine, those piercing eyes catching in the low candlelight. I remember being young, watching the sun catch the pale blue of his irises, feeling enchanted by the rare clarity of that color.
Now all I see is the cold behind them.
