She drew in a steadying breath, felt the beading press against her ribs. Her reflection looked back at her. The woman in the mirror looked like someone who belonged here.
She moved toward the door.
The corridors of Dante's palace hummed with more activity than usual. Servants hurried past, their translucent forms carrying supplies and messages. She caught glimpses of his death knights checking weapons and armor before departure, their hollow sockets burning with pale fire.
The Gathering of Souls was clearly a significant event. One that required extensive security even for a Death Lord.
The throne room stretched before her: tooth mosaic floor, skull-lined walls burning with cold blue flame, shadows moving with their own purpose. Tonight, the space was filled with members of Dante's court preparing for departure.
And there, at the center of it all, was Dante.
He stood in conversation with Aldric and two of his military advisors, dressed in formal black with silver threading along the collar and cuffs. The tailored cut emphasized his broad shoulders and commanding presence, making him look every inch the Death Lord he was. His dark hair was arranged, his expression controlled as he listened to Aldric's report.
He looked powerful. Untouchable. Composed.
Her pulse quickened at the sight of him. She crushed the reaction down, let a small, satisfied smile curve her lips instead.
Not for long.
Around him, courtiers draped in midnight velvets and bone-white silks waited in elegant clusters. Lady Morwyn stood near the transport circles, her silver gown catching the ethereal light. Whenshe spotted Brynn, her expression turned cold before she turned away.
All of it stopped when Brynn entered the hall.
The silence began with the servants closest to the doorway, their tasks forgotten as they turned to stare—one by one, the quiet spread through the hall. Courtiers fell silent mid-sentence, advisors lost their train of thought, even the death knights' hollow sockets flickered with what might have been surprise.
She felt the weight of their attention.
And she held her head high, letting them look.
Dante, still speaking to Aldric about security arrangements, didn't immediately notice the sudden quiet. "...ensure the perimeter remains secure during the gathering. I want reports every?—"
He stopped mid-sentence. Some instinct made him turn, perhaps sensing the shift in the room's energy, possibly feeling the weight of the silence.
When he saw her, the words died on his lips.
His hand, which had been gesturing as he spoke, froze in midair. The shadows at his feet went utterly still.
Then they surged toward her.
Not subtle tendrils this time. A wave of darkness that swept across the black floor, straining toward her like they were desperate to touch, to claim, to close the distance he couldn't. He yanked them back, his jaw clenching, but they kept reaching.
So much for the legendary composure of the Lord of the Forsaken. His shadows were practically wagging like an eager hound, and he looked about as subtle as a dragon at a garden party.
Brynn began walking across the hall, her steps confident despite her racing heart. The crystals caught the light with every movement, making her shimmer. She could feel eyes following her progress, could hear the whispered conversations starting behind her.
But she kept her focus on Dante's face.
His gaze dropped to the beading on her bodice. Traced the patterns there. Recognition flashed through his expression as he realized what he was seeing. Ward-symbols. Architect markers. An identity claimed in crystal and thread for everyone to see.
His throat worked as he swallowed.
"Good evening," she said when she reached him, her voice carrying clearly in the sudden quiet. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting."
"No," he said, his voice rough. He seemed to realize everyone was staring and cleared his throat, only partially succeeding at composure. "You... no. We were finalizing arrangements."
But his eyes kept returning to her. To the way the dress emphasized her figure, to the elegant neckline that revealed the curve of her throat, to the beading that made her look like she was carved from the night sky.
And underneath her satisfaction, her own body was betraying her just as badly. Her skin felt too warm. Her pulse wouldn't slow. Standing this close, she could smell him.
