Then he turns.
The mirrors blink. The spell breaks.
His hand extends.
Not to me.
To Seraphina.
She beams as if she’s already won, her golden skirts flaring as Keiren leads her across the floor. They move with polished elegance, the mirrors doubling every step. Still, he keeps a careful distance between them—yielding not so much as an inch, even as she tries to pour herself into him.
When the dance ends, Seraphina looks drunk on triumph, hovering beneath the crystal chandeliers almost in a daze.
“Fallen out of his favor already, have we?” Elena’s voice slips in beside me, sweet as venom. Her smile curves, sharp and knowing. “I suppose that’s what happens when you sneak away with the king for days. Give him everything, and hegrows bored.” She tilts her head. “Quick hands. Clumsy lips. No wonder he’s come back for more of us.”
Heat flashes up my neck—but I don’t rise to it.
I know she’s lying. What passed between Keiren and me was not something to be taken lightly or discarded like spoiled wine. Still, her words find their mark. They always do.
She waits for me to snap. When I don’t, she rolls her eyes and drifts away, rejoining Seraphina as if they’ve already claimed victory. Their laughter trails behind them like ribbons as they hurry toward Keiren, pressing goblets into his hands, draping themselves against either shoulder as though they belong there.
He accepts the drinks.
Accepts them, for all the mirrors to see.
My pulse hammers, but my mask does not crack. Instead, I cross the hall, my steps measured and unhurried, until I reach the refreshment table. Mariel and Cassy murmur together nearby. Vivian stands pale and wide-eyed, fingers twisted tight in her skirts.
My hands shake as I reach for a crystal glass. Whether from fury or ache, I can’t decide.
A shadow’s gaze keeps pace with me—tall, still, stationed behind the table. I ignore it.
Arther Vane surveys the ballroom like a soldier on watch, his focus sharp, his posture unyielding. His glass sits untouched. His mouth is set in a hard line, as if joy is a luxury he no longer allows himself.
“You look like you’d rather face a firing squad,” I remark.
“I have,” he says without turning. “When the king’s guard fought the Woodland Alliance in the second year of the late king’s reign. I was captured. Sentenced to execution.” A pause. “Keiren saved me.” He exhales slowly. “Trust me; this is worse.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “This place feels like a battlefield to me.”
A dry sound—almost a laugh—escapes him. “You’re the wisest bride to ever walk these halls.”
I blink. “And here I thought I was simply the most troublesome.”
“Trouble fades. Beauty fades.” His gaze drifts across the room. “Wisdom is the one thing the Onyx Keep hasn’t learned how to kill.”
I follow his eyes.
Mae stands near Lyra, speaking softly, her hands folded around a candle that refuses to gutter in the draft. Light seems to adore her—leaning toward her smile as if it’s been waiting centuries for permission.
And Arther… Arther looks at her like she’s the last good thing in a ruined world.
“For a man forged of steel,” I say gently, “you have a very obvious weakness.”
He looks away. “How do you mean?”
“Mae.” I tip my glass toward her. “She’s all light and mercy and soft edges—and you’re standing here pretending you don’t want any of it.”
His jaw tightens. “The lady of light does not dance with soldiers.”
