Chapter 28 Quinn
QUINN
The grand ballroom soared, an impossible cathedral of light and motion.
Chandeliers spiraled from the vaulted ceiling, scattering stars over everything.
Hedges coaxed blossoms from hidden planters, petals unfurling in time with the melody.
Tempests guided the creation upward, weaving soft winds that lifted the blooms and drifted them above the crowd in a slow, spiraling dance.
An orchestra played from a lofted alcove.
The attendees transformed every corner into a spectacle.
Feathers and silk and embroidery; masks elaborate enough to pass for sculpture.
A woman’s hair was adorned with living butterflies.
A man laughed behind a mask rendering him into a silver hawk, the sleeves of his coat flaring like wings.
Circular tables ringed the perimeter, draped in royal violet. Our group claimed one near the edge of the dancefloor. The plates gleamed—bone-white china rimmed in gold, the lion stamped clean at the edge. The cutlery gold to match.
My gaze rose to the platform at the far end of the ballroom.
The king sat upon a throne so tall it strayed into farce.
He lounged with an elbow resting on the armrest, wearing a full-face golden mask.
As I regarded him, I could have sworn his eyes collided with mine.
Even from here, I felt the weight of his attention.
The blood seemed to slow in my veins despite the incessant thundering of my heart.
Breathing required concentration. Mav’s fingers pressed more firmly to mine.
Gratitude swept over me for the gesture, a quiet anchor in a maelstrom of excess.
A man wearing great finery stood to the right of the king. With several taps of his jeweled staff, the room fell into expectant silence.
“Loyal citizens of Avandria,” he began, his voice magnified by his own Hum magic.
“I am Paschar Anen, Grand Vizier to the king. On this blessed eve of the Spring Jubilee, we gather to honor the prosperity our kingdom has long enjoyed beneath His Majesty’s reign.
” He opened his arms wide, the gems on his sleeves catching the light.
“Tonight, we celebrate not merely the turning of the season, but the endurance of our great realm and the divine wisdom of the Council of Five.”
At his cue, a troupe of performers gathered in the center of the ballroom.
A trio of Tremors pressed their palms to the floor, and the marble obeyed.
With a deep groan, the stone rippled and reshaped itself—mountains rising in miniature relief, the coastlines of Avandria taking form before our eyes.
Murmurs swept through the crowd. A Tempest followed, commanding storm clouds, thunder cracked, and flashes of tiny lightning drew startled gasps.
Rain filled the etched riverbeds, the Merise Sea, and the Lithen Strait, held in place by invisible walls.
The vizier’s voice swelled, rich and rehearsed: “In the age before Avandria, the world was divided. But the Five Brothers—Edric, Eryndor, Egran, Eamon, and Errin—each gifted with sacred magic, tamed chaos and forged harmony from ruin.”
Four glowing figures appeared, illusions woven from mist, each brother rendered in heroic grandeur.
“Edric, the lionheart, blessed by Time, who foresaw the shape of destiny.”
“Eryndor, master of Tempests, who commanded the skies.”
“Egran, shaper of Tremors, who raised the mountains and steadied the earth.”
“Eamon, the Tether, who bound our oaths and our hearts to the Crown.”
A beat of silence followed before the fifth figure appeared—smaller, cloaked in shadow.
“And Errin, whose gifts were…of another kind. A dangerous and destructive Twilight. His path strayed, his choices led him from his brothers’ light. Yet even he, in his folly, taught us the cost of disobedience.”
Uneasy murmurs rippled through the audience. The illusion of Errin the Twilight dissolved first. My stomach twisted. History had been rewritten for the sake of spectacle.
The vizier smiled as the miniature kingdom expanded across the ballroom floor.
“Together, the brothers conquered the scattered provinces. Even the goblin clans and troll tribes bent the knee in exchange for the mercy of Avandrian order. From that day forward, our lands have known peace, prosperity, and divine purpose beneath the Crown.”
Beside me, Mav leaned close. “That’s quite a trick.”
“Leave it to the Crown to rewrite conquest as triumph,” Thistle muttered.
“This is what history becomes,” Branrir began, disgust wrinkling his face, “when we refuse to name the horrors that built it. When we glaze over what we are ashamed of, we offend the sacrifice—and the memory—of the original inhabitants of these lands.”
Vesper flicked his tail, uncharacteristically somber. “There are no true victors in war.”
Strings swelled in triumphant crescendo.
At the vizier’s nod, a Hearth conjured a glowing orb, bathing the scene in golden light.
The Tempest ceased the rain and cleared the clouds.
Hedges coaxed forests and fields to bloom in miniature, vines threading over peaks and through the delicate cities of conjured stone.
The vizier’s voice lifted to its finale. “Today, we continue their legacy of benevolence and wisdom, and honor Edric Aerithar Renaudin the First—lionheart and founder of Avandria.”
He lowered his arms with ceremonial gravity, and the scene collapsed. The marble reformed to its original pattern, as if it had never been disturbed. A tide of applause rolled through the space.
“Glory to the Crown,” the Grand Vizier proclaimed, bowing low.
“Glory to the Crown,” the crowd echoed, hundreds of voices merging into one obedient chord.
The grand vizier clapped his hands in summons. “Let the feast begin!”
Dozens of servers swept into the ballroom, arms laden with golden trays. Courses arrived in a decadent procession: tiny roast birds with lacquered skins, pomegranate sauce, cloud-like baked custard that sighed beneath a spoon. Wine poured into crystal goblets.
As they passed, I noticed each server bore the same mark. I now recognized the shape of its cruelty, having seen it first on the clerk at the dress shop. A darkened U branded into their cheeks.
The mark of the ungifted.
Their movements were silent, graceful even, but the sight hollowed me. To know such suffering had become a uniform, that judgment had been pressed into flesh—it curdled the beauty of the evening into something unbearable.
The chandeliers glittered too brightly, the laughter of nobles too shrill.
My throat tightened. It was difficult to taste the wine’s sweetness when all I could see was pain masked in ceremony.
And harder still to quiet the dread coiling low in my stomach.
Soon, I would have to speak with the king—the architect of this suffering—and plead for my freedom.
My hand tightened around the stem of my goblet. Mav watched me. He had said little since we sat: a small smile, an occasional brush of his fingers against mine when he refilled my wine or passed bread.
“Oh!” Mav said, placing a small plate in front of me. “I made sure to grab one of these for you.”
My brows furrowed as I studied the slice in front of me: bright fuchsia berries, flaky crust, and a sugar dusting. “Dewberry pie?”
Mav’s smile could have chased a storm from any sky. “A little bird told me it was your favorite, or used to be a long time ago.”
“Ahem!” Vesper gave a pointed, false cough. “It was not a bird, it was a very thoughtful, selfless cat. A cat who would now like the rest of your fish if you’re through?”
A laugh bubbled out of me. “Seems the least I can do for such a thoughtful, selfless gesture.” I piled my remaining pieces of fish onto Vesper’s ever-growing plate. I pressed a soft kiss to Mav’s cheek. “Thank you. It was very sweet of you to remember.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I have no idea if the pie is any good,” he chuckled.
I lifted my fork and took the first bite of dewberry pie I had taken in centuries.
My eyes closed as an explosion of tangy sweetness washed over my tongue.
It tasted of winter solstice gatherings with my family, of tradition, of childhood.
Tears rose as a sense of homesickness swept through me for a time and place I could never return to.
Mav placed a hand on the small of my back. “You’re crying? Is the pie that bad? You don’t have to eat—”
I placed a hand over his. “It is wonderful.”
He rubbed slow circles on my spine as the night continued.
Across the table, Thistle was mid-strategy. “All we need is a proximity window,” she said, flicking a glazed carrot from her fork. “I ‘accidentally’ splash a little wine on the king’s boots—nothing permanent—and then, bam, we’re in a conversation.”
Branrir spoke with the confidence of a man experienced in such things. “Or we follow the designated audience block after the opening dances. As the invitation outlined.”
“Where is the drama in that?” Vesper grumbled in between sampling every plate within reach.
“This is court,” Branrir replied. “There’s already sufficient drama, and we’d be better off avoiding it instead of causing it.”
“Stop licking the silverware,” Thistle chided, waving a hand at Vesper.
Branrir set his knife through a slice of roast with the patience of a man mentally counting to ten. “Focus.”
Alas, I could not. The king was here, fifty paces away. Soon I would ask him to untie what his blood had knotted three centuries past.
Mav leaned closer to me. “Are you all right?”
“I am thinking.”
“You always are.” He nudged my foot beneath the table. “Try to enjoy the evening, at least until the groveling starts.”
I smiled, if only halfway.
The orchestra shifted to a gentle, sweeping tone.
“May I have this dance?”
I turned. Mav already stood, hand extended. Hope and a touch of fear mingled in his eyes as they peeked out from his mask.
“Yes, Mav, you may.”
Relief softened his entire frame. I slid my hand into his.
He led me through the thicket of gowns and finery.
I felt curious eyes follow us, but they became unimportant the moment he turned to face me.
He stepped in, one hand to my waist, the other guiding my fingers. We began to glide across the floor.
“I am continuously impressed by how well you dance,” I murmured as he turned me, the skirt flaring around my legs.
“Now that you know I’m a Hum, my being able to move in time with music should be less of a surprise.”
“That feels suspiciously close to cheating.”
“I prefer to think of it as using what the Saints gave me,” he said with a grin. “Everything about you makes me want to put my best foot forward, sometimes quite literally.”
Smiling, I ducked my head in an effort to conceal the flush upon my cheeks. His hand found a lower hold at my back—still chastened by propriety. Yet his fingers curled as though he could not prevent himself from drawing me closer. Heat gathered beneath my gown where he touched me.
He bent his head, hesitating only a heartbeat.
His thumb brushed the edge of my jaw, tilting my face toward his.
And he kissed me.
The press of his lips was unhurried, deliberate. The manner of kiss that claimed without conquering. Wordlessly communicating, “You are mine to stand beside.” His mouth moved against mine as though we were the only two souls in this crowded, glittering hall.
Gasps and murmurs sounded.
A fan snapped shut.
I cared not.
When I opened my eyes, Mav was looking at me as though I were the rising sun breaking over a storm-tossed sea.
Realization struck, the clang of a bell.
It was not that it had been centuries since I had felt this way.
I had never felt this way before.
My vocabulary lacked a word for what he was to me. I only knew that when he reached for me, I would already be reaching back.
Mav offered his hand anew, and we remained—for one dance, and another, and another beyond counting.
Vesper waltzed by on the shoulder of a baffled nobleman.
Branrir and Thistle twirled past us with surprising vigor for their ages.
Between dances, Mav sprinkled small affections: a kiss upon my hand, a stray tendril brushed behind my ear.
He murmured something about my beauty outshining the chandeliers; I called him ridiculous.
As Mav spun me, my eye caught the platform. The king had barely moved all night. Now, his posture shifted. His head tilted as his gaze sharpened, not upon the throng—upon me. A chill skittered down my spine.
When at last we returned to our table—flushed, breathless—I reached for my mask. “I need a moment,” I murmured, slipping the mask free so cooler air could touch my skin. Relief came at once.
I lifted my eyes, and my gaze collided with the king’s.
My stomach dropped.
He regarded me with more than curiosity or idle intrigue. It struck as recognition. My blood ran cold. The king rose and descended the stairs of the platform. The crowd parted to let him through. My heartbeat tripped in time with his steps.
Thistle saw it first. “Um, is the king walking toward us?”
Branrir straightened. “Why would he be walking toward us?”
Vesper balanced on the rim of a plate of fish. “Did you accidentally Twilight him?”
Something in the set of his shoulders struck a chord of memory so deep my breath faltered. I had seen this walk before—in torchlight, in shadow, in the last night of my former life. My body remembered even if my mind refused to name it.
“Quinn?” Mav placed a comforting hand on my lower back, concern lacing his tone. “What is it?”
Words failed me. The closer the king drew to where we were seated, the more recognition sank deeper into my skin. He arrived beside our table in mere moments.
“Quinnève?” The name left him not as a question, but as a recollection.
The ballroom receded. My pulse roared in my ears, muffling the orchestra. The room tilted violently, chandeliers swinging like pendulums in a doomed clock.
My lungs seized.
No.
No, it cannot be.
He reached for his mask. Gold parted from his skin with a slow, dreadful scrape. The face beneath was no stranger. It lived in my unwelcome dreams, in nightmares of the day everything ended.
“Edric.” The name barely passed my lips, but it burned.
The boy who had kissed me in secret.
The prince who had cursed me in wrath.
And now, the king whose word would decide whether I woke again—or never woke at all.