Chapter 34
The observatory gardens look like something out of a dream.
Floating crystals drift overhead, casting shifting light – gold to silver to midnight blue – across terraced gardens carved from ancient white rock. Silver-barked trees frame the alcoves, their branches heavy with white blossoms that glow faintly in the dusk.
An orchestra plays from a platform suspended thirty feet above the courtyard, their melodies weaving between House styles – Mercury’s rapid string flourishes bleeding into Venus’s sensual harmonies, rising into Neptune’s eerie, otherworldly crescendos played on instruments I don’t recognize, stringed and delicate.
Tables laden with delicacies crowd the edges.
Jupiter’s offerings are massive roasted meats that smell of rosemary and char.
Mercury provides elegant finger sandwiches and caviar.
Neptune’s dishes are artfully arranged – translucent dumplings and grilled seafood skewers.
Uranus’s table features experimental molecular foams and foods that shift temperature as you eat them.
Saturn contributes aged cheeses and crusty breads.
Venus displays slow-roasted meats in rich sauces and decadent rum-soaked cakes.
Mars offers saffron paella studded with chorizo and peppers.
The scent alone is intoxicating – a thousand flowers mixed with spices I recognize from home and foods I’ve never imagined.
But it’s the guests I can’t take my eyes off of.
I stand at the entrance beside Ren, and take in the most powerful people in the solar system masked and dressed for intrigue.
Isolde glides through the crowd in a gown that seems made from actual amber gemstones, the fabric clinging before it flows.
Her mask is a masterpiece – gold filigree set with white diamonds that catch the floating lights above.
She looks like a goddess, and every person she speaks to seems to fall a little under her spell.
Lord Castor commands attention without effort, his broad frame clothed in rich blacks and greens. His mask is bold – bronze and gold shaped like a stylized storm cloud. He’s already surrounded by military advisors, but his eyes scan the crowd like he’s assessing threats.
Commander Kaelix has rejected formal wear in the most sophisticated way possible.
Their black and white outfit is cut in sharp, unconventional lines.
Their mask – made of metal with lightning patterns that seem to move when they turn their head – is a work of art.
They’re holding court near the technological displays, gesturing about something that has their audience looking both fascinated and terrified.
I catch sight of Astrid next to them, her midnight blue dress simple compared to the elaborate gowns around her, but the dark fabric suits her practical nature.
Her hair is braided as always, woven with silver thread that catches the light, and her mask is understated – plain black that covers only her eyes.
She’s speaking with someone who looks to be a Uranus tech engineer.
The engineer gestures animatedly while Astrid leans in, listening intently, asking questions I can’t hear from this distance.
She’s hunting for information about Uranus’s systems, their technology, anything that might prove useful to get closer to Commander Kaelix.
Her posture is focused, determined, gathering intel while everyone else is distracted by spectacle.
Then there’s Zevran.
He stands near the centre of the gardens, admiring the blossoming trees.
Even with half his face hidden behind bronze, he’s unmistakably magnificent.
The cut of his jacket emphasizes his shoulders and the lean strength of his torso.
The way he holds himself radiates confidence and barely leashed power.
Our eyes meet across the garden. The memory of his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine – heat courses through me despite the evening’s cool air.
“Remember,” Ren interrupts the moment, “everyone here has an agenda.”
Movement catches my eye near the garden’s edge. A figure emerges 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.
“How do you know—”
His voice again in my mind: Not now.
I try not to let my thoughts race. If I’m to believe him, at least she’s alive and safe.
A few of the onlooker’s gasp with delight as Lucien twirls me, golden fabric cascading dramatically in the candlelight.
“How are your efforts progressing?” Lucien asks as he resumes our waltz. “To secure the votes you need?”
“Slowly. Some of the House leaders are more receptive than others.”
“Commander Kaelix, are they receptive?”
I glance toward where the Commander stands with their audience. “They see me as a symbol of everything they want to destroy…”
“Perhaps.” He draws me closer as the music softens. “But they also value authentic conviction over empty rhetoric. Show them that you understand their vision for the future, that you’re willing to fight for real change rather than maintaining the status quo.”
“How do I do that?”
“Ask them to dance.” His lips curve in a slight smile. “In front of everyone. It sends a message about your willingness to bridge divides.”
The suggestion is brilliant in its simplicity. “And if they refuse?”
“They won’t. Commander Kaelix may be a revolutionary, but they’re also politically savvy. They’ll understand the gesture’s value.”
The music builds around us. Conversations throughout the garden have stopped completely. People are openly staring now, not bothering to pretend otherwise. When he lifts me effortlessly during a particularly elaborate sequence, gasps echo across the garden.
He’s quiet for a long moment as the music swells. When he speaks, his voice carries tension, like someone fighting against invisible restraints.
“You are the one thing I didn’t plan for.” His hand tightens at my waist. “There are chains you can’t see, and I can’t break them yet.”
I hold his infinite gaze, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. “Lucien … what do you mean?”
The music fades into silence, leaving us standing in the centre with his hands still holding mine. The garden erupts into applause – genuine, awed applause.
“No matter what happens, Cyra, know this: I will follow you to the ends of the universe,” Lucien leans in and whispers.
I can’t speak, can’t breathe.
“Thank you for the dance.” He bows deeply. “And for giving me hope that perhaps not everything beautiful in this system has been lost.”
He releases my hands and steps back. As he melts into the crowd, the garden falls into an unnatural silence – not excited whispers, but something heavier.
Lord Evander stands frozen near the Saturn delegation, his face ashen behind his obsidian mask. When one of his advisors speaks to him, he doesn’t respond.
“We should have helped them,” someone whispers nearby.
Lord Castor’s usual swagger has evaporated. He’s gesturing desperately to his Jupiter entourage, his voice pitched low but intense. “Tactical decision … limited resources … we couldn’t save everyone...”
Even Lady Tavia looks shaken, speaking rapidly to her communication specialists, her usual diplomatic demeanor cracked.
“What aren’t they telling me?” I whisper to Ren as I return to her side. “They’re all acting like—”
“Like they’ve seen a ghost,” Ren finishes grimly. “The kind that comes back to remind you of things you’d rather forget.”
Suddenly, I find myself being pulled aside by Zevran. His face is tight with controlled emotion behind his bronze mask.
“We need to talk,” he says. “Now.”
“Zevran—”
“Do you have any idea what you just did?” His eyes search my face. “Dancing with him, in front of everyone. Do you know what he is? What he represents?”
“It was just a dance—”
“No, it wasn’t.” He pulls me closer, his voice dropping so only I can hear.
“Cyra, Pluto didn’t just disappear. All the rumours about the kingdom being exiled, or falling into darkness – they’re wrong.
The truth is that years ago, Pluto was under attack.
When they called for aid, we all turned our backs. Every House. Including Mars.”
The words land like a blow. “What do you mean, turned your backs?”
“Your father told us Pluto wasn’t worth saving.
Too small, too remote, too costly to defend.
” His jaw tightens, shame flickering across his features.
“We were all so young back then. Barely adults, given thrones we weren’t expecting to inherit for decades.
None of us had the courage to object.” He pauses, the admission clearly painful.
“So we let an entire world die because it was politically convenient.”
I stare at him, processing this. “And you think Lord Lucien blames you all for that?”
“I think he has every right to.” Zevran’s composure cracks slightly. “More than that – do you understand what it means that he survived? That he has shadow magic? People don’t just develop powers like that, Cyra.”
“So you’re afraid of him.” I can hear how defensive my voice sounds.
“I’m afraid for you.” Zevran’s words come out harsh, desperate. “And I’m trying to understand why you didn’t tell me you knew him. Why you kept this from me.”
The hurt in his voice makes me pause.
“I—I didn’t know who he was at first. Then when he told me … I didn’t know how to explain it.”
“Try me.” His eyes bore into mine. “Because right now, I’m wondering what else you’re hiding. Who else you’re making alliances with behind my back.”
The accusation stings. “It’s not like that—”
“Then ask yourself, Cyra,” his voice hardens. “What does the Lord of a dead kingdom gain by earning the trust of the Sun King’s daughter?”
“I don’t know,” I admit quietly.
“That’s what terrifies me.” His voice breaks slightly. “You’re walking into something you don’t understand, with someone who has every reason to hate everything you represent. And you’re doing it alone.”