Chapter 21 #2
Alaric’s gaze lingered, steady and unhurried. Evelyne kept her expression smooth, but a pulse ticked traitorously at the base of her throat.
What was he planning?
She had seen men attempt this dance before, foreigners who did not understand the nuances, who treated it as a mere performance rather than a ritual steeped in meaning.
She feared Alaric would do the same—improvise, turn it into something suited to his own customs, humiliate her in front of her court.
The first notes rang out—and Alaric moved. Not in imitation. In precision. His mount curved.
He knew it.
He stepped into the first movement, one step forward and two to the side, into her direction.
Flawless. She barely hid her surprise as they began the Elerane Waltz, a dance of grace and restraint, one where the partners never touched but existed in perfect proximity.
It was slow but intricate, requiring exact precision and unbroken focus.
Alaric met her gaze. Evelyne held it, her own balance instinctive, guided by the rhythm embedded in her soul. She should have looked away, should have focused on the steps. And yet, she didn’t.
Their hands lifted and fell in mirrored motion, fingertips grazing the air between them, never quite connecting.
His palm hovered near her arm, tracing the air just above her sleeve, following the arc of her movement as they pivoted.
The heat of him, so close yet untouchable, sent shivers down her spine.
An invisible thread drawn taut, tighter with every step.
She inhaled, feeling the brush of his presence, his breath ghosting over her temple as he swirled past her. The distance between them made every near-contact feel sharper. The waltz demanded discipline, a constant awareness of one's partner without the indulgence of physical connection.
And yet, she felt every movement he made.
Her pulse beat in time with his steps. Her breath matched the cadence of his movements. She was attuned to him in a way that should have unsettled her, but instead, it felt inevitable.
As they spun in a slow rotation, his face passed so close to hers that she could see the faint golden flecks in his brown eyes. For a flicker of a moment, something flashed behind her eyes.
His lifeless gaze, the blood, the silver thread.
The final sequence approached, the most intricate part of the waltz, requiring perfect synchronization.
She moved without thinking, responding to his guidance as if it were instinct.
A strand of tension stretched between them, binding them together in a way she had not expected, had not prepared for. She closed her eyes with a sigh.
And then, for the briefest moment, she forgot.
Forgot that this was an arrangement. Forgot that she was supposed to keep her distance. Forgot about the sigil carved in the dark, the murders buried under silence, the secrets and lies stitched into every vow she’d ever taken. Forgot about duty.
Something pulled tight behind her ribs, sharp and aching, before loosening into an unfamiliar swell that made her chest feel too full. She exhaled, and the breath left her like frost in the air.
The moment the music ceased, Evelyne felt the loss acutely, as though warmth itself had been pulled away.
Her eyes fluttered open. Alaric looked at her like he was trying to read straight through her skin—past bone, past breath, into the place where her secrets lived. He regarded her for a moment longer before a dimple appeared in his cheek, deep and mischievous.
“I was worried I’d step on your toes, princess,” he murmured just loud enough for her to hear. “But I think I did rather well.”
The sheer audacity of his tone caught her off guard, and a breathless laugh escaped her before she could think to stifle it. The sound startled her, unfamiliar in its lightness, and yet it felt… freeing.
Alaric’s eyes brightened as if he had won some great victory. “Now that,” he murmured, “was worth learning an entire dance for.”
Her lips curved despite herself, but she did not feel exposed.
It felt right. As though for a single moment, her laughter had belonged only to her. As though she were not just a pawn performing a role, but a force far more dangerous.
Something alive.
Applause hadn’t yet started. For one suspended heartbeat, the room held its breath—then the note cracked. rhythmic strains slipping into discordance before collapsing into silence. The chandeliers flickered unnaturally, though she didn’t feel a wind brushing against her cheek.
One of the musicians He crumpled on the marble—young, perhaps seventeen. His eyes wide, veins pulsing with black beneath the skin.
Evelyne’s breath caught before sound reached her.
The world seemed to narrow to the boy’s collapsing form, the bow of his instrument rolling from his hand, the terrible stillness that followed.
A rush of cold spread through her chest, sharp and consuming.
Her fingers dug into the fold of her gown. She couldn’t draw air. Not again.
Gasps broke out, chairs scraped, crystal clinked to the floor.
Someone screamed.
Nobles surged back from the disturbance in a slow, confused wave. A cluster of guards pressed forward, hands instinctively dropping to hilts. The music, halfway through its second stanza, died in a discordant hush.
Alaric stepped slightly in front of Evelyne. The look he cast across the room was sharp and cool, taking stock of exits, guards, angles.
A sudden weight collided with her arm. A noblewoman in too-high heels had slipped on spilled wine and flailing fabric. Evelyne caught her elbow before she could fall, steadying her with a firm grip.
The woman curtsied once in breathless thanks, gathered her satin skirts, and tottered off without looking back.
Evelyne’s eyes darted through the moving figures, searching frantically for a familiar head of tousled brown hair—Thalen. Where was—
Control. Calm. Focus.
There.
Near the far side of the hall, by the royal dais. He was with his mother, half-shielded behind her skirts, his face pale but unshaken. Relief struck her like a slap.
It wasn’t the first time this had happened.
She remembered the trade summit in Calveran two years ago, when a singer had erupted into light in the middle of a banquet.
And before that, the artist from the The Artisanal Circle that made her father’s royal portrait, collapsed mid-stroke.
Each time it had been labeled “reaction to stress.” But the looks on the Celestial Assembly’s faces were never casual.
And neither was this.
A blur of white robes swept in. Three of them, marked with black sigils of the Assembly. One began to hum, a low static sound that crawled under the skin, and the air around the boy began to shimmer. The other two bent to lift him, moving with unsettling precision.
Ravik appeared from the crowd, barking commands, voice cutting clean through the noise, then vanished again, eyes already scanning.
King Rhaedor stood calmly, raising one gloved hand. “Remain seated,” he announced with steel-laced calm. “There is no threat.”
Near her, Lady Catriona leaned in and whispered behind her fan, “They escorted Lady Ariste the same way this morning. Banned books.”
Evelyne went still. For a moment, she wasn’t sure she had heard correctly.
Ariste. A cold ache spread through her chest, tightening until it hurt to breathe.
It wasn’t right. Whatever Ariste had done, whatever she had read, she didn’t deserve to be dragged away like that.
Not her. Not anyone. Evelyne pressed her palms together to keep them from trembling, but the sound around her had already begun to fade, swallowed by the rush of blood in her ears.
The Assembly passed close by, carrying the boy between them. His head lolled to one side, eyes open but emptied of thought and will. Silenced.
Evelyne’s stomach turned. The sight of him caught somewhere beneath her ribs, sharp and hollow. Her throat burned, and for an instant she thought she might be sick. She couldn’t look away.
The music did not return for the rest of the night.