Chapter 55 #2
Who are these people? Were they once courtiers of the last tsar? Were they forced to stay, their loyalty bound by fear? Or did they adapt easily, shifting their allegiance from one tyrant to the next as easily as changing a mask?
I wouldn’t be surprised. Dulcamar has always had a taste for rot beneath the silk.
The music slows, taking on a darker timbre, as a ripple passes through the masked crowd.
My eyes land across the room on Torbin, who steps forward from the shadows near the far archway, his golden hair slicked back from his sharp, familiar features.
His mask is a grotesque imitation of a vulture’s face—hooked beak, angular cheekbones, deep hollows around the eyes.
The dull red of the painted feathers around the edges makes the resemblance unmistakable: the red griffon vulture of Dulcamar. An omen of death.
His glacial-blue eyes are unchanged. Barely hidden behind the hollow sockets of the mask and still piercing enough to chill my blood.
He moves with easy grace, parting the crowd like a knife through silk, until he stops before me and extends a gloved hand.
I stare at it. The urge to refuse, to spit a rejection in his face, rises sharp and wild in my throat. But my gaze flicks to Nadya, standing silent and pale near the doors, and the memory of her saying she was threatened rings too loudly in my head.
I have no weapon. No dagger tucked at my thigh. No hidden blade to pierce his heart.
Only the hope that Nadya’s spell worked.
So I place my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine—firm, sure, possessive—and he leads me to the center of the floor. The masked courtiers part to make way, their hollow stares following us.
When he pulls me into the dance, I expect roughness, some cruel assertion of control. But his grip is steady, almost reverent, his other hand pressing lightly to my waist, the heat of him bleeding through layers of silk and velvet.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping over me. “I always imagined you in our colors.”
He means Dulcamar’s colors, and it’s unnerving how easily he’s let go of his loyalty to Hedera.
He tilts his head, a smile just curling at the corners of his mouth. “Black and red suit you, Celeste. Just as ruling by my side will suit you.”
His words grate against my ears. “What is this? A charade of politeness after you practically tore a hole in my neck? What game are you playing?”
“No game,” he says, spinning me gently, his steps precise, as smooth as water. “I’m presenting you to the court. Their future queen. My queen. As it was always meant to be.”
I scoff under my breath, but the sound feels weak.
His presence is suffocating, his body solid and strong beneath his tailored jacket, every movement calculated, measured.
I can feel the ridges of muscle through the fabric where his arm supports my back.
There was a time when I loved how strong he was, when that strength felt like safety.
But now, it feels like a cage.
His gaze locks on mine, those piercing eyes catching in the low candlelight. I remember being young, watching the sun catch the pale blue of his irises, feeling enchanted by the rare clarity of that color.
Now all I see is the cold behind them.
I glance sideways, my heart thudding, and find Nadya standing near the edge of the room, still guarded, still quiet. My stomach knots tighter.
Torbin guides me into another turn, bringing me closer.
His voice drops low, conspiratorial. “Imagine it, Celeste. You and I, ruling together. Power unmatched, under the tsar’s watchful guidance.
The lands united, the old kingdoms brought to heel.
No more squabbling, no more feigned peace. We could shape the world.”
“I have no interest in your fantasies,” I snap under my breath.
Especially because that is not how this would play out. With my power drained, he would keep me under lock and key. I would not be ruling by his side. I would be his prisoner, his plaything. I wouldn’t put it past him to keep me tied to his bed while he terrorizes the world.
“You will,” he says softly, eyes crinkling with something too close to fondness. “Given time.”
The song begins to slow, the notes drawing out like a dying breath, and the masked courtiers pivot in place, creating an opening.
From the far end of the ballroom, a new presence enters.
The tsar.
Clad in dark furs and silver-threaded robes, his imposing figure cuts through the gathered crowd.
His hood is up, his mask a simple dark leather piece covering the upper half of his face, but the effect is no less unnerving.
Beside him, half a step behind, moves the seer.
Cloaked, masked, silent, like a shadow trailing after its master.
On the other side of the tsar stands Osrem, and I’m beginning to see that he never really worked for Torbin. He was always working for my father.
The air shifts. Every guest stills, lowering their heads in respect, like a kingdom bowing to its god.
My pulse pounds against my ribs.
The tsar raises a hand, and the musicians cut off mid-note, the last tremble of strings vibrating into silence. The murmurs of the crowd dissolve just as swiftly, as if the cold itself has commanded their obedience.
“Welcome,” the tsar says, his voice deep and cutting, no warmth to soften its weight. “I have gathered you here tonight not simply to feast, but to witness the beginning of a future—one forged in strength, bound by power.”
The masked faces around us remain still, heads tipped just enough to show deference. Their eyes glint like shards of ice behind their painted disguises.
The tsar’s gaze sweeps the hall, his posture unyielding, his presence coiled like a serpent waiting to strike. “Dulcamar will rise, greater than before. With this union”—he gestures to Torbin and me, his lip curling faintly—“we secure the force necessary to conquer whatever dares defy us.”
Torbin’s grip tightens ever so slightly at my waist, possessive, as though I were a jewel he was polishing for display.
The seer steps forward. Behind her, two guards hold Nadya tightly in their grips. It’s a warning. I need to do as they say, or she will be harmed.
Torbin moves, guiding me forward, his hand firm at the small of my back. I glance up at him sharply, but his expression is carved from marble. No explanation, no hint of pity. Just certainty.
My feet stumble, my pulse galloping in my chest.
Wait. The tsar said union. What is this? What’s happening?
The seer stops just shy of us, her arms lifting. The gesture is ceremonial, deliberate.
My breath knots tightly in my throat.
This isn’t a ball. This is something else. Something worse.
My gaze darts to Nadya. Her eyes are as wide as mine must be.
The air thickens, and the courtiers press in closer, their hunger for spectacle palpable. I catch their stares—cold, eager. They know what this is.
A wedding.
A union I didn’t consent to.
The seer begins to murmur, low and rhythmic, words I don’t recognize but feel all the same—like nails dragging along my spine. My skin prickles, my mind screaming for some way out, some means of stopping this before the noose tightens around my neck for good.
No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
“Torbin, no.” I whisper, but I should be screaming it.
“I told you, Celeste.” He smirks, the hand on my waist cinching me closer. “You are still my betrothed.”
Fuck! No. I can’t let this happen.
The seer continues. The tsar stares with fascination. The guests are rapt with attention.
Something sparks inside me. A coil pulled taut—energy thrumming beneath my skin, rising from the pit of my stomach, through my chest, coalescing in the center of my ribs. My muscles tense, my heart hammering faster, like it knows what’s coming.
The seer pauses, her eyes settling on me. She knows I’m trying to use my powers, and it’s apparent she’s not happy about it. A soft hum escapes her lips, a low melody that weaves its way to my ears.
But that’s as far as it gets.
Somehow, her siren power hasn’t snuffed out the buzzing in my blood.
Instead, the sound only sharpens me, a taunt rather than a leash.
My veins feel molten, like lightning is crawling just beneath my skin, begging for release.
Every inhale makes the pressure swell higher in my chest, every exhale shakes with the effort of containing it.
The air around me hums, prickling against my arms, strands of hair lifting as though the storm inside me is pulling the world closer.
Nadya’s spell holds—the siren can’t reach me—and the realization feeds my fury.
I stop resisting. I let the energy climb, let it coil tighter, denser, until my bones ache with it, until the windows themselves seem to shiver in anticipation.
I don’t hold back any more; I let it loose.
Every single window shatters as one. A violent, ear-splitting symphony of glass bursting inward, jagged shards raining down like knives from the sky.
The entire hall ducks, cries erupting, masks flying askew as the courtiers throw up their arms to shield themselves.
Torbin shouts, but I don’t stay to hear what.
I throw my hand out, pushing an energy force to knock back Torbin, Osrem, the tsar, and the seer.
I whip my head toward Nadya. She’s already moving, her hand outstretched. I grab it without hesitation, the heat of her fingers grounding me, and together, we sprint toward the nearest corridor, boots slipping on the glass-littered floor.
The music is gone. The revelry shattered with the glass.
I risk a glance over my shoulder.
Torbin stands amid the chaos, his mask half-cracked, his pale hair gleaming in the torchlight. His jaw is set, his gaze locked on me—not with shock, but promise. A vow made without words.
He will come for me.
I tear my eyes away, breath burning in my lungs, and run harder.