Chapter 10 The Dance of Diplomacy
THE DANCE OF DIPLOMACY
CEDRIC
He didn’t remember agreeing to it.
One moment, King Callum was summoning Cedric forward, beckoning him toward the dais. The next, the words “our victors leading us in a dance,” were drifting across the room like spilled ink.
If His Majesty said anything else in between, Cedric hadn’t heard it, so focused was he on controlling the heat flaring under his skin, the flames that threatened to burst from his palms the moment Elyria’s hand had brushed his.
It was instantaneous, irresistible. The spark of power, the surge of magic.
And it was only the commotion caused by Elyria’s own magic flaring in a similar response, the way it pulled all focus on her, that gave Cedric the space to smother it, to keep it locked down, locked inside.
He spent the rest of the welcome speech steeling himself, trying not to react, his gaze locked on a spot just beyond the king’s crown.
He hoped Lord Church would chalk up his strange behavior to nerves.
Hoped he didn’t see straight through him.
He supposed if he didn’t get a handle on his reaction to Elyria’s touch, none of that would matter in a moment.
The quartet in the corner began playing again—a slow, regal tune. Elyria turned back toward the dance floor, her golden gown rippling with each step, her brows lifted in question as she looked at him, arm extended.
She was so stars-damned beautiful.
He took a breath.
And then he took her hand.
Her skin was cool against his, that spark flaring back to life the instant they touched. Heat crackled down Cedric’s spine, sharp and bright and hungry. For a heartbeat, he feared it might leap free of him entirely.
Not now. Not here.
Elyria’s fingers tightened around his, and as quickly as that burst of power came on, it calmed, settled.
The room fell away again. And Cedric moved without thinking, his palm finding the small of Elyria’s back, grazing—celestials help him—the bare skin there.
She laid her free hand on his shoulder, and they began to dance.
Cedric had never boasted to be a tremendous dancer. He’d had a nobleman’s upbringing, so he knew enough to survive the rare occasion that called for it. He was, for all intents and purposes, fine.
Elyria, on the other hand, seemed as though she’d been birthed from music itself. By all appearances, she was letting him lead her along the floor, but every motion, every movement was threaded with such outrageous grace, there was no doubt she was the one in charge.
He couldn’t identify the expression on her face when he looked down at her—simultaneously soft and wary, foreign and familiar.
“You look—” His voice cracked. Four fucking hells. He swallowed. “You look beautiful.”
Her lips parted, but the words that he thought might be waiting on the tip of her tongue didn’t come. Instead, her breath hitched, her chest rising as though her lungs were filled with something she couldn’t—wouldn’t?—release.
Disappointment cut through Cedric’s mind, though his heart leapt when he realized that the faintest hint of color had blossomed in her porcelain cheeks.
The air felt different around her. Thinner. Charged. Every time their bodies brushed—shoulders, hips, fingertips—Cedric felt the magic in him rise, clawing toward her like a flame drawn to air. She made him feel combustible. Like if he breathed too deep, he might explode.
Noctis take him, he needed to get a grip.
He hated to admit it, but perhaps Tristan was right.
Cedric needed to practice his power if he had any hopes of controlling it.
His eyes shot to the far side of the room, drawn instantly to Nox’s towering dark silhouette, Thraigg’s diminutive form beside them.
The two of them stood with Kit and the fae that had been with Elyria by the dais earlier, all four of them watching Cedric and Elyria with unreadable expressions.
Well, not Thraigg. The dwarf’s expression was entirely readable, something greater than amusement coloring his cheeks red as he gave Cedric a hearty wave, lifting his goblet toward him in toast.
Cedric was still grinning when he returned his gaze to Elyria, her own expression flickering with an emotion he still didn’t know how to name. Awe? That couldn’t have been right. Maybe it was simply confusion.
Quartered hell, he hoped it wasn’t pity.
Several moments passed as they swept across the dance floor.
They didn’t have to speak. Cedric was sure she would have many choice words for him before long, so he took the opportunity to revel in the feel of her hand in his, her skin under his touch, their bodies close enough to feel the magic thrumming off her, her cherry-almond scent intoxicating.
Shouts and a smattering of applause cracked through the room, and Cedric looked up to see the king waving his goblet with gusto, shouting for others to join the dance.
An errant thought flitted through Cedric’s mind, that perhaps he should see where Lord Church or Tenny or Tristan had gone. That perhaps he should see who was watching.
But as he returned his gaze to Elyria, the silver flecks in her luminous emerald eyes sparkling while a soft harmony in perfect sync with the music spilled from her lips, he realized he didn’t care. Cedric’s entire world had shrunk to the precise point where her palm pressed against his chest.
Surely, she must have felt his heart hammering.
Hells, she probably felt the heat radiating off him, the same way he sensed the cool shadowed edge of her magic brushing against his—teasing, testing.
He couldn’t help but recall how it felt to fall into that magic fully, the thrill of when they’d merged powers during the Crucible. The completeness he’d felt.
He had . . . missed it.
Missed her.
The music swelled around them as others took to the floor, though Cedric could barely hear it over the pounding in his ears.
Finally, Elyria broke her silence, her voice a melody all its own. “You’re staring.”
Cedric suppressed a grin. “I’m dancing.”
“You’re brooding.”
“This is hardly me at my broodiest. You should know that. It hasn’t been that long.”
She bit her lip, and a roaring instinct in Cedric’s chest had his eyes tracking the motion.
“I’m trying not to step on your feet,” he added—a peace offering.
“Mmm,” she said, the mirth coloring her tone warming Cedric’s very soul.
“How considerate.” She tilted her head, her green eyes making him feel exposed as they roved over his face, lingered on his token, then traveled down his arm to their joined hands.
“You do like your jewelry, don’t you, Sir Thorne? ”
Cedric pressed his lips together, but she just let out a light laugh and touched a finger to his ring.
“No, no, I like it,” she said. “Far less ostentatious than some of the glittering jewels blinding me from around the room. It suits you.”
And they continued dancing.
The music built to a crescendo, lifting them into a final turn. Cedric drew her into a spin. She stepped back, their arms extended, fingertips brushing. Their eyes met as she returned to him, and the space between them collapsed.
For a heartbeat, it was as if they weren’t standing in a gilded palace ballroom. They were back in the Sanctum. Back at the edge of the world. Cedric was a fiery beacon, his power lighting him up from the inside out. Elyria’s shadows danced across his skin. His fire roared to meet them.
“Cedric?” Her voice pulled him back to the present, the sound of his name on her tongue instantly calming the inferno in his chest.
“Do you regret it?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Her brow furrowed. “Regret what?”
“All of it. Any of it. Going through the Crucible,” he said quietly, though he immediately wished he could take every word back. What kind of idiotic question was that? Of course she regretted it. She’d had to kill the stars-damned love of her life, for fuck’s sake.
And she’d done it for him.
“I—I didn’t mean—I’m—”
Elyria’s steps faltered, and Cedric cut himself off to tighten his grip on her waist, steadying her.
“There are many things I wish could have been different,” she finally said, voice quiet. “But I don’t have the luxury of regret.”
The tension between them grew thick as smoke, until it was all Cedric could do to keep moving, to make this moment—when he had her in his arms—last as long as possible.
He spun her again, the layers of her golden gown lifting, flaring out like petals in the wind. And when she landed back in his arms, a little breathless, both palms braced on his chest, Cedric found he just couldn’t help himself again.
“I don’t regret it either,” he said, the words low, rougher than intended. It didn’t stop him from adding, “And I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”
Elyria blinked. Froze. Took a single step back.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
For one horrible heartbeat, Cedric thought he’d ruined everything. That he’d pushed too far, too fast. He wanted to take it back. Wanted to take everything back. He clawed at his mind, trying to think of something—anything—to say.
But her eyes—they weren’t on him anymore.
They were fixed over his shoulder, wide as saucers.
Shadows swirled from her fingertips.
Before he could ask what was wrong, Elyria moved, tucking Cedric behind her, one hand remaining on his chest as her other arm snapped out.
Fast. She was so, so fast.
The dancing nobles surrounding them barely had time to voice their shrieks as dark tendrils exploded from her hand, lashing across the ballroom.
Metal clattered against marble as her shadows wrapped around a man in formal attire who had emerged from the crowd, pinning his arms to his body, taking him to his knees.
It took Cedric a moment to wrap his head around what had just happened. To recognize the glint of steel laying against the polished floor. A dagger.