Chapter 23
AMARIA
Laughter cracked through the tension and the musicians struck the opening chords of a triple-waltz. The rhythm surged through the cavern. Bodies pulled toward the floor like the music was a tide and none of us had the sense to swim against it.
I turned to Brannick. "What's this dance?"
His usual boisterous grin faltered. A flush crept up his neck, and he ran a hand through his hair—a tell I'd never seen from him before.
"The traditional Mask Swap," he murmured, eyes darting toward the couples already beginning to move. "Usually reserved for... well. Couples. It's intimate."
My gaze drifted to Ryla and Torin, their bodies swaying together, hands reaching for the ribbons of each other's masks. They exchanged them in silence, their touch a quiet sacrament.
"The couples trade masks," Brannick continued. "So they know what it feels like to be seen through the lies others branded onto their partner. And what it feels like to wear their partner's shame as their own."
My heart stilled.
Damn. These people were intense.
Terrifying. Thrilling. Both at once. I forced my mind to go blank before it could wander anywhere dangerous—before it could land on anyone in particular.
"I think I'll sit this one out," I said, forcing a smile.
I turned to leave. To melt into the shadows and watch from a safe distance.
A firm hand gripped my elbow.
I looked up—and my gaze locked with the inescapable, eternal eyes of Dreadscale.
"Going somewhere?" he purred.
My stomach dropped. No—worse. Every sense I possessed evaporated straight out of my body. Then my mouth went dry. I tried to swallow. Failed.
My eyes darted to Brannick for rescue. He put his hands up in surrender and backed away.
Coward.
Dreadscale's gaze hadn't moved from mine. "You've stood naked before your shadow, Scar-Bearer. But not before me." A pause, weighted and deliberate. "What do you say? Can I have this dance?"
Naked. What a word choice. My brain went somewhere unhelpful and stayed there. His fault entirely.
Gods help me. I don't know if I should slap him or run.
"I thought I had. I've stood before your Mirrorheart. I've laid myself bare for you."
Sure. Fine. I could flirt with an ancient dragon warrior. What's the worst that happens? He eats me. At least I'd die interesting.
A husky, devious chuckle rumbled out of him. "Then I must've missed the part where you stripped down and begged me to look closer."
Heat seared through me—deep and treacherous. I narrowed my eyes, fighting for composure. "Maybe you weren't paying attention."
Mischief lit his eyes. He stepped closer. "Oh, I paid attention." His voice dropped. "I'm still paying attention."
My knees threatened to buckle. That sounded like a threat. Or a promise. Or both.
Without breaking eye contact, he reached for the ribbon of my mask. Slowly. Purposefully. Unraveling it like he had all the time in the world.
"This is supposed to be symbolic, you know," I whispered. Lamely.
The mask fell away from my face. "All the most intimate gestures are."
I tried to swallow. Again.
"So what now? You gaze into my wounded soul?" I whispered.
He untied his own mask without looking away. Without breaking a sweat.
It slipped free, and his face, unmasked, was somehow more dangerous than before.
"No," he said. "Now you wear mine. And tell me what you see."
He lifted his mask with two fingers and stepped behind me. His fingers brushed my nape, knotting the ribbon. His breath grazed the shell of my ear. The mask settled against my face—warm from his skin, smelling of smoke and cedar—and the eye-holes narrowed my world to him alone.
Memory-ink inside his mask flared against my cheeks.
KING'S LEDGER: BEAST. INNER LIE: I AM ONLY MY AXE.
A pulse of Mirrorheart slipped through the mask. I inhaled a flash of his first kill—blood and snowfall, the silence after.
I turned, my voice strong. "I see the scar tissue. And the male who taught me it is the power, not the problem."
His eyes darkened and he offered his palm. I set mine in it, our marks humming in tandem.
The musicians struck the three-quarter beat. We pivoted together, and the circle parted for us.
He led. I followed. His other hand found the curve of my waist and held there with a weight that rearranged my breathing.
The waltz was slow, turning—each step a controlled fall that he caught before it landed.
The packed earth was uneven under my boots and he compensated without looking down, adjusting his stride to mine, steering us through the gaps between other couples like he'd memorized the floor.
The brazier's heat found us on every third rotation—a wall of dry warmth that bloomed across my left side and then fell away as we turned.
The other couples moved in their own orbits, murmuring to each other, masks traded, foreheads touching.
Quiet, intimate sounds. Around us, a wider silence.
A space the crowd had made without being asked.
No one dared intrude on Dreadscale.
His voice was a low thrum against my ear. "Ten heartbeats in my arms—can you hold the fusion… or will you break for me again?"
I counted. A silent drum in my head.
One... two... three...
My marks stirred, syncing with the steady rhythm of his breath. The air crackled around us with electricity. My body leaned closer—his arm tightened at my waist.
Four... five... six...
The cavern faded. The music became a haze. Only his eyes remained—dark and fathomless, pulling me deeper. My breath hitched, suspended between his lips and mine.
On heartbeat seven, the lanterns guttered.
Dreadscale's dragon tattoo flared—a silent hiss of ember-light beneath his skin.
Then an intimidating form stepped into the space, cloaked in a plain black mask, intercepting our turn and catching my hand mid-air.
Dreadscale released my waist without surprise. His eyes gleamed as he offered a curt, knowing bow to the masked figure.
The male's other hand pulled my body to his and spun us so his back blocked the crowd, caging me in.
My body knew him before my mind caught up. My Marks knew him.
Crownforged.
Gone for days. Not a word. Not a glance. I'd checked every shadow, every corridor, every damn entrance to the mess hall like some worry-sick fool—and nothing.
And now he was here. Pressed against me. Like he had the right.
I wanted to shove him off. I wanted to ask where the hell he'd been.
I couldn't do either.
My body, my Marks were already instinctively pressing toward him—like I'd stepped too close to a black hole and was about to be swallowed alive.
He pinned one of my wrists behind my back, the other flat against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat under my palm.
Or maybe that was mine. I couldn't tell anymore.
His lips brushed my ear. Teeth bared.
"Count, little fox. One breath for every beat you let him hold you."
I tried to drag myself back to my senses. Tried to find the sharp edges of my anger.
"I owe you nothing," I hissed.
He squeezed my wrist—pain first, then heat. The bond pulled me in ruthlessly, and my knees started to give.
"Then humor a condemned male." His voice was rough-edged. Dangerous. "Count."
I was spiraling into the inferno, into the impossible gravity of him. I shook my head. No.
"Alright, Scar-Bearer." His lips brushed the shell of my ear again. His grip stayed firm—anchoring me, like without it I'd melt to the floor. "I'll help you the first time."
His hand found my chin. Turned my head until I had no choice but to meet his eyes.
"One..." He pulled me tighter. "Two..." Our marks flared, heat building between us. "Three..."
Each number dragged me closer. The fusion was building—crackling, inevitable—
He stopped. Squeezed my chin hard enough to bruise.
"Let another male count your pulse," he whispered, "and I'll take it back. Beat by beat."
The threat should have made me shove him away. Instead, my traitorous pulse quickened—and from the way his fingers dug into me, he felt it too. The bastard.
As he leaned in, our Marks crackled with fusing energy.
The fusion didn't stay between us. It traveled—a heat that started where our chests pressed together and radiated outward like a stain, climbing the column of his throat, tracing his jaw.
The air between our faces shimmered. The papier-maché edge of his mask curled at the jaw first—
Then a dry heat dusted my cheek.
His Mask. The painted surface was flaking apart against his skin. Dissolving. Fine as powder, grey-white, it drifted between us like a memory that had never been solid to begin with. The pieces snagged in my lashes, settled on my lips.
His body went rigid. Eyes wide. The face beneath the mask was bare, and for one stuttering heartbeat I saw it all. Everything the paint had named. Everything the fire had stripped.
Then he released me.
His hands left my skin and with it, the charge, the pressure, the unbearable pull of him—gone. My body swayed forward into the space he'd left. He didn't look back.
His lies lay in ash at my feet. Fine and pale against the trampled sage on the floor.
Eryndor hadn't gone anywhere near that fire. He hadn't gotten to choose.
The ritual didn't do this. The brazier didn't strip him.
I did.
He'd walked in wearing more masks than anyone in this cavern. The painted one was the least of them. And I had just ripped them off in front of everyone. Not a sliver of the mask like the others. The whole thing disintegrated. I basically just declared: You are a lie.
No wonder he ran. I would have run too.
Across the circle, Dreadscale stood unmoving. A dark silhouette against the silk-wrapped lanterns. His head tilted—barely perceptible—and he gave a tiny, curt nod.
Like he'd expected this. Like he'd wanted it.
The murmur of the Veil rose abruptly, vibrating through the walls. A lantern overhead, wrapped in its twin shrouds of black and silver silk, splintered with a deafening crack. Shards of glass rained onto the packed earth. The light within guttered. Died.