Chapter 4 #2
"It's called The Ghost's Lament." A pause. The sound of a glass being set down on marble. "Composed two hundred years ago, after the first civil war. It's meant to honor the dead who never received proper burial. The ones lost in mass graves. Forgotten."
Interesting choice of topic, Your Highness.
I turned.
Cassian Thorne stood three feet away, close enough that I could smell the cedar and gunpowder on his skin.
Close enough to see the faint scar that bisected his right eyebrow, the one that didn't appear in any official portrait.
Close enough to notice that his left hand—the one not holding a champagne flute—bore a burn scar across the knuckles, shiny and pink.
From the Blood Fields, I realized. From the same fire that burned the Legion.
He was studying me with an intensity that felt like being stripped naked. His eyes traced the line of my mask, the curve of my jaw, the silver chains at my back. But mostly—mostly—they stayed on my eyes.
Grey eyes. Her eyes.
"And do the dead often attend victory balls?" I asked, keeping my voice light, playful, bored.
"Not usually," he said. "But I've learned never to underestimate the persistence of ghosts."
He extended his hand. "Dance with me."
It wasn't a request. It was a challenge.
I looked at his hand—long fingers, sword calluses, the burn scar standing out like a brand. Then I looked at his face. At the exhaustion he hid beneath royal composure. At the suspicion that warred with something else, something I couldn't name.
Dangerous, my instincts screamed. This is a trap. He knows. He has to know.
But Marco had taught me something else, back when I was young and stupid and desperate to prove myself: The best way to hide from a predator is to walk straight into its jaws.
I placed my hand in his.
"One dance," I said. "Then I return to my wallflower duties, Your Highness. I'm tragically widowed, you see. My heart is still fragile."
His fingers closed around mine. Warm. Strong. Dangerous.
"Then I'll try not to break it further," he said.
And he led me onto the floor.
The thing about dancing with a man trained to kill you—literally trained, with a bounty on your head and an army at his command—is that you become hyper-aware of everything.
The pressure of his hand at my waist, just above the silver chains. The way his thumb traced the seam of my glove, searching for weapons. The way he held me at the precise distance that allowed him to draw his ceremonial sword if I made a wrong move.
He was good. Better than good. He moved with the economical grace of a man who'd learned to fight before he learned to dance, and the two skills had merged into something lethal and beautiful.
I let him lead. Let him spin me, pull me close, guide me through the steps of a dance I'd learned from Iraia's muscle memory in stolen hours. I kept my eyes downcast, my movements soft, my breathing even.
Be the widow. Be the harmless eastern cousin. Be anyone but her.
"You move like a soldier," he murmured as we turned beneath the floating lights. His breath stirred the hair at my temple. "Not a lady."
I laughed, the breathy, practiced sound of a woman who'd spent years deflecting unwanted attention. "My late husband was a military man, Your Highness. He insisted I learn to keep step. Though I confess, he was never half so skilled a partner."
"Your late husband." Cassian's grip tightened, just slightly. "Died how?"
"Fever. Last winter. Very sudden, very... final." I let my voice catch, just enough. "But we shouldn't speak of such things. Not at a celebration."
"No," he agreed. "We should celebrate. The eastern pass is secure. The traitors are dead. The kingdom is safe." His eyes found mine, held them. "Isn't it?"
Trap. Trap. Trap.
"Safe as houses, I'm sure," I said lightly. "Though I confess, I find the eastern territories rather... cold this time of year. All that blood on the snow. Such a mess to clean up."
His step faltered. Just a fraction. But I felt it—the hitch in his rhythm, the sudden stillness in his chest.
Got you.
"You have a peculiar sense of humor, Lady...?"
"Vane," I supplied. "Lady Voss—ah. Forgive me. Lady Vane. Widow of the eastern provinces. Still learning my new name."
Mistake. Stupid, stupid mistake.
His eyes went from winter to ice.
"Voss," he repeated. "An unfortunate slip."
"An unfortunate marriage," I corrected, heart hammering but voice steady.
"The name carries such... weight here, doesn't it? One hears things, even in the provinces. Whispers about fallen commanders and righteous justice."
I tilted my head, letting the mask catch the light.
"Tell me, Your Highness—do you believe in ghosts?"
The music was ending. The final notes of The Ghost's Lament hung in the air like smoke.
Cassian stopped moving. We stood in the center of the floor, surrounded by swirling couples who gave us wide berth, sensing the royal presence like deer sensing a wolf.