Chapter 8
CHAPTER
Sabine
Sabine had an hour, perhaps less, before someone tried to buy her womb.
The Crystal Pavilion shimmered against the evening sky, a structure that appeared to be born of light rather than created by mortal hands. Its glass walls trapped the last, desperate warmth of twilight while night gathered its courage beyond.
“Remember our lessons,” Lady Delarine said, her eyes sharp beneath the shadow of her feathered headpiece, “the Awakening Ball serves a singular purpose: to establish one’s position for the Season ahead. You are not here to win hearts, Miss Almarien, but to claim territory.”
Territory .
The Duchess had ingrained it in her brain over the past few weeks, preparing her for their debut, but Sabine felt it in her bones the moment they crossed the threshold.
The Pavilion’s vast interior unfolded like a chessboard glazed with frost and gold, every tile and alcove a piece to be captured or lost.
Liora’s gasp countered Sabine’s own breath, which she kept locked tight behind her teeth.
Orbs of Light affinity floated overhead, shifting from the pale blue of moonrise near the entrance to blinding gold at the pavilion’s heart—a slow, deliberate gradient, dawn breaking across a Frosttide sky, bottled and bled out onto marble.
“Breathtaking,” Liora whispered, fingers clutching Sabine’s arm like she might float away, her eyes drinking in every impossible detail. “I had heard stories, but this—”
“Is precisely calculated to overwhelm,” Sabine finished softly, noting the Registry officials positioned at strategic intervals throughout the space, their formal attire doing little to disguise their watchful scrutiny. “Wonder is merely another form of control, Lili.”
Lady Delarine’s mouth curved in subtle approval. “Indeed. Though one might argue that recognizing the cage does not necessarily free the bird.”
A promenade of Gilt nobility stretched between the entrance and the central fountain, their silks and jewels catching light like exotic creatures adorned for predatory display. All those watching eyes, heavy and bright, pinned Sabine in place.
“Your Grace, what an unexpected pleasure,” greeted a silver-templed gentryman.
Something about his appearance was deeply unsettling. Maybe it was the sallow drag of his skin, or the way his limbs hung too loose, like wet branches in a windstorm. It reminded Sabine very much of what her father had looked like, before… better not dwell on the memory.
His gaze slid from the Duchess to her charges, weighing each of them. “And these must be your mysterious protégées.”
“Lord Castellon,” Lady Delarine acknowledged. “May I present Miss Almarien and her sister, Miss Liora Almarien?”
Sabine offered a curtsy. “My lord.”
“You manifested Creation affinity, did you not?” Lord Castellon’s smile revealed a row of rotting teeth, the gums receding. “A rare gift, indeed. Gilt families would give anything to claim it as part of their bloodline… You should meet my son.”
The implication hung in the air between them—Sabine, broodmare, her value measured in potential offspring rather than personhood. She swallowed the taste of bile, holding her face perfectly still.
Barely ten minutes into the evening, and already she felt like livestock at auction. She’d been too generous, affording herself an hour.
“Perhaps later. We promised several introductions already, my lord,” Lady Delarine said, deftly extracting them from Lord Castellon’s presence.
“He looked…” Liora said once they’d stepped away, but the words died on her tongue.
“He is Fading,” Lady Delarine explained.
Sabine felt icy bands tighten around her chest. The resemblance hadn’t been imagined, then.
Liora’s gasp was almost a squeak. “And yet he appears in society?”
Sabine counted five breaths. Her sister had been but a child when their parents died. She didn’t remember the symptoms, the empty looks in their eyes, the sallow pallor of their skin.
She could still manage to believe the Fade was something that touched only others. Sabine, unfortunately, could not.
“His is, fortunately for him, a mild case. His mind is mostly still there, though his body has begun to fail him.” The Duchess looked around, checking for onlookers. “Trust his family will remove him from the public before he grows too unsightly for their ambitions.”
Sabine shivered. “He would have me court his son, knowing what their bloodline harbors?”
Your bloodline harbors the same , a voice in her head retorted, bringing with it an immediate sting of shame. She couldn’t blame the man, not in earnest. When her parents had been in far worse health, she’d held no reservations vowing to see their youngest daughter married.
Lady Delarine gave her a long glance. “Some in the Gilt believe an affinity like yours could restore a bloodline’s health, being the power of genesis and all that.”
“Could it?” Sabine’s voice was but a thread.
“There is no record of it in the texts. But then again, there is no record of the Fade, either, and our people experience it nevertheless, so the exercise is largely speculative at this point.” The Duchess steered Sabine by the elbow past another knot of brightly dressed gentry.
“You need not concern yourself with such matters tonight. The Gilt’s pains are not yours to bear. ”
The next half hour became a blur of names and faces: dukes and duchesses, counts, marchionesses, all of them stopping to greet Lady Delarine and, by extension, the Almarien sisters.
“Your Grace.” The words sliced through the ambient conversation with the precise aim of an arrow finding its target.
A young debutante emerged from the throng of Gilt gentry, curves sheathed in a gown of pomegranate. Her dark, artfully arranged curls framed a delicate, almost cherubic face, but her eyes were wolf-bright, rimmed with kohl to sharpen their focus.
She regarded Sabine with a clinical curiosity, the way a naturalist might regard a rare, venomous caterpillar.
Behind her, two others trailed: one pale, one tawny, both with the same air of cultivated disregard.
They flanked the brunette like bodyguards, but their loose, languid movements suggested this was more predation than protection.
“Miss Celastra,” Lady Delarine acknowledged with the barest incline of her head. “How fortunate to encounter you this evening.”
Miss Celastra’s smile remained fixed on Sabine. “Indeed. I’ve been simply dying to meet your newest protégée .” Her enunciation of the word transformed acknowledgment into dismissal. “Virelle Celastra. I know it’s terribly rude to introduce myself uninvited, but someone has to break the ice.”
The young women flanking her exchanged glances, like children sharing a private joke at another’s expense.
Virelle’s smile remained fixed while her eyes conducted a merciless inventory of Sabine’s appearance. “I understand you were working as a governess before your... unexpected return to society.”
The barb was hardly subtle, but Sabine schooled her features to remain neutral.
Virelle’s gaze sharpened. “Just remember, darling, playing at nobility requires more than simply donning the appropriate silk.”
“Certainly,” Lady Delarine agreed. “Miss Almarien would know this well, seeing she’s been managing her family’s valenhold for over twelve cycles, now. But perhaps you should worry about your own silks, Miss Celastra?”
The Duchess’s eyes flicked down Virelle’s gown. It was gorgeous, to be sure. Delicate chiffon, with pale lace highlighting her ample chest and translucent sleeves that left her shoulders bare. All soft curves and smooth, creamy complexion, Virelle was the definition of Gilt beauty standards.
But even Sabine’s untrained eye could tell her dress did not have the same quality and craftsmanship as the gowns Lady Delarine had fashioned for her and her sister.
“Your concern for my protégée is most touching.” The Duchess’s expression sharpened. “Though I dare say your energies might be better directed toward securing your own match, given this is—what is it now? Your sixth Season?”
Virelle’s porcelain composure cracked before she recovered. “Fifth,” she corrected with brittle precision.
“Oh my,” Sabine replied evenly. “I must take advice from you, then. So my sister and I can ensure not to replicate your failures.”
Several onlookers paused in their conversations. Liora’s smile faltered, her glances volleying between Sabine and the growing audience.
Virelle’s face flushed with humiliation, her companions drawing ever so slightly away, like the unexpected counterattack could find purchase on them if they weren’t careful enough.
She recovered with admirable speed. “We should not monopolize your time. I am certain there are many eager to make your acquaintance.”
The string quartet began a new movement, drawing attention toward the dance floor. Virelle seized the opportunity to retreat, her companions trailing behind.
“That was poorly done of me,” Sabine murmured once they had gone, surprising herself with the admission. “I shouldn’t have engaged.”
“On the contrary,” Lady Delarine replied, “it was precisely done. Miss Celastra expected you to wither beneath her scrutiny, and you did not. There is no faster way to establish one’s position than to defend it from the first assault successfully.”
The Duchess’s approving glance was almost maternal. Sabine let the compliment settle, though it did little to ease her mind. If anything, it made her wonder if the Duchess intended to refashion her into something sharper, harder, for the express purpose of surviving this world.
Was she not already hard and sharp enough?
She dared a glance at Liora, who averted her gaze to the floor. Sabine knew her sister, and she clearly didn’t share the Duchess’s sentiment on the matter.
Sabine could only hope her display didn’t upset Liora too much.