Chapter 8 #2
Lady Delarine turned to greet a white-haired dignitary from the southern coast, leaving Sabine to navigate the space alone.
She retreated toward the refreshment tables, where Nature affinity weavers, in their distinctive leaf-green sashes, dispensed tiny, crystalline confections from trays that hovered unaided in the air.
She accepted one, a perfectly faceted orb catching the light in a rainbow of color, and placed it on her tongue.
For an instant, she was transported: the cold shock of stepping into first snow, followed by the honeyed warmth of Goldtide rain, then the gentle ache of nostalgia, sharp and sweet in equal measure.
The flavor faded quickly, leaving only the ghost of sensation, a memory of happiness that tasted foreign on her tongue.
She wondered if she, herself, was little more than this confection, to the Gilt.
A curiosity, easily forgotten once it’d been consumed.
She drifted through the pavilion, hands clasped at her waist, and observed how the Gilt navigated the social maze, how their alliances shifted with every new arrival.
She watched the way the Registry officials moved almost invisibly along the walls, their smiles thin and careful, their eyes never resting in one place for long.
Mostly, though, she watched Liora. Her sister stood at the dance floor’s edge, every inch the perfect debutante with her perfect posture and her glittering smile.
Several lords and ladies approached, greeted her, and struck up a conversation.
Liora absorbed it all like a flower turned to sunlight, perfectly trained to navigate each interaction.
This was what Sabine had sacrificed for.
However, even if the Gilt acknowledged her sister’s presence, Sabine didn’t miss how they never quite welcomed it.
Liora was not asked to dance, or offered a drink, or a turn about the room.
The same world that had abandoned them twelve cycles ago may now allow them entry, but only peripherally.
Sabine pressed her palm to her sternum to still the panic inside her and forced herself to attend to the details around her.
The way the music shifted tempo, the scent of orange and spice wafting from the punch bowl, the glint of a chandelier refracted in a thousand prisms of crystal.
She catalogued them, expecting to compose a letter to her mother, who would never read it, or to her father, who had never set foot in an Ilvarenne ballroom.
She’d made a vow, and she would find a way to see it through.
She didn’t notice the hum of anticipation building in the crowd until it became a physical thing, prickling her skin. The conversations around her stalled, laughter dying mid-breath and glances flickering toward the center stage. Even the Nature weavers paused, trays suddenly still.
The Master of Ceremonies drew focus, thumping his silver staff against the marble like a low thunderclap. “Distinguished guests, we are privileged to witness a most joyous announcement this evening.”
The guests formed a circle, heads craning forward, the dance floor clearing with military efficiency. Sabine felt herself pulled into their orbit, curiosity swamping even her anxiety. A couple stepped forward, their hands intertwined.
“Miss Mardith and Lord Bennett have been blessed with marks of compatibility,” the Master of Ceremonies continued. “With the Registry’s approval, they have chosen to undergo their blood vow ceremony at week’s end.”
The news swept the crowd in a wave of exclamations and applause.
The newly engaged pair stood in a pillar of light, their matching marks visible to all.
They looked radiant, happy, and… very much in love.
How that could even be possible, seeing this was the first ball of the Season, was a mystery Sabine could never hope of uncovering.
Across the room, Liora’s eyes went wide and shining, lips parted in awe.
Sabine’s own heart gave an involuntary tug as she remembered Liora’s childhood games—how she’d woven coronets out of dandelions and danced with imaginary suitors in the orchard, always the princess destined for perfect happiness.
And Sabine, the steady, sensible sister, would laugh and play along, never believing those stories could belong to her , but determined to make them come true for her sister.
She took a sip of the strange, tart lemonade, letting the taste anchor her to the present.
How did people do this? How did they summon so much joy for something that, in the end, could as easily be a sentence as a blessing?
Sabine searched the couple’s faces for cracks, for signs that the happiness was anything less than absolute.
But the smiles were genuine, the gleam of tears in Miss Mardith’s eyes unfeigned.
Perhaps they were truly in love.
And perhaps, love was simply something Sabine was not built for, reserved for those who didn’t need to choose between survival and sentiment.
She wouldn’t dwell on how much the possibility stung.
When the applause finally subsided, Sabine drifted back to the edge of the pavilion and watched the interplay of light on the ornamental pool, the lazy revolutions of water lilies drifting across its surface.
The feeling of eyes scanning over her made the fine hair on her arms stand to attention.
She perked her ears, listening for conversation.
“That is her,” said someone behind her.
“Creation affinity, how very marvelous.”
“Do you think the papers will name her the Singular of the Season?”
Sabine’s back stiffened. Only one ball, and she’d already had enough of being treated like a prize to be won. She had no desire for the title gossip mongers and matchmakers bestowed on the Season’s alleged best candidate.
“Her title and fortune are hardly much to write home about,” another one said, “but with the Duchess of Braythar’s sponsorship and an affinity so rare, anything is possible.”
“You’ve seen the mark. They shan’t pick someone who is already bound by Registry decree.”
Sabine allowed herself to release a long exhale. Maybe that could be the one positive thing about this horrid mark: it might keep her out of the very center of the spotlight.
Silence fell over the assembly then, rippling outward from the pavilion’s entrance, heads turning with the synchronization of prey animals sensing a predator. Sabine followed their collective gaze.
The Emperor’s Hand stood at the entrance. People edged closer, then away, moths lured by flame and yet aware of the threat of immolation. He was imposing without effort, ironwood hair worn again in a knot, and the kind of steel in his gaze that could strip a person to their bones.
What in the threads was he doing here?
“I had not expected him to attend,” an older lady in a plum gown said to her companion. “I don’t believe he has ever partaken in a ball not standing at the Emperor’s side.”
“He cannot possibly be looking for another match, after what he did to his first wife…”
No, no, no, no.
Surely, this was a nightmare, and Sabine would wake up any minute now.
Any minute.
Three breaths. Four. Five. Six…
She was not going to wake up. This was not a nightmare.
And she had to get out of here before their marks would flare.
She edged along the perimeter of the ballroom, willing herself to be small, to be invisible, to pass through the golden haze of candlelight and perfume without leaving a ripple.
She ducked her head, weaving between two elderly gentry.
If she could just make it to the corridor, just one more turn, she could escape and—
“Sabine!”
Fingers caught her wrist, and delicate as they may have been, they felt like a shackle.
“There you are,” her sister whispered. “You’d vanished.” Liora’s gaze darted toward the Emperor’s Hand, then back. “Did you see who just arrived?”
“I noticed.” Sabine tried to pull away, but Liora held fast.
“They say he never comes to these things. Not unless the Emperor commands it. What do you think it means?”
Sabine shook her head, unable to speak. The mark was burning, a pulse that threatened to split her open.
She had to go. Now.
She wrenched her arm free, muttering a quick apology, and slipped through a knot of debutantes clustered around a marble column.
Their laughter was shrill and brittle, like glass about to shatter.
She focused on the doors at the far end of the ballroom—the promise of freedom, so close, so attainable—and forced her feet to move, one step, then another, then another—
She risked a glance over her shoulder.
Foolish, foolish move. Their eyes locked. Time suspended between one heartbeat and the next.
Heat flared under her skin, a searing ribbon of light that spilled from the neckline of her gown, painting her throat and collarbone in molten gold. Answering darkness bloomed at Lord Vaelros’s throat, tearing down the side of his neck like a wound that would never heal.
And escape had never seemed more impossible.