The music coiled through the ballroom like perfume in air—a lilting waltz, elegant and ancient, touched by something ceremonial. As the first wave of dancers took the floor, laughter softened into breathless rhythm, shoes whispered in time, and chandeliers burned like suspended suns.
August stood still, fingers limp at his side, caught between tension and surprise.
Everin's hand was still outstretched.
And for a moment, everything paused. Even the violins seemed to hold their breath.
Slowly, August moved his hand.
Not with eagerness. Not with reluctance either. But with a sort of poised hesitation—like a prince accepting a fate carved in starlight. He didn't look at Elias. But he felt the gaze on his skin, and he saw the subtle nod from the corner of his vision—Elias, head bowed slightly, lips pressed to a thin smile of something unspoken.
Everin's expression blossomed—a soft, tremulous joy blooming across his features as he gently took August's hand and led him forward, onto the floor where the others danced in golden spirals.
The orchestra deepened. A cello thrummed like a heartbeat.
And Everin moved with a careful grace, drawing August into the arc of the waltz. His hand, warm and gloved in velvet, settled delicately at August's waist, while the other remained laced with his fingers.
August's spine remained elegant and straight, chin tilted ever so slightly—not stiff, but guarded. Yet as the steps fell into rhythm, his body moved instinctively, following the invisible map carved into the floor by generations of masked dancers before him.
They moved together, light brushing shadow:
A half-turn beneath crystal light.
A step forward, a soft pivot, the hem of August's ashen velvet robes whispering against Everin's rosewood silk.
The silver netting on his sleeves caught the firelight like strands of moon-thread, and Everin's eyes never strayed from him—not once.
Elias stood near the colonnade, still as stone, watching the figures spin through the dance. He had no mask to shield the flicker in his gaze. His jaw tensed once, then smoothed. He said nothing, but his fingers curled around the stem of his untouched glass, thumb grazing the rim with slow precision.
He watched as Everin's hand shifted subtly—just a breath more firmly against August's back, guiding him through the turn. He watched the way August's lashes fluttered, gaze averted but his cheeks quietly aflame, pink blooming under skin so pale it might've been woven from winter dawn.
He watched—and remembered.
A smaller ballroom. A younger August. Not quite so tall. Not quite so wary. A candlelit practice session between bookshelves, laughter slipping out before he could silence it.
But that was then.
Now, August was dancing with a stranger who saw him like he was something celestial.
Everin's voice was soft, almost lost in the music. "You move like a dream I was never meant to touch."
August didn't answer. But his grip in Everin's hand tightened, almost imperceptibly, like a chord drawn taut.
And Elias turned his face away, just for a moment—not in defeat, but to breathe.
The waltz turned slower. The dancers revolved, a kaleidoscope of silk and shadow, glinting masks and murmured secrets. And in the center, beneath the golden arch of chandeliers and veiled intent, August danced on—with blush on his cheeks and another boy's hand at his waist, while the boy he didn't dance with stood watching, quiet and still, cloaked in everything he hadn't said.
Beneath the vaulted gold-laced arches of Khyronia's great ballroom, the music swelled into something bright and flirtatious—a piece meant for mischief and stolen glances. The chandeliers above shimmered like constellations in celebration, and the wine flowed like laughter across noble tongues.
Elias hadn't taken a step when they found him.
A group of young noblewomen—masked in soft lace, feathers, and crystalline veils—fluttered around him like jeweled birds. Their gowns rustled like petals in wind, fragrant with rose oil and something sharper beneath.
"Oh, it's you," one purred behind her velvet mask, hand resting on his forearm as if it belonged there.
"You're taller than I imagined," said another, her eyes moon-bright. "Would you honor us with a dance?"
Before Elias could so much as blink, a small, determined hand latched onto his own.
"You can't refuse us all," the smallest girl laughed, bold as fire, tugging him toward the dance floor. Her masked face was half-hidden behind cascading golden curls, and her grip didn't tremble in the least.
"I—wait—" Elias began, but she'd already pulled him into the swell of dancers, twirling him once with reckless glee.
He didn't want this. Not truly.
His eyes flickered toward the place where August had been dancing—seeking the shape of ash and silver netting, the halo of white hair.
And there—still poised, still dancing—but watching.
August's eyes, storm-pale and sharpened with thought, weren't looking at Elias.
They were locked on a woman.
A single noblewoman seated at the corner of the ballroom, half-veiled, her mask glittering obsidian. She sat too still, too composed. Her fingers circled the rim of her wineglass—not idly, but methodically, spinning the red liquid inside like molten garnet. Not sipping. Not smiling. Just… watching.
Watching Elias.
And August's gaze never left her.
Everin, still guiding August in the rhythm of the dance, had noticed none of it. His focus was entirely on the boy in his arms—on the delicate heat of him, the way his waist narrowed beneath silk, the faintest pink on his cheekbones that hadn't faded. His grip, unintentionally, tightened.
August's jaw tensed.
Everin leaned a little closer, breath brushing against the shell of his ear. "You really are the most exquisite creature this room has ever seen," he murmured. "How do you expect anyone to dance with you and not fall in—"
But he never finished.
August stopped.
Mid-step, he pulled away with quiet force, his face unreadable, but his voice cooled like marble in winter.
"I have something to do."
Everin blinked, startled. "Now? But—"
August stepped back, gaze slicing toward the woman with the wine. Then, just as briefly, toward Elias—still dragged about by the little firecracker of a girl, his expression somewhere between baffled and irritated.
August turned, the edge of his velvet hem brushing the marble floor like smoke, and vanished into the crowd without looking back.
Everin stood in the center of the dance floor, hand half-lifted, as if something had just been taken from him—and perhaps it had.
Above, the violins soared into a new movement.
And in the shadowed corner of the ballroom, the woman stopped spinning her wine.
The music rippled, fluttering like a silk ribbon in wind—carefree on the surface, but something darker pulsed beneath.
August slipped through the crowd like a wraith in velvet, every footstep measured, soundless. His silvery robe caught candlelight like a living thing, thorns and moons flickering like hidden warnings. But his eyes—those pale, storm-cloud eyes—never strayed from his target.
The woman.
She stood now, rising from her chair as if the gravity of the room had changed. Her gown clung like midnight silk, a second skin in obsidian and deep crimson. Her mask shimmered not with elegance, but menace—coiled with tiny black feathers, delicate as ash, sharp as blades.
She moved with purpose, sipping her wine in a way that felt… wrong. It wasn't enjoyment. It was study. Like she was memorizing the taste of the evening.
August watched her weave through the nobles with terrifying grace.
And then—she turned.
Right toward Everin.
He hadn't yet left the dance floor, still blinking after August's sudden exit, his heart thudding with misplaced hope. His cheeks were flushed—not just from exertion, but from the echo of August's closeness still pressed into his bones.
"heyy handsome," the woman purred, stepping directly into his space. Her voice was thick like syrup, slow as evening shadow.
He blinked. "Yes…?"
"Are you taken?" she asked, her head tilting ever so slightly. Her eyes, the only part visible behind her lace mask, glinted with something unreadable.
"I—uh—no—" Everin stammered, heat creeping up his neck.
But she didn't wait for the rest. She seized his hand with gloved fingers, soft but inescapable, and began to guide him toward the floor again.
"Good," she whispered. "Then let's not waste the rhythm."
He looked back toward where August had gone, but his feet had already been caught in the sweep of her steps. She moved too well. Too perfectly. And there was something unnatural in the way her shoulders stayed locked, the tilt of her head just… a little too still.
Everin tried to say something. But the woman was already spinning him—smiling faintly—and his words caught on air like dust.
---
From the far side of the ballroom, August's eyes narrowed.
Not because of jealousy.
But because he recognized her stance.
This woman wasn't here to dance.
She was here to investigate.
To extract.
He moved. Not quickly, not carelessly. He crossed the marbled floor like a ghost in satin, one hand slipping to the thin stiletto beneath his sleeve—not to draw it. Just to feel it. Just to know it was there.
As the woman dipped Everin in a slow, deliberate motion, August finally stopped several paces away—his expression unreadable, but his eyes sharp as frost.
And the woman… noticed.
Mid-spin, she glanced up. Just once.
And her lips curved.
Not in surprise.
But in recognition.