The music swelled, strings and flutes mingling in the dusky air as dancers glided across the garden pavilion like whispers of silk. The King's daughter was seated in a high place, a dazzling array of flowers woven into her braids. And yet, amidst all the splendour, Lucian stood in silence.
The celebration felt distant to him, like a fading echo. His eyes were not on the dancers nor the nobles weaving around him with laughter in their throats. They were drawn to one person alone—Vivienne.
She stood at the edge of the gathering, nervously fidgeting with her gown. It had torn earlier, and though hastily mended, the soft lavender fabric still bore the scar of that moment. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes—eyes like a storm refusing to settle—darted over the crowd with discomfort.
She didn't see him at first.
Vivienne had always been conscious of her appearance. Her auburn hair, now swept back in gentle waves, caught the firelight in tones of copper and chestnut. She tucked a loose strand behind her ear, sighing under her breath. "Gods," she whispered to no one, "why now, of all nights?" She didn't know why her nerves had risen. Perhaps it was the rip in her gown… or perhaps something else entirely.
And then—she turned. Their eyes met.
Lucian felt the air shift.
She froze, not out of fear, but sheer tension. There was no reason to feel afraid, and yet something about the stranger's gaze unsettled her. Still, she didn't look away. He was tall, draped in dark velvet and silver-threaded embroidery. His features were sharp, his expression unreadable—cut from ice, yet something behind those eyes… burned.
Lucian tilted his head just slightly, watching her.
She blinked first, immediately looking down and muttering to herself. "Bloody dress. If I trip, I shall never forgive myself."
Lucian took a step forward.
She didn't notice. Instead, she kept tugging gently at the lace hem, eyes flitting to the side. "Mother's going to lose her mind if she sees this mess. I must look like I fell in the stables."
He was standing directly in front of her now.
Vivienne looked up—and stumbled back a step in surprise. "Oh!"
Lucian caught her arm before she could fall, his grip firm but not forceful. Their eyes locked again, and for a moment, the world hushed.
She blinked, disoriented. "I—I apologise, I wasn't—"
He still hadn't spoken. Only his gaze moved, trailing briefly to the scar on her dress, then back to her face.
Vivienne cleared her throat. "I swear, this day is cursed."
He quirked the faintest smile. Barely visible. And then his voice—low, unhurried—finally spoke: "Are you always this… clumsy?"
Her jaw dropped slightly. "Excuse me?"
"I merely asked," he said, his tone deceptively smooth, "if it is a trait you nurture… or one bestowed by nature."
Her mouth opened and closed, utterly caught off guard. "Well, I—" She straightened her shoulders. "No. That is to say, not always."
Lucian looked almost amused.
"Would you like to return to your party?" he asked.
"It's not my party," she said defensively, brushing at her skirt. "I only came because it's rude not to. Everyone came."
His dark gaze flicked to the crowd, then back to her. "And yet… you seem apart from them."
She hesitated. "I suppose I feel… out of place."
Lucian nodded slowly, as if the confession pleased him.
Vivienne, however, wasn't sure why she'd admitted that at all.
Something about him felt like a riddle. Not dangerous in the way you'd run from, but dangerous in the way your instincts warned: be careful… or you'll never leave the same.
He didn't ask her name. Didn't offer his.
And strangely, she didn't ask either.