Then he smiled. "Besides, I don't think I've ever seen anyone make candlelight jealous before."
She laughed softly, cheeks flushing. "You always say the right thing."
"Maybe," he teased, "or maybe I just like seeing you smile."
Another waltz began to play—this one slower, more elegant. Nysa watched the dancers swirl across the floor like wind-blown petals. Something inside her longed to move with them, to pretend just for a night that she was one of them.
A girl of light. A girl who didn't have to return to chores or lies or borrowed gowns.
Just her.
"Would you like to dance?" Lioren asked, offering his hand again.
She looked at it—hesitating, not because she didn't want to, but because a strange flutter of fear caught in her chest. But this time, she didn't let it win.
She placed her hand in his.
As they moved to the dance floor, Nysa closed her eyes for just a second and let herself breathe.
Tonight, she would not worry.
Tonight, she would pretend the world was kind.
But somewhere else in the palace, higher up behind ornate curtains and polished glass, a pair of dark eyes watched the crowd. Unblinking. Silent.
A prince, cloaked in shadow and half-forgotten memories, turned away from the window.
He hadn't seen her yet.
But fate was drawing its threads tighter.
---
Before she reaches the dance floor, she halts.
Nysa hadn't been inside the ballroom more than ten minutes before she realized something was off.
It wasn't the music—though it had grown louder, swelling into grand chords that vibrated in her chest. It wasn't the air, perfumed with roses and roasted almonds and warm wine. No—it was the masks.
Everywhere she looked, guests were sliding delicate, elaborate masks over their faces. Some were made of velvet, others painted porcelain edged with gilded leaves. A few were shaped like foxes or doves or butterflies, with eyes glittering behind slits and feathers drifting in the candlelight.
Nysa turned to Lioren, her voice low. "Is this...normal?"
He looked up from where he'd been examining a passing tray of sugared figs. "Hm?"
"The masks. Why is everyone wearing one?"
"Oh—" He rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "I forgot. The Masquerade portion of the celebration."
"Masquerade?" she echoed.
"It's tradition," he explained, gesturing to the crowd. "During the first hour, everyone mingles unveiled. But after the guest list is called and the first dance announced, the masks go on. It's meant to 'equalize' everyone, at least in theory."
"So no one knows who anyone is?" she asked, skeptical.
"That's the idea," he said, smiling faintly. "Though I think most people still recognize each other's voices and posture. Still—it's supposed to make it easier for nobles and commoners to interact."
Her stomach gave a small, unpleasant twist. No one had told her this part. Suddenly her borrowed dress felt more like a beacon than a disguise. How many people would notice she was the only one without a mask?
Lioren must have read her expression, because he added gently, "Don't worry. No one's going to mind. You look incredible."
She swallowed. "I just...I wish I'd known."
Before he could reply, a hush fell over the hall.
At the top of the grand staircase, a herald in midnight blue appeared with a polished brass scroll case. A hush rippled outward, as though every voice had been plucked from the air.
"Announcing the honored guests of the Royal Winter Celebration," the herald called. His voice carried, resonant and clear. "By order of His Majesty the King of Aeloria."
One by one, names were called. Nobles from distant provinces. Ministers in embroidered robes. High-ranking knights whose armor gleamed like starlight. Each name was followed by a polite round of applause, each figure descending the staircase and donning a mask from a silver tray carried by an attendant.
Nysa felt a little like she'd wandered onto the wrong stage in a grand play.
At last, the herald rolled the scroll and announced: "Let the festivities begin."
The orchestra burst into a triumphant melody, and dozens of masked couples swept onto the dance floor. Soft laughter rose in waves, mingling with the warm spill of music.
Lioren leaned close. "Would you like some wine before we dance?"
"I—" She hesitated. "I should warn you. I don't know how."
He blinked. "How to drink wine?"
"No," she said, cheeks warming. "How to dance. At least, not like this."
A grin tugged at his mouth. "Lucky for you, I do."
She gave a nervous laugh. "I don't want to step on you."
"Then we'll call it an adventure," he teased. "Come on."
She let him lead her to the edge of the dance floor, where a few other couples lingered, uncertain or shy. The marble tiles seemed impossibly smooth beneath her shoes.
"Look at me," Lioren murmured as he took her hand.
She did.
"You're going to follow my left hand with your right. Rest your left here." He placed her palm against his shoulder, warm even through the fabric. "Watch my feet for a moment, then just feel the rhythm."
The orchestra shifted into a softer melody, something that tugged gently at the heart. Lioren began to move, guiding her in a slow circle. She tried to keep her steps small, to listen to the music instead of the panic in her chest.
He caught her eye and smiled. "See? You're already doing it."
"Barely," she whispered.
"That's enough," he said. "No one here was born knowing how."
She let herself breathe. Let herself feel the music.
They turned together, the world blurring into candlelight and drifting gowns. For a moment, she forgot how many eyes might be watching. She forgot the mask she didn't have, the coins she'd lost, the small flame at her throat that marked her as something other than them.
She was just a girl dancing, warm and light in someone's arms.
Until the moment she saw him.
.
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