"Did you see—"
"Her gown—"
"—poor thing—"
"—probably borrowed—"
She didn't stop until she reached the arched doorway that led to one of the wide balconies. Cool night air wrapped around her, a relief against her flushed face and the burning shame scalding her ribs.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting tears. She would not cry in this palace. She would not let them see her as small and pathetic.
But she had to admit—she had never felt so out of place in her life.
Beyond the carved balustrade, lanterns bobbed among sculpted hedges, their lights reflected in pools of black water. A breeze lifted her hair and chilled her bare skin where the gown gaped.
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold the pieces together—of her dress, of her dignity.
Footsteps approached behind her, measured and familiar.
She turned, ready to apologize for being so weak. But it was only Lioren.
His brow creased in worry as he stopped in the doorway. "Nysa."
"I'm fine," she said quickly, though her voice was too thin to convince anyone.
"You're not."
She looked away. "It's only fabric."
"It's not only fabric," he said gently. "You deserve better than this."
Her throat ached. "I thought—" She swallowed. "I thought maybe I belonged here for a night."
"You do," he said.
But she shook her head. "Look at me."
He did—and something in his expression softened, some fierce protectiveness shining through the pity.
"Come sit," he said, guiding her to a stone bench along the balcony wall. "Let me see how bad the damage is."
She perched stiffly while he lifted a fold of the fabric, careful not to touch her skin. He let out a quiet breath. "It's torn almost to the waist."
Of course it was.
"Could it have been an accident?" she whispered. "I didn't catch it on anything, did I?"
"I didn't see you catch it," he admitted.
Her stomach twisted. Cara's face flashed unbidden in her mind—her too-sweet smile as she handed over the gown.
But she couldn't say it aloud. She couldn't even think it all the way through.
Lioren let the fabric fall and straightened. "Wait here. I'll get you something to eat. You've had nothing since midday."
She shook her head, hugging her arms tighter. "I'm not hungry."
"Nysa."
"I'm not."
But he only sighed. "You will be soon enough. Let me bring something to you. I'll be quick."
Before she could argue again, he slipped back through the archway into the golden brightness of the ballroom.
Nysa closed her eyes and let the cool air wash over her. Every time she thought she couldn't be more embarrassed, something else happened to prove her wrong.
All she'd wanted was to see the palace. Just once. To feel like she belonged among the people who had always looked down on her.
Now she couldn't imagine ever wanting to come back.
She stayed there, breathing slow, until another presence moved into the balcony behind her. She assumed it was Lioren returning, so she didn't look up right away.
But when the footsteps stopped and no voice greeted her, a shiver worked down her spine.
She turned.
The man in the white mask leaned against the far column, arms folded across his chest. Even in the shadows, he looked carved of something more solid than any of the others—self-assurance so natural it didn't feel like arrogance until you looked twice.
He regarded her in silence, his head tilted.
"Are you following me?" she asked before she could stop herself.
One black brow lifted behind the mask. "I might ask you the same."
Her mouth parted. "What—"
"You disappeared," he said simply, straightening to his full height. "Mid-dance. A rather rude exit."
Heat climbed her neck again. "My gown was torn," she snapped, voice rising. "What would you have had me do—stand there like an idiot?"
A faint smile curved his mouth. "You're rather defensive for someone who ran from a dance."
"You're rather smug for someone who doesn't even have the decency to offer help," she shot back.
"Help?" he repeated, sounding genuinely amused.
"Like—like a coat," she stammered. "Or a handkerchief. Or perhaps even an apology."
He pushed away from the column and took a few steps closer, until she had to tip her chin to keep his gaze. "For what offense would I be apologizing?"
"For mocking me," she said.
His dark eyes glimmered behind the mask. "I told you not to step on my shoes. I thought that was quite fair."
She sucked in a breath. "You're insufferable."
"And you," he murmured, "are very entertaining."
Her cheeks burned hot enough to rival the lanterns. "I'm glad my humiliation amuses you."
"It does," he agreed without shame. He studied her a moment longer, then let his gaze sweep deliberately down her torn gown and back to her face. "Though I confess, I'm curious how it happened. Carelessness? Or sabotage?"
Her stomach clenched. "I don't know," she admitted. "But it's none of your concern."
"On the contrary." He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. "Everything that happens in this ballroom is my concern."
Her breath caught. There was something in the way he said it—some unspoken claim she couldn't quite name.
She swallowed, her mouth dry. "You must think you're very important."
He considered that. "Perhaps I am."
She let out a thin, disbelieving laugh. "Then by all means, go be important somewhere else."
He tilted his head as though weighing whether to stay. For a moment, she thought he might surprise her—might offer something kind, some gesture of pity she could pretend to refuse.
But he didn't.
He stepped back, pale mask gleaming. "I'll leave you to your sulking."
And without another word, he turned and vanished into the ballroom.
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