And without another word, he turned and vanished into the ballroom.
The door closed softly behind him, leaving her alone with the cold and the dull throb of her heart.
She pressed her palms to her burning face. What was wrong with her? Why did she care what some arrogant stranger thought? Why did he get under her skin so easily?
She stayed there until she heard quieter, careful footsteps returning.
"Nysa?" Lioren's voice was tentative.
She looked up quickly, grateful for the distraction. He stepped onto the balcony, a small silver tray balanced in one hand. Two delicate glasses of dark wine and three golden pastries rested atop it.
"I brought these," he said. "I thought you'd like something warm."
She tried to smile, though it wobbled. "Thank you."
He set the tray on the bench and knelt to drape his coat around her shoulders. The simple kindness nearly undid her.
"Would you rather leave now?" he asked gently.
She hesitated. Part of her wanted to flee the palace and never return. But she also didn't want to ruin Lioren's night, not after all he'd done for her.
"You should go back in," she said instead, her voice hushed. "Enjoy yourself."
"Nysa—"
"Please." She looked down at her gloved hands. "I don't want to be the reason you miss everything."
He searched her face for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.
"I'll stay nearby," he promised. "If you need me."
When he finally slipped away, she pressed a hand over her heart.
It beat unsteadily, hollow as an empty room.
And for the first time that evening, she let herself cry.
---
Nysa never returned to the ballroom.
Long after Lioren's footsteps faded, she remained out on the balcony. She sat huddled beneath his coat, watching the lanterns flicker in the gardens and listening to the dull echo of music drifting through the stone walls.
Laughter rippled somewhere inside—carefree and bright. The sounds only deepened the hollow ache in her chest.
She tried to muster the courage to go back in, to pretend nothing had happened. But every time she imagined the dozens of masked faces turning to watch her re-enter, the shame flooded up so fiercely it made her dizzy.
So she stayed there, alone, while the night unfolded without her.
Somewhere in those golden halls, Lioren was dancing with another partner. She hoped he was smiling, that he hadn't let her ruin everything. He deserved more than to stand guard over her broken pride.
From time to time, she glimpsed couples slipping onto other balconies—ladies with diamonds glinting at their throats, men in tailored coats and gleaming shoes. They all moved with an ease she knew she would never possess.
She should have known she didn't belong here.
Hours passed that way. The music shifted again and again—from lively reels to tender waltzes, from ballads to festive marches—and with each song, the ache behind her ribs grew heavier.
At some point, a servant in a neat black uniform found her and gently urged her to come inside.
"Miss," he murmured, his voice soft as he inclined his head. "The evening festivities are concluding. His Majesty has offered rooms for the night. You are invited to stay."
She managed to nod, though her throat felt too tight to speak. She followed him numbly through the palace corridors—soaring ceilings painted with constellations she did not know, walls hung with vast tapestries.
They passed other guests, some laughing and flushed from too much wine, others looking as tired as she felt. No one spared her more than a passing glance. To them, she was no one. Just another nameless commoner swept along by the king's generosity.
At the grand staircase, she hesitated. A small hope flickered that she might see the man in the white mask among the dispersing guests, that he might look her way one last time.
But she saw no sign of him.
Perhaps that was for the best. She didn't think she could endure his mocking smile again.
The servant led her to a wing lined with heavy oak doors. He stopped before one and gestured politely.
"Your room, miss."
She swallowed, her voice finally finding its way past the tightness in her chest. "Thank you."
He bowed and disappeared down the corridor.
She lingered in the doorway a moment, gathering the shreds of her composure. Then she stepped inside.
The room was more beautiful than any place she'd ever slept.
A tall window framed by midnight-blue drapes looked out onto the palace gardens. A canopied bed waited across from a carved fireplace, its sheets pale and smooth as cream. An intricately patterned rug muffled her steps as she walked farther in.
She trailed her fingers over the polished surface of the dressing table, the fine glass bottles of rosewater and scented oils. Even the fire screen was embroidered in shimmering gold thread.
It felt wrong to touch any of it.
As she turned to shut the door behind her, a different servant appeared carrying a folded bundle of fabric.
"For you, miss," the woman said with a polite, distant smile. "Night garments."
Nysa took them mutely. "Thank you."
She waited until the door closed again before she dared to breathe.
Slowly, she shrugged out of the ruined gown. She let it fall into a heap of sorrow and frayed stitches at her feet. Stripped of its borrowed beauty, she felt smaller somehow—just herself again, poor and unremarkable.
She pulled on the nightdress the servant had given her. The fabric was soft and clean, the cut simple but elegant. She tried not to imagine how many hands had touched it, how many women before her had slept in it.
In the hearth, a low fire crackled. She settled into the chair beside it and drew her knees up under her chin.
Hours ago, she'd been so sure tonight would be the most magical of her life.
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