The grand halls of Floravere Palace shimmered beneath a thousand floating lanterns, each one casting petal-shaped reflections across the polished marble floor. The Spring Masquerade had arrived—a celebration of renewal, of love blooming anew, of the season's return to life. Laughter echoed behind jeweled masks, perfumes of honeysuckle and amber drifted on the air, and strings of crystal orchids hung from the balconies like blessings.
At the top of the marble stairway, a hush fell as Lady Elira stepped into the light.
Her gown—soft green with gold embroidery—moved like a breeze through grass. A delicate lace mask framed her emerald eyes, but even covered, her presence was unmistakable. On her arm stood Sir Jarell, dressed in forest black and deep silver, his mask plain, his gaze only for her. The pair descended the stairs slowly, hand in hand, while whispers bloomed among the nobles like flowers in spring:
"Is that Elira…?""She looks radiant.""That's her new suitor—Sir Jarell of the Outer Vale, is it?"
Across the ballroom, hidden half in candlelight, Prince Lucien stood still.
He wore navy and gold, his mask minimal, his frame stiff. He had not expected her to return to court so soon—let alone on the arm of another man. He gripped his goblet tighter as he watched them. Elira, smiling. Elira, laughing with a grace he hadn't seen in years. And Jarell beside her, calm and sure, utterly undeserving in Lucien's eyes.
She shouldn't be here, Lucien thought bitterly. Not like this. Not with him.
Beside him, Lord Axellan—ever polished in white and bronze—caught the flicker of emotion in Lucien's face and leaned in.
"You need to breathe, old friend. She's not yours anymore."
Lucien didn't reply.
On the far end of the ballroom, Lady Marienne, dressed in pale dusk blue and gold, sipped sweet wine from a crystal flute. She watched everything. Every flicker in Lucien's jaw. Every glance across the ballroom. Her fingers drummed lightly against the glass.
So he still thinks he can look at her like that, she thought.Not on my watch.
As the orchestra began its first waltz, Elira and Jarell took to the floor. They moved in sync, effortlessly—she in light, he in shadow, circling like day and night meeting at dawn. There was no nervousness in her steps, no hesitation in her laughter.
Lucien turned away. He couldn't watch anymore. He stepped onto the balcony, where the air was cool and heavy with jasmine. Axellan followed.
"You said you were healing," Axellan murmured, not accusing—just tired.
"I thought I was," Lucien whispered. "Until I saw her again."
"Then let that be the truth that sets you free… not the lie that binds you tighter."
Inside, Marienne drifted toward Elira and Jarell. As the music slowed, she stepped in with a graceful spin, replacing Jarell for a moment and taking Elira's hands.
"You did well tonight," she whispered."He saw?""He did.""And?""He burned in silence."
Elira nodded once. Her hands trembled slightly in Marienne's grasp. The dance continued. The evening was only beginning.