The morning of the annual ball dawned with a slow, golden light seeping through the high windows of Blackthorn House. The air inside was heavy with expectancy, as though the very walls understood the significance of the day. Servants moved swiftly through the halls, their steps hushed but purposeful, preparing trunks and cases for the journey to the castle.
The castle itself was not near—the Blackthorn estate lay deep within the shadow of the northern hills, while the council's grand fortress rose in the edge of the capital, surrounded by rivers of stone and bustling life. To reach it, they would ride in carriages across twisting roads for hours, guarded by knights and shadows alike. The entire household had stirred earlier than usual, aware of the distance and the importance of their lord's appearance.
Yet for Nerine, the morning felt strangely muted. She had not seen Kael since the morning in his study, when he had spoken to her—cold and measured—about her identity, the lie she wore like a cloak, and the dangers that lay beyond her silence. His absence left a hollow ache in her chest that she would not admit, not even to herself. She spent the early hours with Penelope, who insisted on her company, their laughter faintly echoing through the quiet corridors like a defiance against the solemn air pressing in on the house.
By mid-morning, the time for preparation arrived. Penelope was ushered into her chamber where the gown Irene had sewn awaited her. Lilac silk, soft as moonlight, with black-edged hems that gave a regal sharpness to her otherwise frail beauty. The dress clung to her form gently, its details crafted with such precision that she looked more alive in it—less of a patient confined by sickness, more of a lady reclaiming her glory for a night. When Nerine helped her fasten the ribbons, Penelope smiled faintly at her reflection, though the pallor of her cheeks still lingered beneath the paint of powders.
Nerine's own gown waited in the adjoining chamber, untouched, draped across a mannequin as though guarding its secret until the very last moment. Sky-blue silk shaped into a mermaid cut, embroidered with pearl designs that caught the faintest glimmer of light, it seemed to belong to the sea more than the land. When she finally stepped into it, the fabric molded to her slender form like water. Clara and two maids fussed over her, adjusting the hem, arranging the folds, until she felt as though she were no longer Nerine at all, but something ethereal, something untouchable.
Her silver-white hair, once the source of whispers and suspicion, now gleamed proudly. It had been brushed until it shone, pinned delicately with pearl clasps that matched the details of her gown. As she stood before the mirror, she hardly recognized the girl staring back. She looked neither witch nor daughter of shadows, neither prisoner nor imposter. She looked—
Like a bride of fate, caught between destiny and ruin.
Penelope entered to see her then, pausing at the doorway with a soft intake of breath. "You'll steal the air from every man in the hall," she said, her voice a little too light, as though hiding some deeper thought. "Even Kael will forget himself when he sees you."
Nerine's heart thudded at the sound of his name, but she only smiled faintly, smoothing her palms down the fabric of her gown. "This night belongs to you as well, Penelope. Do not forget that."
Together, the two women descended into the grand foyer where servants already lined with cloaks and travel cases. The house pulsed with anticipation, horses could be heard being prepared outside, their hooves striking the cobblestones in restless rhythm. Yet still, Kael was nowhere to be seen.
It was only at the very moment of departure, when Nerine stepped onto the final stair, that he appeared.
The world seemed to still at his presence.
Clad in a black regal attire embroidered with silver thread, his coat sharp and tailored to his imposing frame, Kael carried with him an aura that silenced even the breath of the servants. His dark hair was slicked back, his pale features cast in sharp relief beneath the morning light. Shadows clung to him like a second cloak, as though the night itself bowed in his wake.
Nerine's breath faltered. She had seen him countless times in the solemn attire of his station, but never quite like this. He was more than a lord—he was command itself, the very embodiment of power and dark elegance.
And he was looking at her.
For a fraction of a second, his expression shifted—something unreadable flickering in the depths of his crimson eyes as he took in the sight of her, radiant in her sky-blue gown, her silver-white hair shimmering like spun starlight. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the mask of stoic indifference he always wore.
Nerine, however, felt her pulse betray her. She descended the last few steps slowly, as though each one brought her closer to a reckoning she did not yet understand. When she reached him, he bowed his head faintly, a formal gesture, yet one that carried an undercurrent of intimacy.
"My lady," he murmured, his voice deep and smooth, a tone that both acknowledged her and kept her at a distance.
Her lips parted. "My lord."
He extended his gloved hand, and though she hesitated for only a second, she placed her own within it. The contrast between them was stark—her delicate fingers against his cold, commanding grip. Without another word, he led her forward, past the watching eyes of the household, and out into the waiting air.
The carriage stood ready, black lacquer gleaming, the crest of the Blackthorn house etched into its side. Knights mounted their horses, shadows stirred in the trees, the entire world seemed to prepare for the journey.
Kael handed her into the carriage with a gentleness that contradicted his aura, then followed after her. They sat opposite one another, the distance between them both a wall and a tether, binding them in silence. Outside, the wheels began to turn, carrying them away from Blackthorn House and toward the looming grandeur of the castle.
Inside, neither spoke. She turned her gaze to the window, watching the forest pass in a blur of dark green and sunlight. He leaned back, his expression unreadable, though his crimson eyes flicked to her more than once when she was not looking.
They were together.
They were opposite.
They were conjoined by fate.
And the night had only just begun.