A hush fell over the hall as the court musicians lifted their instruments. Strings trembled with a low, poised anticipation, the kind that lingered just before something irreversible.
A herald, robed in midnight blue, stepped forward with a scroll in hand and a voice that commanded silence.
"In the spirit of unity, tradition calls forth the opening waltz. The heirs of the Five Pillars, alongside honored guests, shall lead the first dance."
A ripple moved through the golden-lit chamber. The nobles straightened, the younger heirs exchanging subtle glances, some amused, others nervous, a few indifferent.
Argan Seymour took a small step forward, his gaze settling on Acacia. His expression was calm, but beneath it was something warm and deliberate.
"Would you honor me with this dance, Lady Acacia?" he asked, extending his hand.
Acacia's breath caught.
She hesitated. For a moment, she considered retreating, not out of dislike, but uncertainty. The lights, the stares, the music, the weight of who she was supposed to be, it pressed around her. But then she met Argan's gaze, steady and waiting, not pushing.
She placed her hand in his. "I'd be honored," she said quietly.
From the corner, Seren Veltorin shifted slightly, the smile on his lips not quite reaching his eyes. His shoulders had tensed the moment Argan had moved. A moment's delay, just one heartbeat too slow. And now he watched, lips parting as if to speak, but closing just as quickly. He said nothing, only stepped back, letting the moment pass with a quiet grace.
Nearby, Myron Walter turned to Begonia Woods with a lopsided grin.
"I suppose it's only right we remind the court what real rhythm looks like, Lady Begonia," he teased, offering a slight bow.
Begonia rolled her eyes but laughed despite herself.
"Let's not ruin tradition with your chaotic footwork, Lord Walter." Still, she took his arm with a hint of a smirk.
Seren, hiding his earlier disappointment well, turned toward Sienna Woods, who had been observing the pairings with wide, eager eyes.
"Lady Sienna," he said, offering a graceful bow and a gentle smile, "would you do me the honor of this dance?"
Sienna blinked, surprised for half a breath, before curtsying quickly and brightly. "Gladly!" she said, cheeks pink with excitement as she placed her hand in his.
Not far off, Lyra Seymour looped her arm through Astor Ashcroft's, without waiting to be asked. "You weren't planning to escape the floor, were you, Lord Astor?"
Astor raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't dream of it," he muttered, though he looked mildly betrayed by fate.
Lyra only grinned and dragged him forward.
Dominic Ashcroft, silent as ever, walked to where Irene Veltorin stood near the edge, watching the others with her hands gently clasped.
"Lady Irene," he said, voice quiet but clear.
She turned, startled, her lips parting.
He offered his hand. "May I?"
Irene looked up at him, tall, composed, unreadable. For a second, she looked like she might refuse out of sheer nerves. But then, she nodded once.
"You may," she murmured, placing her hand in his.
The pairs assembled at the center as the music lifted into its opening rise, a melody woven from time and tradition. Silk and velvet swirled across the polished floors. Laughter softened the edges of tension. The first waltz of the Ceremony had begun.
As the music flowed, Acacia found herself in motion, as if her body remembered how to dance, she moved with a grace that surprised even her, each step flowing effortlessly into the next, drawn into the rhythm of the waltz, yet acutely aware of Argan Seymour's presence.
His hand was steady at her waist, his movements confident but never overbearing.
He leaned in slightly as they turned beneath the golden light. "You hesitated," he murmured, voice low so only she could hear.
Acacia blinked, caught off guard. "Only for a moment," she replied, unsure whether to sound proud or apologetic.
Argan's smile was faint, thoughtful. "A moment can change everything."
Their eyes met, and something lingered there, curiosity, challenge, warmth. Acacia wasn't sure if her heart was fluttering from the dance or from how he looked at her like he saw beyond the name Acacia. Beyond the silence and stares.
And yet, beneath it all, her thoughts slipped unbidden to golden eyes that had held her still without ever touching her. Seren. The way his gaze didn't demand, but uncovered. The memory of his voice brushed her skin like a whisper too close to name. Her body moved with Argan, but part of her mind was elsewhere, attuned to the phantom ache of a gaze that had stirred something too quiet to describe.
She shouldn't want to feel it again. But she did.
The thought unsettled her more than the dance.
Not far from the others, Dominic and Irene moved in quiet synchrony. Their steps were steady, fluid, a dance of silence and observation. They said little, but in the pauses between glances and movement, something delicate began to stir.
Irene's fingers curled a little tighter around his gloved hand, drawn to the calm certainty in him, the way he moved with purpose, not flair, and matched her pace without effort or question.
She looked up, eyes curious. "You're not much of a talker, are you?"
Dominic tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. A pause. Then, the faintest edge of a smile tugged at his mouth, not amusement, but recognition, as though she'd asked the right question.
"I don't speak much," he said calmly, "until there's something worth saying."
Her lips twitched. "And tonight isn't worth saying anything?"
Dominic's gaze remained steady. "Tonight's worth remembering, not ruining with unnecessary words also I'm listening. That counts."
A small, unexpected laugh escaped her, but it faded when he added, after a moment:
"You have a gift of noticing details others don't. That's rare."
Irene blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of the compliment, the sincerity tucked behind it. A warmth rushed to her cheeks, uninvited.
She looked away quickly, but the smile that rose this time wasn't just out of politeness.
Something had shifted, quiet and very new.
A few paces over, Astor stumbled, just slightly, nearly missing the next beat of the waltz.
"You've danced before, haven't you?" Lyra asked, amused.
"Surprisingly, yes," Astor said, recovering with a dramatic flourish.
She laughed, her arm still looped in his as they continued. But her eyes lingered a bit too long on him as they twirled, on the way his grin cracked past every rule, on how he didn't try to be anything other than what he was. Something wild stirred beneath her smile, a hint of affection she wasn't ready to name yet. But it was there.
For a moment, the world narrowed to silk, candlelight, and movement. The dance became more than just formality, it became connection.
And in the middle of it all, Acacia's steps aligned with Argan's not from practice or poise, but from presence, a shared rhythm found, not forced. A moment held in balance, fleeting and almost real.
The music began its gentle descent, bringing the dance to its close, but something had shifted.
Eyes lingered.
As she curtsied lightly and stepped back, her gaze swept the hall, and found Seren. He was dancing with Sienna, his movements smooth, composed, his hand firm at her back.
For just a second, his eyes met hers across the distance.
It was nothing.
It was everything.
And then it was gone.
But Acacia still felt it, like the echo of a touch that hadn't happened, the warmth of a gaze that had already looked away.
And though Argan was the one standing before her, her thoughts trailed elsewhere, pulled like a tide toward golden eyes and a name that refused to stay forgotten.
She stood straight, expression calm, but something inside her ached with longing. Not for the moment just shared, but for one that hadn't been. One she wasn't sure she'd ever be allowed to want.
Argan said something, a light, easy comment and she smiled in return, politely. But her thoughts had drifted far from the music, far from the ballroom.
Drawn instead to golden eyes and the quiet gravity they carried.
Across the polished floor, hearts had quietly, undeniably, begun to stir.
In a faraway land, miles from Solerith…
The wind howled low over the cliffs of Valeriath, dragging mist across the craggy edges like ghostly fingers reaching for what had been lost. Snow clung stubbornly to the ledges of the citadel, turning its granite towers pale with grief. Once alive with ceremony and strength, the palace now echoed with silence, as though even the stone dared not speak.
Within a chamber lit only by a dying hearth, a woman stood still as a statue, her hands pressed against the frost-kissed windowpane. She had not slept. Not truly. Not since the day the child vanished.
Curled on the cold floor beside her sat a girl of eighteen, arms wrapped tightly around an old velvet shawl. She used to laugh the loudest in the court, now her eyes were hollow, her spirit worn thin by years of waiting. She no longer wept. Not because the sorrow had lessened, but because it had settled too deeply to spill.
"She's not gone," said a voice from the doorway, a man, clad in travel-worn armor, the chill of the mountains still clinging to him. There was a rawness in his tone, the kind that comes not from certainty, but from the need to believe. "If she were… I would have known. I would have felt it."
The woman didn't turn. Her fingers trembled slightly against the frost-laced windowpane, breath leaving a faint cloud that vanished as quickly as hope in winter.
"Magic doesn't always answer," she said quietly, almost to herself. "But sometimes… the ones we lose are only waiting to be found."
The girl whispered suddenly, voice fraying like a worn thread. "Sometimes… I still hear her laughter in the halls."
The hush that followed felt sacred. Even the snow tapping softly against the glass seemed to mourn.
Elsewhere, in the royal chapel, a lone figure of twenty knelt before the Starfire altar, not to pray, but to promise. His fingers clenched around a sigil ring at his throat, knuckles white with grief restrained.
"If she's alive," he said to no one, and to the gods who had long gone quiet, "I will burn the world to bring her home."
And far away, across the sea, in the land of Solerith, where thorns wove through memory and time, a girl with raven-black hair stirred restlessly in her sleep. Her name was forgotten. But somewhere deep in her chest, something ached for a place she could not name… and a voice she longed to hear again.