The masquerade glittered like a lie told too many times.
Amid the whirl of satin gowns and silver laughter, Prince Severin de Caldereth stood rooted near the edge of the grand ballroom, a full goblet of untouched wine in hand. His dark eyes scanned the crowd with the measured detachment of someone who'd rather be anywhere else—but was too well-trained to show it. The crowd moved around him in waves—lycan women making knowing glances his way behind fluttering fans and dancers spinning like marionettes beneath the chandeliers that dripped crystal and red moonlight. But his eyes, sharp and unreadable, missed nothing.
The masquerade carried on in splendor. Strings and the keys of pianos wove through the air like enchantments, sound of laughter mingling with the sounds of music, and the scent of wine and night-blooming lilies cloaked the hall in indulgence. Yet even here, in this theater of elegance, he felt the familiar press of unease—like some unseen thread pulled too tight.
He had been watching her.
Lenore Ebonmere had vanished into the inner halls of her ancestral estate only moments ago, the long train of her crimson gown trailing behind her like smoke from a dying pyre. She moved like dusk—soft, composed, haunting. Not a single misstep. But something in her posture had spoken of unrest. And her scent…gods. Fresh honey and vanilla, a distant ting of nightshade. It stirred something old in him. Primal. Familiar in a way that made little sense. And she hadn't looked back. She never did.
And yet she left an ache in the air behind her—as if the room itself noticed her absence.
"You're staring again," came a voice to his left.
Severin didn't turn. "I wasn't aware I started." His tone sarcastic.
"Liar," murmured Prince Darius, the youngest of the three, his frame half hidden by the shadow of an ivy-wrapped pillar. His tone was mild, almost lazy, but Severin caught the thread of amusement beneath it.
Corvin, the middle one, chuckled and offered a sweeping glance towards the corridor Lenore had disappeared behind. "She knows how to make an exit."
Corvin placed a hand on Severin's shoulder as he took a sip of wine. His pale violet eyes glittered behind his black half mask, shaped like a raven's beak."She knows how to draw attention. Whether she means to or not." Severin said pointedly, his gaze never wavering.
Corvin followed his brother's line of sight, noting the subtle shift in the atmosphere since Lenore had slipped away. Her absence left a tension in the air—as though part of the room had dimmed.
"She gets it from her aunt," Corvin murmured, tone low and reflective. "Lady Viranna has a way of commanding the room without saying a word."
"Too much command, apparently," Darius added, stepping up beside them. "The Council's grown uneasy with how much sway she holds in these circles. There's been talk."
"Always is," Severin replied, voice cool. "But it's different now. The court's balance is shifting. And Lady Viranna…she doesn't move without reason."
Corvin tilted his head, his mask catching the candlelight. "Neither does her niece, I suspect." A knowing smirk crossed his features.
Below, the dancing continued. Noble daughters flashed fans and practiced glances. Lords and dukes shared bantered remarks. Royal councilmen exchanged quiet barbs. And somewhere in the sea of silks and masks, Octavian Virell, like a serpent in robes.
But it was Rowan Theralis who now held Severin's attention.
The nobleman
Circled the floor with the charming grace of a fox, a half-smile on his lips as he conversed and a weary calm in his posture. He had spoken with Lenore earlier. Too long. Too easily.
There was history there—Severin had seen it in the way Lenore's shoulders tensed. In the way Rowan got closer, hadn't once looked away.
"What's he doing here?" Severin muttered, his tone sharp.
"Rowan?" Corvin scoffed. "He always shows up where he's least wanted."
Severin's gaze followed the nobleman with thinly veiled contempt. "He's too smooth for his own good."
"They all are," Darius said, swirling his wine. "Court breeds masks better than masquerades."
Dorian almost chuckled at that. Almost. But something about Rowan's ease still grated at him.
Rowan stood near the ballroom's edge. He had watched Lenore exit through the arching threshold and disappear into the dimly lit corridor. She had been gone longer than was proper.
He should've left it alone. But the longer she was away, the more that gnawing unease grew. Concern? Not exactly. A restlessness perhaps, one he couldn't name.
He set his half-finished glass on one of the small tables and murmured a quiet excuse to the passing lycan nobles. His steps were casual, unhurried—but his focus was razor sharp as he followed the direction Lenore had taken.
The music behind him dimmed with every step.
Whatever business she had…it was taking far too long.
The Caldereth brothers had watched Rowan leave from afar, their gazes holding stoic confusion. "Where is he going?" Severin mused, his voice hardening.
"Following her," Corvin noted dryly, tipping his chin toward the direction Lenore had disappeared. "Subtle as ever."
"That's the game—strike when the court's too drunk to care." Darius drolled.
Severin grunted in acknowledgment, taking a swig of his wine. The music swelled again as another dance began, but none of the brothers moved to join it. Their eyes lingered on the marbled night-blooming lily archway Lenore had vanished through and Rowan had followed—waiting, watching.