The warmth in Kyle's chest was no longer a gentle glow, it was becoming a rhythmic thrum, a pulse that beat in time with the distant music.
Every time he blinked, the colors of the ballroom—the gold leaf on the pillars, the deep blacks of the mourning gowns—seemed to bleed into one another like a watercolor painting left out in the rain.
"A dance?" Kyle repeated. The word felt heavy, like he had to physically push it out of his mouth. He looked at the floor, which seemed to be tilting just a fraction to the left.
"I... the King said... only the first set."
"The King is currently with the old men about talking about political issues." Ezekiel whispered, his voice vibrating pleasantly against the haze in Kyle's mind. He gently took the empty crystal flute from Kyle's hand and set it on a passing tray without ever breaking eye contact.
"He wouldn't begrudge you a moment of lightness. Not after everything you've been through."
