~Where Blood Stains Silk and Eyes Learn to See~
The orchestra shifted.
What had been background melody turned into something more structured, deliberate. The first notes of a formal waltz threaded through the air, weaving themselves into the murmurs of nobles and the glitter of crystal.
Kel sensed the change as much as he heard it.
Couples began to drift toward the center of the hall—a ripple of movement as dresses fanned out like dark petals and men in formal coats extended gloved hands with practiced smiles.
He remained seated.
His body still throbbed with tightly contained pain, curse gnawing like frost under his skin. His fingers were slightly numb where they held the glass. His breathing, though controlled, carried a faint edge of strain.
Dancing, now?
The thought held no complaint.
Only calculation.
I can stand. I can move. Not as freely as they do… but enough.
He set his goblet down with quiet precision.
Then he felt it.
A presence.
Not heavy. Not imposing.
But intentional.
Her Approach
She stepped into his peripheral vision like a shadow deciding to be seen.
Lady Lysandra Faeloria.
Daughter of Marquis Faeloria. Northern territories. A house not among the most powerful—but respected. Known for maintaining quiet stability in harsh climates and for producing, every few generations, someone… sharp.
Tonight, that someone wore twilight.
Her dress was a deep, muted violet—bordering on black—silk flowing like still water at midnight. Fine silver thread traced faint constellations along the hem and sleeves, catching the chandeliers' light in fleeting, subtle glints. Her hair was pinned partially up, the rest falling in soft, dark waves that framed her pale face.
Her eyes were what stood out.
Not because of color—storm-grey, like clouds moments before snow.
But because they seemed to look through things instead of at them.
She approached him neither hurriedly nor tentatively. Her steps were quiet, posture impeccable, expression… unreadable.
When she stopped before him, the faint rustle of her dress whispered against the polished marble.
"Lord Kel von Rosenfeld," she said softly.
Her voice was calm, smooth—lacking the forced sweetness some noble ladies wore like perfume.
Kel lifted his gaze.
Their eyes met.
He rose from his seat, concealing the spike of pain that came with the motion beneath seamless grace.
"Lady Faeloria," he replied, inclining his head. "You honor me knowing my name."
Her lips curved slightly—something that wasn't quite a smile, more like the thought of one.
"I do not make a habit of forgetting those the hall tries very hard to underestimate," she said.
A subtle line.
One only he would catch fully.
The Formal Request
The waltz swelled.
Couples moved to the floor, spinning lightly beneath moonstone light. The Grand Lunar Hall suddenly felt less like a venue for politics and more like some still-turning celestial mechanism, every body a star, every motion an orbit.
Lysandra extended her hand.
Beautiful fingers. Slightly calloused at the edges. Not the hands of someone raised entirely in sheltered luxury.
"May I ask a favor, Lord Kel?" she said.
Her expression didn't shift.
"Would you grant me the next dance?"
A few eyes turned their way.
Not many.
But enough.
Interesting, Kel thought.
A lesser yet intelligent house. Daughter difficult to read. Approaches me, not out of expectation… but intention.
He took only a breath's worth of time.
Then he stepped forward, gently taking her hand with his own, the leather of his glove cool against her skin.
"You would risk your reputation dancing with a cursed heir?" he replied lightly, a faint trace of jest behind the words. "You are either very brave… or very unconcerned with gossip."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Or perhaps," she said, "I am simply very good at calculating risk."
Her hand tightened around his.
"Shall we?"
The Waltz Begins
They moved onto the dance floor.
The crowd parted enough to grant them space. Not spotlight attention—but not obscurity either.
Kel placed his right hand at her waist—carefully, respectful distance. Her left hand settled upon his shoulder, light but present. Their other hands joined, forming the poised frame of a formal waltz.
The music rose.
They began to move.
Step.
Turn.
Glide.
Kel's body protested with each shift in weight, each rotation, each breath that had to remain controlled despite the lancing ache threading through his ribs.
But his face…
Was calm.
Eyes steady.
Expression relaxed.
He moved like someone who knew the steps not from practice in this body, but from repetition burned into his mind.
Game mechanics. Cutscenes. Social events. I must have watched these waltzes a hundred times, mocking how stiff NPCs looked.
Fate, you have a cruel sense of humor.
They turned as the hall turned with them.
Her dress flared softly with each spin, brushing lightly against his trouser leg. Her perfume was faint—cool herbs and winter flowers, not cloying sweetness.
Her gaze remained on his face.
Not shy.
Not smitten.
Not judging.
Studying.
The Pain Peaks
Around the third rotation, something inside Kel twisted sharply.
The curse—aggravated by the duel, prolonged standing, aura suppression—flared.
A sharp stab of pain shot from his core up through his chest.
His vision flickered—just for a blink.
He tightened his grip slightly without meaning to.
Lysandra's brows twitched subtly.
"Is something wrong, Lord Kel?" she asked, barely above the music.
Kel forced a breath.
His chest burned.
Something surged up his throat—hot, metallic.
He felt it.
The taste.
Blood.
He turned his head away slightly, as if adjusting angle for the dance—
And brought his left hand up to his mouth, handkerchief already slipped from his sleeve earlier out of habit.
He coughed.
Quiet.
Controlled.
But a dark stain bloomed across the white cloth.
He pressed it discreetly to his lips, shielding the motion from the crowd's direct line of sight as they turned, using Lysandra's figure and the movement of the dance as cover.
His lungs seized.
His heartbeat roared.
But the outside world saw only—
A slightly more serious expression.
The Apology
He exhaled through his nose.
The worst of the wave passed.
When he lowered the cloth slightly, Lysandra's eyes had narrowed—not in disgust, but focus.
She had seen.
Of course she had.
Up this close, she couldn't not.
Kel's lashes lowered briefly.
"…Forgive me for my rudeness, Lady Lysandra," he said quietly, voice low. "It seems my body still remembers its fragility, even when my mind doesn't."
He tried to pull the handkerchief aside, to hide it, to turn away—
Her hand tightened at the back of his shoulder.
He stilled.
Her Response
Lady Lysandra did not recoil.
She did not flinch.
She did not school her features into fake pity.
Instead, as they continued their steps—her feet unfaltering—she freed the hand at his shoulder for just a heartbeat, reached into her own sleeve…
And pulled out a small, elegant handkerchief embroidered with pale silver threads.
She reached up.
And, without breaking rhythm,
She gently brushed away the faint stain of blood at the edge of his lip with her cloth.
They were close now.
Very close.
Her face inches from his—enough for him to see the fine pattern of pale freckles near her left eye, the steady coolness in her gaze.
"You are my partner for this dance," she murmured.
Soft.
But firm.
"Please take care of yourself, Lord Kel."
Her hand returned to his shoulder.
Her other rested at his waist again.
The waltz never stopped.
Kel's Inner Reaction
You…
He had expected flinching. Awkwardness. Forced politeness. Even veiled contempt.
But she treated the sight of his blood as if it were—
An inconvenience.
Not to appearances.
To him.
She's not disgusted.
She's… irritated that I'm hurting myself.
A strange feeling flickered through him—something like surprise, something like warmth, something like recognition.
He swallowed it down with the metallic taste.
"I will keep that in mind," he replied finally, his tone quieter, rougher at the edges. "It would be a grave offense to collapse while dancing with a lady."
She exhaled—something between a sigh and a soundless laugh.
"With anybody else," she said, "that would sound like a cheap line."
"And with you?" Kel asked.
She met his eyes again.
"With you," she said, "it sounds like you mean it."
The World Around Them
Nobles watched.
Not all.
But the ones who mattered.
To them, the sight was layered:
A cursed heir, dueling and then dancing as if nothing tore him inside.
A noble lady of keen mind and reserved manner choosing him as partner.
The slight moment of him raising a cloth to his lips—barely visible.
Her leaning in, wiping something away, too subtle to identify clearly from afar.
Rumors didn't erupt.
They condensed.
"Lady Faeloria danced with him…"
"She approached him first?"
"She must have seen something."
"Or she's calculating something we haven't yet."
Prince Adrian watched from above.
Maelina Ravensong's eyes narrowed.
His uncles assessed.
His cousins took mental notes.
But down on the floor—
Kel and Lysandra continued their steps in a quiet orbit.
Small Conversation While Spinning
"You don't ask why," Kel said after a few beats of silence.
"About the blood."
"Should I?" she replied.
"Most would."
"Most are noisy," she said simply. "I am not most."
He let out the smallest breath of amusement.
"That," he said, "I had noticed, Lady Lysandra."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Besides," she added, "if you insist on standing in a hall that wishes you to fall… I assume you're already aware of the cost to your body."
His eyes sharpened just a fraction.
"…You disapprove?"
"I merely observe," she replied. "But if I must deliver an opinion…"
She leaned in just half an inch closer, enough for her breath to brush his cheek as she spoke.
"Do not die in front of the people who are waiting to benefit from it," she whispered.
"Die after you've taken their futures with you."
Kel almost laughed.
Almost.
He didn't.
But his fingers did ease slightly at her waist.
What an interesting person.
The Dance Ends
The music shifted gradually toward its close, the tempo slowing.
Their final rotation completed.
They came to a gentle halt, facing one another.
Kel released her hand with the kind of reluctant composure that fit the moment. He bowed—slightly deeper than the earlier social minimum.
"Thank you for the dance, Lady Lysandra."
She curtsied with practiced ease, skirts pooling around her like midnight water.
"The honor is mutual, Lord Kel."
Their eyes met one last time.
In hers—
No pity.
No blatant respect.
Just acknowledgment.
And perhaps…
A spark of something like intent.
She stepped back, rejoining the edge of the crowd, melting once more into noble clusters and murmurs. But the space she left behind seemed to remember her shape.
Kel caught his breath slowly.
The taste of blood still lingered.
But his presence…
Stood firmer.
Tonight, I danced in pain.
And someone saw the blood—
and did not look away.
The hall resumed its motion.
But for the first time since the banquet began…
Kel did not feel like the only one enduring it alone.