The capital felt different when they came back.
Not because the streets had changed—the same white stone, the same banners snapping in the wind, the same fountain in the palace square where children dared each other to lean too far and almost fall in.
It was the way people moved.
Less stiff.
More… aware.
Fia could feel their eyes as the carriage rolled toward the palace: the lingering, cautious fascination that said we saw what you did, even if most of them had no idea what, exactly, that was.
She sat between Mira and Lyriel, Seraphine and Elira opposite, the five of them packed into the carriage like a very well-dressed cargo of nerves.
"You're doing it again," Mira said quietly.
Fia blinked.
"Doing what?"
"Bracing like there's going to be an assassin in every bouquet," Mira said. "This is a ball, Fia. Not a siege."
"Give it an hour," Fia muttered. "Someone is going to corner me with politics. Or try to flirt with you. Or ask Seraphine when the wedding is. It's basically a different kind of siege."
Elira laughed, low and delighted.
"That's the spirit," she said. "Honestly, I'm just here to watch nobles try to figure out how to bow to all five of us without bending in half."
Lyriel adjusted her glasses, clearly trying not to smile.
"I've prepared six different answers to 'so what exactly are you to the Lady Fia?'" she said. "All of them confusing. Two of them scandalous. One of them technically a mathematical proof."
Seraphine, in full royal regalia again—deep crimson and black, the Arclight crest picked out in a cascade of tiny rubies at her shoulder—reached out and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in Fia's dress.
"You're trembling," she said softly.
Fia looked down.
Her hands were shaking.
Her lungs…weren't.
That alone still felt strange.
She forced herself to inhale slowly.
Her corset shifted with the breath, sliding against silk.
The dress they'd chosen for her was too much.
It had to be.
The kingdom needed its villainess to look like something out of a story.
Dark violet shot through with embers of gold at the hem, the skirt falling in layered, flame-suggestive folds that brushed her ankles. The bodice hugged her closely, lines of black boning traced in faintly shimmering thread that caught light like dragon scales when she moved.
No sleeves, just delicate straps and a spill of translucent black gauze that started at the collarbone, windowing the pale skin there like a promise.
Mira had insisted on the gauze.
"For warmth," she'd said, primly.
"For modesty," Lyriel had added.
"For ripping off later," Elira had whispered, not nearly quietly enough.
Seraphine had said nothing, only watched with hooded eyes as the tailor pinned and adjusted until the dress made Fia look like she'd stepped out of a fevered painting—too beautiful, too sharp, too much.
And now those same four women sat around her, wearing the kind of clothes that made Fia's newly stabilized heart trip over itself.
Mira in deep sea-blue, a dress that wrapped around her like flowing water, cinched at the waist with a braided silver cord, neckline modest but clinging in ways that made it clear "modest" did not mean "boring."
Lyriel in layered blacks and smoky grays, skirt slit just high enough to be indecent if she sat wrong, which she absolutely would not, because Lyriel managed to make even scandal look like a thesis.
Elira in white and gold, of all things, looking like she'd stolen a holy knight's ceremonial outfit and then tailored it to show off every sinuous muscle in her shoulders and back. The dress-coat flared around her hips, split to reveal fitted trousers beneath—"in case of dancing," she'd claimed. Fia did not believe her.
Seraphine's dress was deceptively simple: black, cut close to the body, with a long, high collar that made her neck seem impossibly elegant. The only indulgence was the back—mostly nonexistent—leaving warm, golden skin and the fine line of her spine utterly exposed whenever she turned.
Fia had almost choked the first time she'd seen it.
She was still not entirely over it.
The carriage rolled to a stop.
Music drifted in from the palace, bright and layered: strings, wind, a steady heartbeat of drums beneath.
Outside, the buzz of voices swelled.
Seraphine glanced at Fia.
"Last chance to feign a sudden health crisis," she murmured. "We can claim you coughed dramatically and I had to carry you back to bed."
Fia's cheeks warmed at the mental image.
The idea was tempting.
But they were here for reasons that went beyond pretty dresses and dancing.
The ball was part celebration, part politics, part reassurance: the queen and her Calamity visible and very much alive, the kingdom's elites coaxed into remembering how to smile under chandeliers instead of flinching under ward flares.
"I'll be fine," Fia said, and this time she almost believed it.
Mira squeezed her hand.
"If you're not," Mira said quietly, "you say something. No being brave. No collapsing artistically on the dance floor to make a point."
"No martyrdom," Lyriel added.
"No volunteering as tribute for the flirtation games," Elira said.
Fia gave them a look.
"You say that like you don't intend to start half of those," she said.
Elira grinned, unrepentant.
"Only the fun ones," she said.
Seraphine leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Fia's cheek.
Public.
Deliberate.
"Let them stare," she said. "You belong here."
Fia swallowed.
Then she nodded.
The carriage door opened.
Light and sound spilled in.
The ballroom was a riot of color.
High arched ceilings painted with scenes from the kingdom's founding; crystal chandeliers dripping gold and flame, their enchanted candles flickering without ever burning down; tapestries along the walls depicting ancient battles and quiet domestic scenes—war and peace stitched side by side.
The floor was polished marble shot through with veins of faintly luminescent stone.
Fia saw herself reflected there as they entered: a strange, too-bright figure in violet and gold, surrounded by four very dangerous, very beautiful women.
A murmur swept through the crowd.
It wasn't hostile.
Not anymore.
Fear, yes.
But threaded with awe.
Curiosity.
Something like pride.
Fia's cheeks heated.
She kept her chin up anyway.
Seraphine stepped forward, the room's noise dimming instantly as attention shifted to the queen.
She raised a hand, not in grand gesture, just enough.
"Enjoy the evening," she said, voice carrying without effort. "You have earned it."
There was no pomp beyond that.
No speeches.
No lengthy declarations.
Just a queen who had stood on battlements with a sword, telling her people they were allowed to dance for one night without apology.
The musicians took that as their cue.
The first proper waltz began, strings swelling, the dance floor opening like a tide rolling back from the shore.
For a moment, Fia hovered on the edge.
Then Seraphine turned, held out a hand, and bowed with court-perfect grace.
"Villainess," she said lightly, eyes gleaming. "Will you do me the honor of scandalizing my nobility?"
Fia tried to answer.
What came out was more of a squeak.
She cleared her throat.
"I— uh. Yes," she managed.
Behind her, Mira made a small, smug sound.
"Oh, we're starting strong tonight," Elira murmured.
Lyriel adjusted her glasses with the solemnity of a priest about to witness something holy.
Fia placed her hand in Seraphine's.
Fire jumped in her chest.
Not dragon.
Not magic.
Just nerves and want.
Seraphine led her out onto the floor, the crowd parting instinctively around them, leaving a ring of space that somehow felt far too huge and far too small at the same time.
"Relax," Seraphine murmured, placing one hand at Fia's waist.
Fia jolted.
Seraphine's palm was warm through the layers of silk and boning.
Her other hand held Fia's lightly, fingers linking.
"How?" Fia hissed under her breath. "Everyone is staring."
"Good," Seraphine said. "I like an audience when I show off."
"I am not a—" Fia started, then lost the thread when Seraphine's thumb stroking idle circles against her waist short-circuited her ability to form complaints.
The music swelled.
Seraphine moved.
Fia's body remembered enough of their occasional lessons to follow: step, turn, slide.
The skirt of her dress flared around them, catching light; the hem brushed over Seraphine's toes with every pivot.
They settled into the rhythm.
It helped.
Having something to do with her feet distracted Fia from the weight of eyes on her.
She even dared to glance up.
Seraphine was looking at her, not at the crowd.
At her.
Her eyes were dark, warmed by candles and something softer.
"You look at me like that on the battlefield and I'll surrender," Fia whispered, because her filter had apparently taken the night off.
Seraphine's mouth curved.
"Noted," she murmured. "For future negotiations."
Her hand at Fia's waist slid fractionally lower on a turn.
Fia inhaled sharply.
"Seraphine," she hissed.
"Yes?" Casual. Innocent.
Her fingers teased the line where Fia's corset ended and skirt began, the brief brush of knuckles on softer fabric sending heat flickering down Fia's spine.
"You're doing that on purpose," Fia accused.
"Doing what?" Seraphine asked, all false ignorance. "Dancing with my future wife? I believe that's standard at these events."
Fia's cheeks burned.
"You can't just say things like that," she muttered.
Seraphine leaned in slightly.
"Say which part?" she breathed against Fia's ear. " 'Dancing'? 'Future'? Or 'wife'?"
Fia's knees wobbled.
Seraphine's arm tightened, keeping her upright.
"That's cheating," Fia whispered.
"You haven't seen cheating yet," Seraphine replied. "Wait until Mira decides you've danced enough and drags you somewhere she can 'check your pulse.'"
Fia made a strangled sound that might have been a protest.
Might have been anticipation.
Mira was not subtle about it.
The moment the first dance ended and an eager line of nobles started to orbit politely—some to offer congratulations, others clearly trying to build alliances around Seraphine's new, terrifying lover constellation—Mira slid between them with all the ruthless efficiency of someone cutting through a crowded ward tent.
She smiled sweetly at a duke halfway through an obsequious bow.
"My apologies," she said. "Royal medical business."
Before he could respond, she had taken Fia's hand and steered her away.
Fia let herself be pulled, amused and a little dazed.
"You just stole me from your queen," she murmured. "That's treason."
"She can arrest me later," Mira said. "After I finish reclaiming you."
"Reclaiming?" Fia repeated.
Mira did not answer.
Instead, she led Fia not toward the wall or the refreshment tables, but toward one of the side doors that opened onto the balcony gallery above the gardens.
The music softened as they stepped out into cooler air.
Moonlight pooled on the stone, silver and soft.
The gardens below were a blur of dark shapes and small, carefully warded lights.
The sounds of the ball came muffled now—laughter, music, the clink of glass.
Up here, it felt like another world.
Fia exhaled.
"Better?" Mira asked.
Fia nodded.
"Quieter," she said.
Mira turned to face her fully.
She was still holding Fia's hand.
She lifted it, palm up, and traced a thumb over the dragon mark that curled faintly across Fia's skin.
"Your pulse really is steady," Mira murmured. "I thought it might spike if I kidnapped you midwaltz."
"It spiked for other reasons," Fia muttered.
Mira's lips twitched.
"Yes," she said. "I saw where Seraphine's hand migrated."
Fia made a tiny dying noise.
Mira's smile softened.
She stepped closer.
"Still anxious?" she asked.
"Yes," Fia said honestly. "But…less. You help."
"Good," Mira said.
She closed the last of the distance.
Fia's back hit the cool stone of the balcony wall.
Mira placed her palm beside Fia's head, leaning in, the blue silk of her dress whispering against violet.
"You also look like you might fall over," Mira said quietly. "I'd prefer if that only happens when I've deliberately induced it, not because some baron made a comment about your 'terrifying beauty' and you forgot how to exist."
Fia swallowed.
"You heard him?" she asked.
Mira's eyes glinted.
"I heard everything," she said. "Including the part where he speculated about how many 'demons' you must have at your command. I almost informed him it's exactly four, all female, and none of them are interested in his opinion."
Fia laughed, short and startled.
"You didn't," she said.
"I didn't," Mira admitted. "Because starting a diplomatic incident before dessert is apparently frowned upon. But I thought it."
Her free hand came up, fingers brushing lightly over Fia's cheek.
"You have color in your face again," Mira murmured. "That's new. Good new."
"Maybe I'm just mortified," Fia said weakly.
"Maybe," Mira allowed.
Her thumb stroked Fia's lower lip.
Fia forgot how to breathe.
Mira watched her, eyes serious.
"Do you know what I thought," she said softly, "when Seraphine asked you to dance in the very center of the room like that?"
"That you were jealous?" Fia guessed, dazed.
Mira's mouth curved.
"A little," she admitted. "But mostly I thought: there is no way that tiny, fragile, monumentally stubborn dragon is going to remember to look after herself if we don't keep reminding her that she belongs to herself first."
Fia's throat went tight.
"I…I belong to you too," she said.
Mira's expression flickered.
"Mm," she said. "We can argue philosophy later. Right now…"
She leaned in.
The kiss was slow.
No rush.
No frantic edge like last night's relief-soaked, half-desperate touches.
This was…luxury.
Taste.
Mira's mouth was warm and deliberate, coaxing, not conquering. Her fingers cradled Fia's jaw with the same surety she used to hold a scalpel: precise, careful, deadly if needed.
Fia melted.
Her free hand tangled in the silk at Mira's waist, clutching for balance.
Every slide of Mira's lips against hers sent little sparks down nerves that had spent too long focused on pain.
Mira tilted her head, deepening the kiss just enough to make Fia's toes curl inside her shoes.
A soft, helpless sound slipped out of Fia's throat.
Mira caught it with a pleased little hum.
When they finally parted, Fia's lungs were working a bit harder.
In a good way.
"Medical check complete," Mira murmured, mouth slick and curved. "Breath capacity: improved. Responsiveness: excellent. Capacity for coherent speech: compromised."
Fia tried to glower.
It came out more like a dazed smile.
"You're insufferable," she said.
"Yes," Mira said. "And you love me."
She stole another quick kiss.
Then she straightened slightly, smoothing Fia's dress where she'd bunched it.
"We should go back before Elira decides to steal you for herself," she said. "She's been eyeing that dress like it personally offended her."
Fia licked her lips, tasting Mira there.
"Let her try," she murmured, surprising herself.
Mira's eyes flashed.
"Oh?" she said. "Is that a challenge?"
Fia swallowed.
"Maybe," she said.
Mira smiled slowly.
"Good," she said. "I'll enjoy watching you win."
Elira did, in fact, try to steal her.
The moment they stepped back into the ballroom, Elira was there, leaning against a pillar in a way that made the sword at her hip and the line of her throat equally hard to ignore.
She straightened as they approached, eyes raking over Fia with undisguised appraisal.
"You let the queen have the first dance and the healer have the balcony," Elira said. "I'm starting to feel neglected."
"Tragic," Lyriel said dryly from behind her, appearing with a glass of wine in each hand. "Truly, the suffering you endure."
Elira accepted one of the glasses and downed a gulp before thrusting the other into Fia's hand.
"Drink," she said. "You look like you could use liquid courage."
Mira opened her mouth.
Elira cut her off with a grin.
"It's watered," she said. "I checked. I'm reckless, not stupid."
Fia took a tentative sip.
It was mostly sparkling water with a whisper of something fruity.
"See?" Elira said. "Barely sinful."
She set her own glass aside and bowed far too extravagantly, one arm over her stomach, the other extended.
"May I have this dance, Lady Calamity?" she asked, voice louder than strictly necessary. "I promise not to ask you anything about the war. My intentions are only marginally improper."
A few nearby nobles choked on their drinks.
Fia's lips twitched.
"Only marginally?" she said.
"For now," Elira replied.
Mira sighed, long-suffering.
"Fine," she said. "I'll allow it. But if you spin her so much she gets dizzy—"
"I'll catch her," Elira said, utterly sincere beneath the teasing. "Always."
Fia's chest did something stupid.
She handed her glass back to Lyriel and placed her fingers in Elira's.
Elira's grip was firmer than Seraphine's, less polished, more kinetic—like she'd rather be leading a spar than a waltz.
But she knew the steps.
Of course she did.
Her body fit against Fia's differently, taller by a fraction, heat radiating through the layered white and gold.
As they crossed the floor, Elira leaned in.
"Relax," she murmured. "I've got you."
"I'm not going to fall," Fia said.
Elira smiled.
"I didn't mean physically," she said.
Fia's brain stalled.
"What, then?" she managed.
Elira spun her into the first turn, making the skirt flare.
"You're too used to people wanting something from you," Elira said. "Power. Protection. Miracles. I just want to see how many different ways I can make you blush before the night is over."
Fia glared up at her.
It was not very effective.
"You are terrible," she said.
"And you adore me," Elira said cheerfully.
Her hand at Fia's back drifted lower on a beat—just enough to make Fia's breath catch—then slid back to respectable territory.
Teasing.
Always teasing.
"Everyone is looking," Fia muttered.
"Good," Elira said. "Let them see that the terrifying dragon girl is spoiled rotten. It'll do them good."
They moved through the crowd, weaving between other dancers with surprising grace.
Elira bent her head, lips close to Fia's ear.
"You know," she murmured, "if anyone else looks at you like they're trying to measure your mana reserves, I'm going to 'accidentally' step on their toes."
Fia fought a smile.
"You can't assault ambassadors," she said.
"Who said anything about ambassadors?" Elira said. "I meant the baroness with the fan who's been counting your breaths since we walked in. Do you feel that gaze? It's like being audited."
Fia snorted.
Elira grinned, pleased at the sound.
"That's better," she said. "You're loosening up."
"I have a very persistent dance partner," Fia admitted.
"You have four," Elira corrected. "You're doomed."
She dipped Fia.
Not dramatically, not enough to strain anything—just a smooth, sudden shift that made the room tilt for a heartbeat.
Fia's hand flew to Elira's shoulder.
Elira's arm braced her lower back, solid as a wall.
"You trust me?" Elira asked quietly.
"Yes," Fia said, without thinking.
Elira's smile softened.
"Good," she said.
She pulled Fia back up.
Their noses brushed.
For a second, the whole ballroom blurred.
Fia could have sworn the music dimmed.
"Elira," she whispered.
"Yes?"
"If you kiss me in the middle of the floor, half the court is going to pass out," Fia said.
Elira's eyes sparkled.
"Is that a no?" she asked.
Fia hesitated.
Mira.
Seraphine.
Lyriel watching from the edge, eyes sharp behind her glasses.
The nobles.
The war.
Her own heart, finally beating steady.
"It's a 'later,'" Fia said quietly. "Somewhere with fewer witnesses and fewer journalists disguised as bards."
Elira laughed softly.
"Deal," she said. "In the meantime…"
She spun them again, slower, easier.
"Let them see you happy," she murmured. "It terrifies them more than any fire."
Lyriel claimed her next.
Not with a flourish, not with Elira's boisterous energy or Seraphine's queenly precision.
She simply appeared at Fia's elbow when the song ended, offered a hand like she was offering a new theorem to consider, and said, "I believe it's my turn."
Fia blinked.
"I didn't think you liked dancing," she said.
"I don't," Lyriel said frankly. "But I like you. And I dislike letting the others hoard your attention. It's mathematically unbalanced."
Fia's lips twitched.
"Can't have that," she said.
Lyriel's hand was cool.
Her grip was surprisingly strong.
She led Fia to a quieter corner of the floor, away from the thickest crush.
Her posture was more formal, steps exact.
"Try not to step on my feet," Lyriel murmured. "I haven't cast any protective wards on my toes."
"I'm not that bad," Fia protested.
"You are exactly that bad," Lyriel said, but the corners of her mouth were up.
They settled into a slower dance, one designed more for conversation than showmanship.
"You enjoyed yourself," Lyriel observed after a moment.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Fia admitted. "More than I expected to."
"Good," Lyriel said. "I was worried you'd spend the whole night cataloging exits and weak points."
"I did that too," Fia said.
Lyriel's eyes glinted.
"Of course you did," she said. "You're you."
They turned.
The skirts whispered around their ankles.
Fia studied Lyriel's face, the way the candlelight picked out the faint freckles across her nose she pretended not to have.
"What about you?" Fia asked. "Having fun?"
Lyriel considered.
"I am…less miserable than I anticipated," she said finally. "The food is good. The music is tolerable. Watching you be doted on is satisfying. And I have already mentally corrected three nobles' understanding of ward geometry simply by listening to their metaphors and judging them silently."
Fia snorted.
"That's fun for you," she said.
"Yes," Lyriel agreed.
Her thumb brushed over the back of Fia's hand in a rhythm that almost matched the music.
"Also," she added, voice dropping a fraction, "that dress is… distracting."
Fia nearly tripped.
Lyriel smirked.
"There it is," she said. "I was beginning to worry Elira had burned out your blush response."
"I hate you," Fia muttered.
Lyriel's eyes softened.
"No," she said quietly. "You don't."
She leaned in, just a little, so only Fia could hear.
"Do you know what I see," Lyriel murmured, "when I look at you out here?"
"Anxiety and bad life choices?" Fia guessed.
"A woman who should have died three times over," Lyriel said, "and instead is standing in the middle of a ballroom wearing dragonfire, being loved so loudly the whole court can't look away."
Fia's throat tightened.
"Lyriel," she said, a little helplessly.
Lyriel's fingers tightened around hers.
"I've spent my life studying patterns," she whispered. "Magic. Curses. Prophecies. Stories. You are the most fascinating broken sequence I've ever seen. And I am… absurdly glad you keep refusing to resolve neatly."
Fia blinked hard.
"Is that your way of saying you're happy I'm alive?" she asked.
Lyriel's smile turned small and real.
"Yes," she said. "Very."
Fia inhaled.
"I'm glad too," she said. "Even when you use math to bully me."
"Especially then," Lyriel said.
She pulled Fia closer on the next turn, their bodies almost flush.
"Later," she murmured, "when the court is drunk and the music worse, I want to steal you to the library. There is a secluded alcove with very comfortable chairs and terrible portraits. We can make new memories there to confuse future historians."
Fia's imagination helpfully supplied an image of Lyriel pushing her up against a shelf while dusty, disapproving ancestors glared down in oil.
Heat shot through her.
"Is that an academic proposal?" she managed.
Lyriel's eyes glinted.
"Very," she said.
By the time the fourth dance ended, Fia's head was spinning.
Not from exertion.
From… this.
Warmth.
Hands.
Whispers.
The dizzying realization that she was allowed to be the center of something that wasn't disaster.
She'd danced with Seraphine to start a rumor.
Kissed Mira on a balcony to soothe a healer's fear.
Been dipped by Elira to the scandalized gasps of three duchesses and one ecstatic bard.
Conspired with Lyriel under chandelier light like they were plotting a thesis and a crime at once.
Somewhere between the music and the glances and the touches, her anxiety had begun to blur into something else.
She was tired.
But not broken.
Overstimulated.
But…happy.
That was still the strangest part.
She found a brief pocket of solitude near one of the tall windows, catching her breath.
Outside, night had deepened.
Stars pricked the dark.
Reflections of the ballroom lights shimmered faintly in the glass.
Her reflection stared back at her: hair pinned up in a way that bared the line of her neck, eyes bright, cheeks flushed.
She looked…alive.
"Careful," Seraphine's voice murmured behind her. "You're starting to look like you're enjoying yourself. Someone might mistake you for a normal young woman at a ball."
Fia smiled faintly at the glass.
"Scandalous," she said.
Seraphine moved into view beside her, their shoulders almost touching.
In the window's faint reflection, they looked like a matched set: dark and darker, crown and calamity, dressed in war colors and pretending—for one night—not to bleed.
"Are you all right?" Seraphine asked.
Fia considered.
"I'm…full," she said.
Seraphine's brow arched.
"Of…what, exactly?" she asked. "Wine? Soup? Elira's ego?"
Fia huffed.
"Of…everything," she said. "Noise. Touch. Being looked at and not immediately needing to set something on fire."
"Is it too much?" Seraphine asked quietly.
"Almost," Fia admitted. "But—"
She glanced sideways.
Mira was across the room, plotting with Lyriel near the refreshment table, heads close, hands sketching in the air.
Elira was terrifying a cluster of young nobles by telling them wildly exaggerated stories about the monster army and making sound effects with a fork and a goblet.
Her parents were nearby, talking to a foreign envoy, Helena's eyes still flicking back to Fia every few sentences, as if checking she hadn't vanished.
This life.
These people.
This moment.
"—it's a good 'almost,'" Fia said softly.
Seraphine exhaled, slow.
"I'm glad," she said. "Because we're not done scandalizing them yet."
Fia blinked.
"We're not?" she asked.
Seraphine turned to face her fully.
Her hand lifted, fingers curling lightly under Fia's chin, tilting her face up.
The ballroom blurred.
"Fia," Seraphine said quietly, "may I kiss you?"
Fia's pulse leapt.
"Here?" she whispered. "In front of—"
She didn't get to finish.
Seraphine kissed her.
It wasn't a chaste brush.
It wasn't the barely-there, plausible-deniability thing they'd done in public before.
It was slow, sure, and deeply, unapologetically possessive.
Seraphine's mouth was hot and careful, lips moving against Fia's with a control that made the promise underneath even more dizzying.
Fia melted forward, one hand grabbing at Seraphine's shoulder to keep from slipping.
Somewhere behind them, someone dropped a glass.
The music stuttered for half a beat.
Fia's face went molten.
Seraphine pulled back just enough to let her breathe.
"This is the part," Seraphine murmured, breath brushing Fia's lips, "where all the rumors become irrelevant because everyone just saw the truth."
Fia swallowed.
"And what truth is that?" she managed.
Seraphine smiled.
"That I love you," she said. "That we are not hiding. That if any king, priest, or arrogant war cult thinks they can take you like a piece from a board, they will have to go through me first."
Fia's eyes burned.
"That is a lot to say with one kiss," she whispered.
"It's a very good kiss," Seraphine said.
There was a beat of stunned silence from the nearest clusters of nobility.
Then, as if some invisible line had been crossed and snapped, the ballroom's noise surged again—whispers, gasps, the rustle of fans, a few delighted laughs from corners that had been waiting for this.
Mira appeared at Fia's side a moment later, eyes bright, lips curved.
"Share," she demanded.
Seraphine huffed a soft laugh.
"Greedy," she said.
"Accurate," Mira countered.
She slid an arm around Fia's waist, pressing close, and stole her own kiss—shorter, sharper, tasting faintly of wine and smug satisfaction.
Elira whooped from across the room.
Lyriel pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something about "chaos variables," but she was smiling.
Fia swayed, overwhelmed, breathless, and impossibly, absurdly happy.
War waited outside this room.
Altars and kings and chains and whatever new horrors the world could throw at her lingered just beyond the music's reach.
But tonight, under crystal and candlelight, in a dress that felt like stolen fire, with four women orbiting her like her own personal constellation—
Fia let herself dance.
Let herself be kissed, claimed, teased, shielded, and adored.
Let herself be something she'd never been allowed to be in the game or the script or the prophecies.
Not a route.
Not a bad end.
Just a girl at a ball, terminally ill and dragon-touched and stupidly in love, laughing in the face of fate with lipstick smudged and hands held.
The kingdom watched.
The nobles whispered.
The chandeliers burned bright.
And somewhere deep inside her, Ardentis purred, amused and satisfied.
This, the dragon rumbled, curling tighter around her hearts, is a hoard worth protecting.