Allistair stood at my side with a glass of champagne in his hand, posture relaxed in the way that came from long familiarity with rooms like this.

  "So," he was saying, "I've been told the chandeliers and centrepieces this year were imported from Virellian artisans. Apparently the Oraphers found local work insufficiently... dramatic."

  I smiled, careful to keep my gaze on him.

  "That does sound like them," I replied. "Subtlety has never been their strength."

  I was acutely aware of the room beyond him—the movement of silk and light, the shifting constellations above, the hum of voices layered into something almost alive. And within that awareness, I felt him.

  Sirius.

  I did not look.

  Instead, I focused on Allistair's voice, the familiar cadence of it—grounding, safe. I answered when spoken to, nodded at the right moments, laughed softly when appropriate. It took more effort than I liked to admit.

  "I'm glad you came tonight," Allistair said after a moment, and to my ears it sounded sincere.

  "So am I," I answered, because it was expected—and because it was true, in a way I didn't feel like examining too closely.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement near the champagne fountains. A dark figure, partially obscured.

  Gone again.

  I inhaled slowly.

  Then, to my surprise, Allistair turned fully toward me and extended his hand.

  "Would you dance with me again?"

  My breath caught for half a second.

  Once was custom.

  Twice was interest.

  I searched for a sensible reason to refuse. I found none. My father would see this. He would note it. He would approve.

  I placed my hand in Allistair's.

  "Of course."

  The dance floor welcomed us easily, bodies shifting to make space as he guided me forward. He was a good dancer, confident and attentive, and the music was pleasant. Despite the extravagance, the ballroom gleamed like something lifted from one of those romance novels Lumerian women seemed to adore.

  It should have been easy to lose myself in it.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Instead, my eyes betrayed me.

  Reflected in a mirrored column—Sirius, standing near the champagne fountain, listening to an older gentleman with an expression I couldn't quite read.

  A turn.

  A spin.

  Another glance—brief, almost accidental. He was still there.

  Allistair said nothing. If he noticed my distraction, he gave no sign.

  When the music ended, he led me back to the edge of the floor, releasing my hand only once we were clear of the press of dancers.

  "You dance beautifully," he said.

  "So do you."

  He smiled. "High praise, coming from you."

  We resumed our conversation as if nothing had shifted.

  "Do you ever tire of events like this?" he asked lightly. "Or do you genuinely enjoy them now?"

  I considered the question before answering.

  "I enjoy parts of them," I said honestly. "The spectacle less so. But I like listening. Observing."

  "Observing?" he echoed, amused.

  "I read a great deal," I added before he could ask. "And I study. Quiet things, mostly."

  "Books over banquets," Allistair said approvingly. "I can respect that."

  "And you?" I asked, genuinely curious. "What do you enjoy, when you're not being summoned to rooms like this?"

  He opened his mouth to answer—but the room shifted.

  The music softened. A ripple passed through the crowd.

  Lord Orapher had entered.

  He moved with the confidence of a man accustomed to command, silver hair immaculate, presence magnetic. After brief exchanges with nearby guests, he lifted a hand.

  "Friends," he announced pleasantly. "Old allies. If you'll indulge me—I've had a cask opened in the study that deserves appreciation."

  A knowing murmur followed. Cigar smoke. Brandy. Politics disguised as camaraderie.

  The men gathered, smiling, already turning.

  Allistair sighed quietly. "I'm sorry," he said, genuine regret in his voice. "I won't be long."

  "Of course," I replied.

  He hesitated, then inclined his head. "I'll find you after."

  As he left, I realized I'd been holding my breath.

  Only when the door to the ballroom closed behind the last of those invited to the study did I finally exhale.

  I drifted toward one of the side exits without consciously deciding to, slipping away from the press of bodies and sound. The transition was gradual—the music dulling, the laughter fading, the magic of the ballroom softening into something quieter.

  The Orapher gardens extended before me like a curated dream.

  Enchanted lanterns cast pale light over manicured hedges and stone paths. The air was cooler here, scented faintly with winter blossoms and something mineral beneath it. I settled onto the low edge of a marble fountain, gathering the fabric of my gown carefully beneath me.

  I shivered, my cheeks flushing at the cold air—but the distance, the privacy, were worth it.

  The tension in my shoulders eased. Just a little.

  I let myself breathe.

  The ballroom felt distant now. A place of performance. Here, I could simply exist—unobserved, unmeasured.

  I thought briefly of how easy it would be to disappear into the maze of paths. How tempting.

  Footsteps approached.

  I stiffened, then turned my head.

  Sirius stood a few steps away, posture relaxed but cautious, as though unwilling to intrude.

  "May I?" he asked quietly.

  I scanned the garden without thinking—paths, hedges, doors. Satisfied, I nodded.

  He sat beside me. Not too close. Enough distance to be respectful.

  "I didn't expect to see you here," I said.

  "Nor did most people," he replied, tone light, almost amused.

  He gestured vaguely toward the ballroom. "The Oraphers have a particular fondness for excess."

  "Is that what this is?" I asked. "Excess?"

  "Performance," he corrected. "Spectacle dressed as tradition."

  I smiled. Not the practiced one. A real one.

  "You're not fond of it," I observed.

  "No," he admitted. "I usually avoid it."

  Something warm stirred in my chest at that. He had chosen not to avoid it this year.

  Then he looked at me more closely.

  "You've changed."

  The words landed without accusation. Without judgment.

  I didn't pretend not to understand.

  "I suppose I finally learned how to survive these rooms," I said lightly.

  I glanced sideways at him. "You should take some responsibility. You were there."

  It was an invitation—to deflect, to laugh it off.

  He didn't take it.

  I sighed, my shoulders lowering.

  "There was a girl at the manor," I said instead. "Non-magical. She worked there."

  He waited.

  "She was the first person who was kind to me without expecting anything in return since I arrived in Lumeria," I continued. "No deference. No gratitude. Nothing."

  I stared down the lantern-lit path. "She treated me like a person."

  He didn't interrupt.

  "Is she the young woman you helped escape the manor?" he asked gently.

  I nodded.

  The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.

  Eventually, I shifted, glancing toward the garden entrance. "I shouldn't stay long. My father will notice."

  "And Allistair," Sirius added.

  I turned to look at him, puzzled.

  "Ah. Yes."

  I stood, smoothing my gown.

  Then—hesitating, trying to sound casual—I said, "I'll be at the Promenade by the Silverglass Terrace. Faelys Aerendis invited me."

  I didn't look at him.

  "In case you were curious."

  I left before he could answer.

  When I reentered the ballroom, the noise and brilliance crashed back into place. My heart raced. My thoughts tangled.

  I told myself I was foolish.

  That I had said too much.

  That nothing would come of it.

  I didn't know if he would come.

  And that uncertainty followed me, long after the music resumed.