Before I’ve hardly caught my breath from presenting myself to the Queen, the barrage of endless introductions begins as Clara drags me around the ballroom.

  “Her marks are stunning.”

  “Who was her mother again?”

  “Clara, you’ve been hiding away this lovely thing all these years?”

  “That gold. It’s really something, isn’t it?”

  I curtsy and bow my head everywhere I ought and softly murmur my practiced lines of gratitude and platitude. I’ve blindly memorized all the names at home and it takes all my concentration to connect each with the face Clara introduces. Upper nobility involved in jewelry, inter-kingdom trade, city real estate… they all blur together.

  In between each introduction, I cast my gaze over the crowd in search of the Prince—as instructed. He’s since stepped off the dais and makes a slow, wide arc around the opposite side of the room. Clara had instructed me to stare and, if he doesn’t look my way within eight seconds, to drop my gaze and try again later. Men, Clara said, like to feel desirable, to confidently sense a woman’s interest.

  One. Two. Three.

  His gaze, dogged and piercing, meets mine. He smiles and my heart flutters in my chest and my breath catches in my throat. So far, it’s never taken him longer than a count of four to look up at me. Almost as if he searches for me as much as I do him.

  I draw in a steadying breath and tear my gaze away to follow Clara’s tug on my arm. I’ve practiced eight years for this. This moment is finally here. I’m here.

  An adult.

  Available.

  And absolutely quaking in terror. Skies, that moment with the Queen. It seemed like a good thing, yet my stomach still churns at the memory. I can identify every twitch on my stepmother’s face—but the Queen is a mystery. Cool and aloof. Unreadable.

  “My darling stepdaughter,” Clara says, presenting me with the same foreign affection she’s adopted at each of these introductions. “This is my dear friend, Foundress Privett, widow of the late Lord Samuel Privett. He served with your father in the King’s army.”

  I curtsy to the woman wrapped in expensive fabrics and jewels adorning her neck, ears, and wrists. She still wears her late husband’s silver engagement choker around her neck—each chunky link adorned with pave diamonds—and her silver wedding bangles on either wrist. He died shortly after the war, leaving their then-teenage son to the Lordship. I can’t recall ever seeing the son. He’s almost always away on some kind of political assignment in Pachuate. Clara doesn’t consider him a viable option because of it.

  “Lady Aubrey…” Foundress Privett’s eyes roam over me. Dots of gold glimmer across her left cheek. “I haven’t seen you up close in years. Your stepmother has kept you tucked away for too long. My, you have blossomed into quite a lovely young lady.”

  I bow again to the compliment, but sneak a glance at my stepmother as I do. Clara’s lips pinch white at the ‘kept you tucked away for too long’ comment. It tugs my own into a smile. I like the Foundress Privett already.

  “I trust your journey was a pleasant one?” the Foundress asks.

  A wash of concern and fear transforms Clara’s face. “Oh, it’s just been so dreadful, all this talk of carriages being attacked by rebels. I worry every day for the safety of my girls—we pass right alongside the forests on the way here, you know. And, of course, you heard about what happened to the Venon carriage just last week!” Clara has never feigned weakness before, at least not in my presence, and the performance is impressive.

  “Surely now you must consider moving into town. As a woman living alone, you simply cannot continue to travel back and forth in such danger. I certainly refuse to. I only return to the estate when my son accompanies me. Lady Aubrey would have so much better access to court and,” The Foundress flings me a mischievous glance, “the Prince. That is what we’re all here for tonight, isn’t it?”

  Clara sighs with feigned fretfulness. “I have inquired, but you of all people, Foundress Privett, would understand how difficult it is to make such arrangements without the word and income of a Lord.”

  I stiffen. Clara has never mentioned trying to move us into town. I can’t imagine my stepmother being refused anything.

  Foundress Privett pauses, as if also struck by the absurdity of the poor helpless Clara Gallant, though she quickly softens. “Well, that settles it then. You’ll…” The Foundress’s voice falls away with a derisive edge, her gaze fixed over my shoulder.

  I angle myself to see what’s caught the Foundress’s attention.

  A familiar man with mud-brown, slicked back hair and a smirk pinching his snake-like face strides up to our circle. He tips his head the bare minimum for etiquette.

  “Lord Venon,” Clara says, unable to hide the hitch of surprise in her tone as she lowers into a hesitant curtsy. “May I introduce my stepdaughter? The Lady Aubrey, daughter of High Guard William Gallant.”

  I force my knees to bend in a shallow curtsy, fists clenched to prevent their trembling. I hoped to avoid Maurus Venon entirely tonight.

  “My, my,” he drawls and the way his beady eyes rove over my body makes me wish I had my cloak to cover myself. “Lady Aubrey, you’ve grown up since the last time I saw you. Your stepmother has kept you under such wraps, I thought you might’ve turned out homely. Now I see that’s not the case at all.” He smiles, and though he’s objectively handsome, it feels like a snake baring his fangs.

  “Lord Venon,” Clara says. One long and narrow eyebrow arches. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  He shifts under her gaze, his smirk slipping into a sneer. “While my father was content to leave your lands be, out of some pretense of honor or courtesy… let me be blunt: I have no such intentions. Your land was taken from Venon lands. It is time for its return.” His gaze slides over me again. The corner of his mouth turns up. “However, I am not an unreasonable man, and now that I am a Founder Lord, I have a proposal that might… fulfill both of our desires admirably.”

  Clara hesitates.

  Bile burns up my throat. Surely Clara can’t consider it, not with the Prince now officially seeking a bride.

  Clara speaks with slow deliberation. “Foundress Privett, would you mind terribly taking Aubrey’s arm for a time? I will hear your offer, Lord Venon.”

  “Of course,” Foundress Privett says, taking my hand in both of hers. Even the Foundress’s cheerful tone can’t undo the animosity that lays thick in the air, nor does it reach the older woman’s narrowed eyes.

  Lord Venon offers Clara his elbow and she takes it after an almost imperceptible hesitation—one only I’m likely to notice. He leads her to an uninhabited spot beside the dessert table and they speak low enough that I can’t overhear.

  “As I was saying,” Foundress Privett says and I’m forced to tear my attention back to her. “The most prudent solution to this pesky rebel problem is for you to come stay at my house here in town. It is plenty big enough for everyone and close to the palace. Most convenient for any… gentleman callers.” The Foundress winks.

  My cheeks flush hot. Again, I don’t know what to say. I’m not prepared for conversations to deviate so far off script. Polite ‘thank-you’s, sure. Comments about the weather or season or economics, sure. But not an offer for lodging in the city. “I—You are unfathomably generous,” I stammer. “We can’t possibly intrude upon you.”

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  “For the daughter of William Gallant?” Foundress Privett pats my hand in hers. “It’s no intrusion at all. I must say, I would enjoy the company. I do get so lonely when my son is away, though I expect his return soon as the pass clears of the winter snow. Assuming the Pachuate keep their treaty—I worry every day that he’ll get himself stuck there at the start of a war and never come back to me.”

  I straighten. “War? Is there truly risk of the Pachuate invading again?”

  The Foundress waves her hand. “Isn’t there always?”

  War. A threat that could derail my entire life by ending the social season before I acquire a marriage proposal. I don’t have a moment to waste. “Foundress, won’t you introduce me to the Prince?” Skies, where is he?

  A conspiratorial smile lights her eyes. “I’d be delighted.”

  We scan the room and I catch a man, standing at the far end of the expansive ballroom, staring at me. My pulse jumps and my stomach lurches at the intensity of his gaze. He’s too far away to make out the details of his face, only that he has dark hair tied sleekly back and he is… almost familiar. No sooner do our gazes lock than he twists and slips out of view behind a cluster of laughing women.

  I shift to the side, sure if I can just catch another glimpse, I’ll be able to place him.

  “Do you see him?” the Foundress asks, turning the same direction.

  “No, there was another man,” I nod in his direction, but he remains out of sight. “With long dark hair, I’m not sure who he is.”

  “Lord Rael?” Foundress Privett asks.

  “Oh, perhaps,” I say, dropping my gaze. Lord Rael. He always sat on the front bench of High Court and I can’t recall ever seeing his face. That must be why he felt so oddly familiar.

  “What am I saying?” the Foundress laughs. “Rael never comes to events like these unless he has business that simply cannot wait. And what business cannot wait on a night like this, hm?”

  I nod and continue my scan of the ballroom and—there he is.

  Prince Emory. in his bright red tailcoat, gold-embroidered waistcoat, and golden cravat. He excuses himself from a cluster of elderly nobles.

  I gingerly touch the Foundress’s arm.

  “Ah, you found him.” She tucks my arm in hers and leads me forward.

  Prince Emory turns. That familiar smile curves his full lips.

  My heart stops. The air leaves my lungs. My world tips off its axis.

  “Good evening, Your Highness.” The Foundress dips into a stiff curtsy, leaning on my arm as if it pains her to bend.

  Or maybe to remind me of my manners because I’m staring! I jolt into a curtsy and the wyvernfire scars along the back of my neck and shoulders pull taut with the bow of my head.

  “Foundress Privett, lovely to see you again as always,” the Prince says, his voice a smooth candor. He inclines his torso, but his gaze remains locked with mine.

  I stare back like a startled forest rabbit.

  “Prince Emory, may I introduce the Lady Aubrey?” the Foundress says with a squeeze of my arm, like she can sense my paralyzing awe.

  The Prince extends his hand and the Foundress places mine in his. Warm, gentle fingers close around mine and he presses his lips to my hand, soft and moist. “It is a delight to formally meet you, Lady Aubrey. Forgive my imprudence, but I simply cannot hold myself back from complimenting your stunning beauty.”

  I bow my head to his compliment and my knees shake so hard that I worry they might give out entirely. Composure. Commitment. Conviction. I’ve practiced for this. “The delight is all mine, Your Highness.”

  His smile broadens. “Oh, I beg to differ, my lady. Foundress Privett, I must request your charge’s accompaniment for this dance.”

  Dance? The song playing is hardly dancing music.

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Foundress Privett says with another bow of her head and a curved press of her lips, as if she holds back a far larger smile.

  The Prince smirks and raises his free hand into the air to snap his fingers. The band leaps to life and music rings through the room, echoing off the domed ceiling. Prince Emory steps backwards, pulling me with him.

  The crowd parts to give us room.

  My heart wrenches to a stop, skips several important beats, and lurches back into pounding.

  The first dance. I won the first dance.

  With a gentle flick of his wrist, he twirls me once and pulls me into his arms. One hand firmly grips mine, the other lands at my waist. The warmth of his palm seeps through my gown’s sheer bodice and the faint scent of gardenias tickles my nose.

  He steps into the dance, and I begin the steps I’ve practiced so many times. I frame my arms with loose rigidity, holding space between us, yet also allowing my body to ease and flow with the music.

  I’ve never been so close to a man before, except for my cousin Farnell—and he’s certainly never wrapped his arms around me like this. It leaves me too hot, my bodice too tight as I struggle to breathe.

  “You’re an excellent dancer.” He gazes down at me, an easy, confident smile drawn across his face.

  My head grows abruptly light and I stumble. My heart plummets in horror. Oh dear, I’m not going to faint—am I? I’ve fainted enough times that I recognize the faint hum in my ears, the buzz of my arms, the tunneling of my vision. I should have made myself eat something earlier. Clara shouldn’t have taken so much.

  His grip on me tightens.

  I drop my gaze and force myself back into rhythm with several breaths. “I deserve no such praise, Your Highness.”

  He laughs again, so easy and light. “And even so, I find you as captivating as I did when we were children. Please, call me Emory.”

  Heat warms my face. When we were children, I’d been the wild unkempt daughter of the King’s High Guard running rampant across the grounds with Ray and the Prince and a half a dozen other miscreants battling with sticks and stones, like the outcome of all wars laid in our own small hands. “You’re too kind, Prince Emory,” I force out. It feels too… improper to call him by only a first name.

  He laughs again. What a life he must have, to laugh so easily in front of all these people, on a night so very important to his future. I want that too, that easy safety. If I just keep myself focused, do as I need, and behave myself, maybe I can.

  I raise my gaze to his, softening my expression, and make pretty words come out of my tight throat. “You are also an excellent dancer, Your Highness.”

  “Emory,” he corrects, but his blue eyes dance. “Pardon my stammering earlier. You’ve changed so much since I last saw you—” He cuts himself off abruptly and his expression falls. “I think on that day often. Had I been the swordsman I am now, I’d have protected you properly from that wyvern. I’ve learned quite a bit since we last played with sticks. Turns out everything my father tried to teach me as a boy was simply too advanced. Once I acquired a good foundation upon training with the guard, he was able to pass on some of his most deadly skills to me. I am quite the swordsman now.”

  Strangulating tightness grips my chest at mention of that day. No! No emotion. I revert to practiced actions I can control by wetting my lips and dipping my chin to look up at him through my lashes like Clara taught me. “I’m delighted to hear you take such passion in it. I’m afraid I’ve completely neglected mine. I’d make an unsatisfying opponent now.”

  “Come now, look at you. You’re positively fierce!” Yet his grip remains gentle, like I am still only a delicate flower.

  I wish I could be fierce, that such a thing were allowed. If I challenge him to a duel, right here, right now, would he still win? No! I mentally shake myself. Composure. Commitment. Conviction. I’ve put my sword-fighting days long, long behind me. “Never so fierce as you, my Prince,” I whisper over the music.

  He bows his head closer to mine, following the intimacy of my voice. “I must say, it’s a relief to find you’ve grown into such a dazzling young woman. The palace became far less exciting once you’d left.” He chuckles and strokes his thumb over the back of my hand clasped in his. “I do hope you won’t disappear again.”

  “Never,” I say, staring into those cerulean eyes.

  A bell tolls, loud enough to be heard over the music and the din of chatter. The Prince stills, as does the surrounding crowd. The music dies.

  The bell keeps tolling, each pang like a physical blow against my heart.

  Prince Emory clasps my hand and the scarred High Guard shoves through the crowd, charging straight for us.

  A deafening crash overhead shakes the palace and glass rains down everywhere.

  Screams erupt. I see my father’s horse reared against the setting sun. Ray’s bleeding hand. The wyvern’s piercing golden eyes.

  A body slams me into the Prince, and we’re both shoved sideways. I jerk back to the present moment. It’s Rahiid Venon, the High Guard shoving both of us out of the ballroom’s center.

  A huge wyvern tears at the metal frames that once held the ceiling’s panes of glass, its long spiked neck silhouetted by the lightening dawn sky. With each crush of its jaws, the metal bends and distorts. Chunks fall free and crash into banquet tables, sending food and shattered porcelain flying. Another hunk of metal thunks into the parquet floor.

  Six more guards surround us like a human shield and more pour into the ballroom. Guests are corralled around the perimeter and down hallways into safety, while more and more guards stream in carrying spears and crossbows.

  “Lily,” I cry, twisting to find her in the crowd.

  “Guards will keep her safe,” the High Guard says.

  I distantly make out the blur of Lilianna’s green dress pushed through another doorway to safety.

  The wyvern roars—an incredible sound that rattles my bones and the chandeliers still suspended by thin chains overhead. Fire explodes from its mouth and I squeeze my eyes shut, even though it’s far too high overhead to even warm the air down here.

  We’re roughly pushed through another door held open by another guard. The twangs of crossbones firing and the furious roar of the wyvern follows us into a darkened room, until the door swings shut and silences it all.

  The Prince’s arm is wrapped around my shoulders, and the High Guard directs him to lead me to a chair in the room's corner. I sit, unable to think or hardly breathe. A wyvern. Here. The first in years—tonight.

  The Prince kneels at my feet. “I’m afraid I must go attend to this attack, but know I would rather dance with you a thousand more times.”

  I try to move my lips into words but no sound comes out.

  He kisses my hand, squeezes it gently, and strides out of a different door on the opposite side leading deeper into the palace.

  The High Guard lingers in the doorway and casts me a long look. “See to it she returns home safely,” he barks at one of the guards still in the room. And then he follows the Prince out.

  I stare at nothing, the wyvern’s roar echoing over and over again in my head. A wyvern.

  The ball is well and truly over.

  But at least I have hope.