She stood tall in a gown of storm-gray silk, her braided hair coiled like a crown. The Auren family crest—a phoenix clutching a lightning bolt—glead at her throat.
The murmurs crescendoed:
"There's no way an Auren ca!"
"They're one of the most powerful families in the capital!"
"Last I heard, she was missing in the—"
Sylra's gaze locked onto Towan—and for a heartbeat, her piercing silver eyes widened in recognition before crinkling with amusent. A deliberate, conspiratorial wink flashed across the ballroom like a coded signal.
Towan choked on his drink, the burn of liquor flaring in his sinuses.
(Sylra!? What in the seven hells—)
His grip tightened around the glass. (Why am I running into every damn person I know tonight? First Selene, now her?!)
He glanced toward the dessert table—an oasis of sugar and temporary escape—then back at Sylra.
(Should I approach her?)
The mory of Selene's panicked warning echoed in his skull. "It's no good for us to be seen together."
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not ant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
(...Yeah, no. Not risking that twice.)
With forced nonchalance, Towan turned toward the towering pyramid of glazed pastries, where a flock of nobles picked daintily at miniature cakes.
(Fine. If I'm going to survive this nightmare, I might as well eat like a king.)
He grabbed a silver plate and piled it high with:
A custard tart dusted with edible gold
Two chocolate-dipped figs
Sothing frosted and vaguely explosive-looking
Nearby, a duchess gasped as he bit into the tart in one unceremonious bite.
"Young man! Those are ant to be savored!"
Towan grinned, mouth full. "Mmf. Delicious."
The sweetness of the desserts turned to ash in Towan’s mouth as the air around him thickened—the prickling awareness of being watched.
He turned slowly.
A girl stood there, closer than anyone had dared approach all evening.
Her gown was the color of blood in candlelight—dark enough to vanish into shadow, red enough to stain. The fabric whispered with every movent, like a blade being drawn from its sheath.
But it was her walk that unsettled him most. Each step was deliberate, unhurried—the gait of soone who knew exactly how long it took to cross a battlefield.
Towan’s fingers twitched.
(I’ve seen her before. But where—?)
She stopped just shy of his personal space, close enough that he caught the scent of iron and bergamot beneath her perfu.
“You’re letting your feet rest too long, Lord Hound,” she murmured, her voice like velvet over steel. “A sha, really. After how well you moved with Lady Verestra.”
Towan blinked. “...Do I know you?”
A smile flickered across her lips—there and gone, like a knife catching candlelight.
“Sera Vellmont.” She extended her hand, gloved fingers arched in flawless aristocratic form. “Would you dance with , fla-boy?”
The na tickled so distant mory, but before he could respond, Herb’s voice echoed in his skull:
“Never refuse a dance unless you fancy being next week’s scandal.”
He sighed. (No way out, huh?)
He took her hand—the kid leather cool, smooth, too firm.
“It’ll be my pleasure.”
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