Caveen stood near the terrace doors, half-illuminated by moonlight seeping through the glass. His tailored obsidian coat was cut close to his frame, every seam stitched to perfection, and silver embroidery glinted like frost against midnight. In his hand, he lazily swirled a glass of blood-red wine, his other tucked casually into his coat pocket.
Noblewomen buzzed around him like moths to flame. One of them, a blonde with an exaggerated laugh, placed her gloved hand lightly on his arm.
"My lord Caveen, you've been terribly quiet tonight. May I assume it's because you've found someone more interesting than us?" she purred.
He offered her a polite smile—refined, practiced, detached. "You flatter me, Lady Renna. But my thoughts are simply elsewhere."
The smile didn't quite reach his eyes. They remained sharp, distant, as though he were watching something—or someone—far beyond the glass walls of the ballroom.
Because he was.
That aura…
He had sensed it the moment he stepped into the estate. Faint. Familiar. Oddly magnetic. It clung to his senses like the scent of rain on dry earth—something nostalgic, buried, aching to be remembered.
A memory on the edge of waking.
And then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, his gaze shifted across the ballroom—through the glittering crowd, past the swirling gowns and flickering candles.
And landed on her.
Lysandra.
She stood near the edge of the room, her body framed by velvet curtains and candlelight. Her gown was a deep sapphire that shimmered like moonlit tides, hugging her figure in all the right places before cascading to the floor in waves. Her long dark hair was braided and coiled atop her head, a few soft strands left to curl against her cheek.
But it wasn't her beauty that hit him like a punch to the gut.
It was the feeling.
The unspoken connection.
The breath that caught in his throat when their eyes met—if only for a second.
And Lysandra felt it too.
Her hand instinctively rested on her abdomen, beneath the flowing fabric. The moment she had seen Caveen walk through the tall ballroom doors, something inside her surged. Her heart hadn't stopped racing. Her knees had trembled. She had to clench her fingers just to stop them from shaking.
He's here.
And yet… did he remember?
Her lips parted to speak, but no sound came. She could barely breathe. Her body tensed as she gathered her courage—she needed answers, even if they shattered her.
But before she could take another step toward him…
Bzzt. Bzzt.
The sharp vibration of a phone shattered the moment.
Caveen blinked, breaking eye contact. His hand dipped into the inner pocket of his coat, withdrawing a sleek black device. He glanced at the screen, frowning slightly before stepping onto the marble terrace, slipping past the curtain of music and chatter.
The night air was crisp, kissed with winter's promise. The city lights blinked in the distance, far below the cliffside estate. Caveen answered.
> "Father?" he said, raising a brow.
Carl's voice came through—low, sharp, and tight with urgency.
> "You need to come back to Santossa. Now."
Caveen straightened, the wine glass forgotten in his hand. "What happened?"
> "I'll explain when you land. A chopper is already en route. You'll be in the air within five minutes."
The line went dead.
Caveen stared into the dark horizon, the cold wind tugging at the silver trim of his coat. His heart was steady, but tension coiled in his chest like a drawn bowstring.
Carl was never vague.
Whatever had happened—it wasn't just political. It wasn't just family.
Something had gone wrong.
Without hesitation, he pocketed his phone, turned on his heel, and stepped back inside the ballroom. The warmth hit him immediately, but his thoughts were already miles away. He needed to move.
As a butler passed by carrying a tray of silver goblets, Caveen intercepted him with a crisp nod.
> "Inform Matriarch Moonwell I must depart immediately. It's urgent family business."
The butler blinked at the sudden command but bowed swiftly. "Of course, my lord."
Across the ballroom, Lysandra's eyes tracked Caveen's every move. She had been watching from the moment he vanished onto the terrace. When he returned, his expression was unreadable—mask-like. Controlled. But his pace had quickened. His path no longer wandered the crowd.
He was leaving.
Leaving?
Panic bloomed in her chest.
She moved forward on instinct, threading through the crowd, her hand brushing past nobles and servants alike. The orchestra's music dimmed in her ears beneath the pounding of her heart.
She couldn't let him vanish again.
Need to cast a spell on him to not remember.
But..
Did he remember her?
He turned.
And their eyes met once more.
This time, it was different.
This time, he paused.
Just for a second—but enough to steal the air from her lungs. Enough to make the world still.
His gaze darkened, as if something inside him stirred. A flicker of confusion, maybe? Recognition?
Or was she simply seeing what she wanted to see?
Her lips trembled, words forming without voice.
Caveen's fingers twitched.
But then—
> "Moonwell," he said with a polite nod, voice calm and composed, betraying nothing.
And just like that, he turned.
Walked away.
Disappeared into the shadows of the corridor beyond.
Leaving Lysandra standing alone in the golden-lit ballroom, frozen in place, her heart shattering quietly in her chest.
The music continued. Laughter resumed. The world spun on as if nothing had happened.
But everything had.
Because in that fleeting moment, a thousand unsaid words passed between them.
And none were spoken.
---
Outside, the chopper descended with a roar, its blades cutting through the night like a storm. Caveen stepped into the landing field beside the estate, the wind tugging violently at his coat and hair.
He didn't look back.
Not even once.
But something inside him ached.
That woman's eyes—they haunted him. As the chopper lifted into the sky and the estate lights vanished beneath them, he pressed a hand briefly to his chest, as though trying to still the unfamiliar pull.
He didn't know her.
Didn't know why her presence felt like gravity.
But she smelled like spring rain.
And sorrow.
---
Back in the ballroom, Lysandra pressed a hand to her abdomen, where their child—his child—rested quietly beneath layers of silk and magic.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"I'll need to move," she whispered softly to no one. "He should never remember that night, my child will be mine. Alone."
She turned from the crowd and vanished into the corridors beyond.