Setting: Midnight – Masquerade Ball, Central Velaris
The music had shifted.
What began as a soft orchestral lull had slowly grown into something deeper, sharper — violins that whispered and trumpets that cried. Candlelight flickered from thousands of floating globes above the marble dance floor, each orb enchanted to drift like stardust. Velvet curtains framed every arch, and nobles danced as if caught in a spell, faces hidden behind masks of feathered gold and painted porcelain.
Lady Lyra of House Norwyn stood near the tall stained-glass window that overlooked the glowing Velaris rooftops. Her mask, simple and elegant, was shaped like a silver crescent moon that clung gently to her cheekbones. She'd chosen it not for beauty — though it suited her perfectly — but for mystery.
Behind her, whispers moved like the wind.
> "Is that Lady Lyra?" "They say she declined three dance offers tonight." "Not even Lord Velan could get her to smile."
But Lyra barely heard them. Her thoughts were elsewhere — still lingering on the man whose presence had turned her world sideways.
> "Not beautiful enough to tempt me."
The words played like a cursed refrain.
Kaelrin hadn't even glanced her way since that night. Not at breakfast. Not during the social gatherings. And now… not even at the ball, where half of Velaris' nobility was lined up just for a moment in his presence.
She wasn't pining. No. She was furious. Annoyed. Puzzled by her own reaction.
Why should it matter?
"You look like you're thinking too hard," a voice interrupted her thoughts.
Lyra turned, already recognizing the drawl.
Lord Darien, mask slightly askew, smiled at her with eyes that gleamed mischief. His midnight-blue coat shimmered like waves under moonlight, and in his hand he twirled a silver wine glass.
"And you look like you've escaped a painting of a peacock," Lyra replied coolly.
He laughed. "I've missed your venom. Come, dance with me before the others grow braver."
Lyra raised a brow. "Why would I help your reputation as Velaris' most flirtatious lord?"
"Because I'm far more entertaining than brooding dukes and serious nobles. Besides," he leaned in slightly, whispering, "your mask may hide your face, but not your boredom."
She hesitated.
He was right.
Without a word, she took his hand.
The crowd parted slightly as they stepped onto the dance floor, catching more than a few gazes. Darien led her into the steps effortlessly — quick, elegant, precise. But Lyra, trained since childhood in noble dances, matched him beat for beat.
As they twirled beneath the chandelier-glow, Darien spoke again.
"You know he's watching."
Lyra's step faltered. "Who?"
"The man behind the dragon-etched mask. Corner of the ballroom, to your left."
Lyra didn't turn immediately. Instead, she laughed — falsely, for effect — and then during a spin, let her gaze flick toward the corner.
There he was.
Kaelrin.
Leaning against a black marble pillar, arms crossed, his mask hiding most of his face — except those eyes.
They weren't watching the dance floor.
They were watching her.
Lyra felt a chill dance up her spine.
Darien noticed. "You're not the only one haunted by words, Lyra."
"He should speak them carefully then," she muttered.
They danced in silence for a few more turns. Then Darien leaned close again.
"Do you want to make him jealous?"
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Is that your plan?"
He smirked. "No. But it would be fun."
The dance ended.
She stepped away before he could bow. "Thank you, Lord Darien. I needed the distraction."
---
Scene Shift – Kaelrin's POV
Kaelrin watched her glide away from Darien like she owned the floor. That same cool grace. That quiet fire.
She hadn't approached him. Not once.
She hadn't even looked at him until Darien forced the moment.
It irked him.
He wasn't sure why.
His thoughts had been too occupied lately — by her words, by her stare, by the way she made him feel less like a Duke and more like a man who could be wrong.
> "Then your apology is hollow."
No one had ever spoken to him that way. Not even royalty.
And now, seeing her with Darien, laughing, spinning, radiant — the irritation turned to something else. Something darker.
Possessiveness?
"You should talk to her," Darien said beside him suddenly, holding two wine glasses. "Before someone else does more than just dance."
Kaelrin didn't answer.
Darien sighed. "Fine. Brood. But don't cry when she's stolen."
---
Scene – The Garden Terrace
Lyra stepped out onto the stone balcony that overlooked the moonlit gardens. She needed air. Music and masks and glittering lies had begun to feel suffocating.
The night was cool. The sky a deep, velvet indigo.
"You left the party early."
She turned sharply.
Kaelrin stood at the edge of the terrace, arms behind his back, cloak fluttering slightly in the breeze.
Lyra gave a short nod. "I find masks tiring."
"Strange. You wear yours well."
She looked at him sharply. "Is that a compliment?"
He didn't smile. "Perhaps."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Kaelrin stepped closer. "You were right. About the apology. It was hollow."
Lyra's brows lifted.
"So now you offer a sincere one?"
He nodded. "I underestimated you."
"You insulted me."
"And regretted it."
She folded her arms. "Why tell me this now?"
Kaelrin's gaze didn't waver. "Because I keep watching you, and I can't seem to stop."
Lyra blinked.
He stepped even closer. "You're not like them. You challenge me. And I've never liked being challenged."
She swallowed. "That sounds like a warning."
"It's a confession."
The wind picked up.
Neither of them moved.
And yet, the space between them had never felt smaller.
---
To be continued