Chapter thirty four: Silvershade concord
The carriage came to a halt on the shadowed threshold of the Ashvale Palais—a structure carved of ancient obsidian and veiled in glimmering wardlight. Beyond its towering archways, music pulsed like a heartbeat, heavy and slow. Silver mist curled along the marble stairs, and above them, a hundred lanterns swayed like glowing spirits in the trees.
Lucien stepped out first.
The footman bowed low, silent and pale.
Elira reached for her skirts, careful not to crush the filigree of silver stitched into midnight silk. Mirelle had spent hours threading those patterns through the fabric—woven like starlight over water. The gown clung to her shoulders with the delicacy of a whisper, its neckline dipped modestly yet elegantly, edged with sapphirine beads that shimmered like frozen tears.
Her hair had been drawn up in a sleek coil pinned with pearl-spiked combs, with a few artful strands left loose to graze her cheekbones. She felt like a poem written in shadows.
Lucien extended his hand.
She took it.
His fingers were cool, his grip exacting—but not unkind. Without a word, he led her up the staircase, into a night of dangerous promises.
The grand ballroom of the Silvershade Concord was a cathedral of glass and silver, draped in black silk and frost-lit chandeliers. The scent of roses steeped in blood filled the air, heady and intoxicating.
They entered not as predator and prey, but as something… murkier.
Elira could feel the weight of eyes tracking her—appraising, whispering, calculating. But none dared approach with Lucien beside her. Tonight, he was not parading her like before. No. Tonight, he was her shield.
And that made the silence between them heavier.
Lucien's hand rested lightly at the small of her back. She could feel the burn of it even through layers of fabric.
Around them, vampires danced in slow, sensuous circles. On velvet divans tucked between shadowed alcoves, nobles fed leisurely on crimson-throated courtesans, their mouths glistening. A maid shuddered as a noblewoman sank her fangs into her wrist, lips parting in bliss. Another bared his throat to a female elder, eyes fluttering shut as her nails curled into his hair.
Elira tried not to stare.
"Tasteful as always," Lucien murmured near her ear.
"Does this count as tasteful?" she whispered back, gaze flitting over a noble who had just finished licking blood from his knuckles.
He didn't answer.
Before she could press him, a ripple moved through the crowd.
Lady Seraphine Duskmoor emerged in a swirl of silver and garnet, her gown clinging like smoke, her mouth painted the color of bruised wine. She swept toward them with that slow, deliberate grace only ancient vampires carried.
"Lucien," she drawled, a crooked smile playing at her lips. "You came. I'm shocked."
"I regret it already."
Seraphine laughed. "Oh, lie better. You wouldn't bring her if you weren't playing the long game." Her gaze shifted, and Elira met the full force of it. "And you, dear girl… you've stepped out of your cage rather well. I could eat you up."
Elira stiffened.
Seraphine chuckled, not unkindly. "That's a compliment, child."
"Thank you," Elira said softly.
Seraphine's crimson-tipped fingers brushed lightly down Elira's sleeve. "Delightful. I adore the color. Like moonlight dressed for mourning."
Lucien's voice cut in, cool and curt. "We won't be staying long."
"Pity," Seraphine sighed. "The night's just beginning."
"I'll leave you two to talk," she said quietly.
Lucien's hand lingered a second longer at Elira's back, then dropped.
The drink table was carved of pale bonewood, laden with crystal flutes filled with bloodwine and silver-dusted absinthe. Elira plucked one delicately, needing something—anything—to still the tremor in her hands.
"Not your kind of scene?"
The man who stood beside her wore a deep green velvet coat edged in gold-threaded vinework. His features were softer than Lucien's—charming, roguish, with eyes the color of forest leaves after a storm. A dangerous beauty, but not the kind that scorched. No, this was the kind that lured.
"I'm still figuring out what kind of gathering it is," Elira replied carefully.
He smiled—not the sharp, mocking kind she had come to expect from most of Lucien's kind, but something quieter, almost amused. The edges of his teeth were just slightly too pointed, but his charm dulled their danger.
"They call it the Silvershade Concord," he said, swirling the bloodwine in his glass with lazy precision. "But really… it's a masquerade of hungers. Every smile here is barbed."
Elira's eyes flicked to his. "And what do you hunger for?"
He tilted his head, as if genuinely considering the question.
"Clarity," he said first, his gaze not leaving hers. "Truth, when I can find it." A pause. "But tonight? Perhaps just intelligent conversation. And if fate is in a generous mood…" He let the words trail off as he leaned in slightly—not close enough to touch, but near enough that she could feel the pull of his presence. "A single dance. If I earn it."
The warmth of his voice unraveled some knot inside her chest.
"You're not what I expected here," she said after a beat, surprised to hear the honesty in her own voice.
His eyes softened. "Neither are you."
Then, quieter: "I saw you walk in with him."
Elira didn't look away, though she felt the weight of those words settle between them like a challenge.
"Then you know what I am to him," she said quietly, not quite a question—but not a truth she owned either.
A flicker of something passed through his expression. Not pity. Not judgment. Something keener. He tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was a puzzle he wasn't trying to solve too quickly.
"I know what you are made to be," he said, voice like dusk—low and edged with understanding. "But I also know masks don't fit forever. Eventually, even the cruelest roles wear thin."
Her breath caught, only for a moment.
He didn't push.
Instead, he offered a faint, almost conspiratorial smile. "Whatever name he gave you, whatever leash he wrapped around your throat—I don't think it defines you.
Elira lowered her gaze, not out of shame, but because the heat behind her eyes surprised her. She'd heard lies before, layered in silk and venom. This wasn't that. It wasn't even comfort exactly—it was recognition. And it unsettled her more than scorn ever could.
"Besides," he added more lightly, straightening with a quiet grace, "I've always found that those most tightly held often carry the sharpest teeth."
That made her smile, small but real.
"Is that your way of saying I'm dangerous?" she asked, eyes lifting to meet his once more.
He raised his glass, as though toasting her unspoken defiance.
"No," he said. "It's my way of hoping you are."