Festival masquerade

Isadora:

The knock comes just as the evening settles into its velvet hush.

I’ve lit only a single candle, the kind that bleeds black wax down its spine, and the room glows like a secret. Outside, the courtyard bells toll the hour—soft iron notes drifting through the old stone of Ashwyck.

Three quiet raps.

My pulse stirs. No one visits at this time unless it’s trouble.

I slip to the door and draw it open.

Kai stands there, moonlight caught in the unruly gold of his hair, a bouquet of small blue blossoms cradled in his hands. Forget-me-nots, their color almost luminous against the dark corridor.

“For you,” he says, and his voice is a low warmth against the cool night. “Handpicked. I arranged them myself—don’t laugh if they’re crooked.”

A breath of damp earth and meadow air follows him inside. I reach for the flowers, fingertips grazing his. “They’re beautiful,” I whisper.

“Not as beautiful as their recipient,” he murmurs, eyes a shade too bright for the dim candlelight.

Heat climbs my throat. “You’re ridiculous.”

“True,” he concedes, a playful tilt to his grin. “But I had a reason.”

I arch a brow. “Which is?”

“The Festival masquerade.” He leans against the doorframe as though the entire hallway belongs to him. “Two nights from now. I didn’t want to—” his mouth quirks, a self-aware smile “—pull a Lucian and ambush you last minute. I’d like to ask you properly. Before anyone else tries to sweep you away.”

For a moment I forget how to breathe.

The masquerade: a swirl of candlelight and music under the ash-silver moon, the one night when masks let everyone play at being something other than what we are. I had imagined going with Loralie, safe in the anonymity of friendship.

I never imagined Kai asking.

“Yes,” I say, surprised at the steadiness of my voice. “I’d love to.”

His shoulders ease, tension melting like frost. “Good. Because I’ve already made plans.”

I laugh, the sound echoing softly off the stone walls. “Plans?”

“Dresses, masks, the works. You didn’t think I’d leave it to chance, did you?”

“You ordered everything?” My protest is weak even to my own ears.

“Of course. Midnight silk, raven feathers, a little silver for mischief.” He gives a half-shrug that somehow manages to be both humble and infuriatingly sure of himself. “It will be delivered the evening of the ball. All you need to do is say yes—and you just did.”

I shake my head,almost smiling despite myself. “I didn’t know I’d have to pack so many gowns when I came to Ashwyck.”

“I knew,” he says softly. “I’ve been waiting for the right night.”

The words hang between us, charged and tender. Outside, wind brushes the old glass panes, a whisper of storm. The candlelight bends toward him, as if even the flame can’t help but lean closer.

“Thank you,” I say, because anything else would crack the fragile hush.

He steps nearer, the scent of wild herbs and late rain clinging to him. He takes my free hand—the one not occupied with flowers—and lifts it slowly. His skin is warm, his touch deliberate.

“Anything for you, Isadora.”

The kiss he places on the back of my hand is a quiet vow. No heat, no rush—just the steady press of his lips, and a breath that trembles against my skin.

The room tilts. My heart answers with a traitorous flutter.

For a moment neither of us speaks. The old candle pops, scattering a faint shower of sparks. Shadows sway like dancers across the walls.

“Will you come for a walk?” he asks at last, still holding my hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “The night is restless, and I’d like to steal a little of it with you.”

I nod. “Give me a moment to put these in water.”

He watches while I find a narrow glass and fill it from the basin. The forget me nots look like pieces of dusk themselves, their blue deepening as they drink.

When I turn back, Kai offers his arm, a courtly gesture that makes me laugh quietly.

“Your highness,” I tease.

“My lady,” he replies, mock solemn, though the spark in his eyes betrays him.

The halls of Ashwyck stretch around us, all shadowed arches and sighing stone. Our footsteps echo softly, the old castle alive with memories. Outside, the courtyard lies bathed in moonlight so pale it seems carved from bone.

We walk without hurry, his arm brushing mine, the silence between us an easy, glowing thing.

“You know,” I say, “you don’t have to keep rescuing me from… everything.”

“It isn’t rescue,” he answers. “It’s time. And you deserve some that’s yours.”

The simplicity of it settles deep, warmer than I expect. For weeks my world has been all edges—dark omens, waking nightmares, the heavy gaze of the four royals. But here, in the quiet with Kai, the night feels almost soft.

“Do you ever miss it?” I ask as we circle the courtyard fountain. “The world before Ashwyck?”

He tilts his head, considering. “Sometimes. But most of the time… no. Everything that mattered is here now.”

The way he says it—gentle, unhurried—sends a slow ache through my chest.

“Why me?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

“Why not you?” He stops, turning to face me. Moonlight sketches silver across his cheekbones. “You think you hide, but you burn, Isadora. The rest of us are drawn to the fire whether we admit it or not.”

His honesty steals the night’s breath. I can only stare, the world narrowing to the space between us.

He steps closer. Not a rush, just the inevitable pull of tide to shore. “May I?” he asks, voice low enough that the fountain barely hears.

I nod.

The kiss is soft, almost questioning, a brush of warmth against the cold air. I feel the faint hum of his glamour—like sunlight through mist—but it’s his own heartbeat I notice most, quick and human against mine.

When we part, he rests his forehead to mine, a quiet exhale carrying a hint of laughter. “Two nights,” he whispers. “Don’t forget.”

“As if I could.”

Later, when I return to my room, the forget me nots wait on the sill, drinking moonlight.

The candle has guttered out, but its smoke still curls like a ghost.

I touch the petals—soft as secrets—and let the quiet settle over me, a tender promise in a world that rarely gives them.

For the first time in weeks, the night feels less like a warning and more like a beginning.