Chapter 5

Moonlight spilled across Moonspire’s grand ballroom, casting fractured silver over masks of velvet and gold. The kingdom’s nobles moved in glittering clusters, their laughter echoing against chandeliers heavy with crystals. Every detail of the masquerade shimmered with opulence, yet beneath the music and silk-draped gowns lingered tension sharp enough to cut.

Serenya drifted along the edge of the hall, her servant’s garb exchanged for a borrowed mask of ivory and a gown that disguised her rank as effectively as her hooded cloak. For tonight, she was no longer invisible, but neither was she herself. Hidden among the revelers, she could study the court without the weight of eyes recognizing her true blood.

Her gaze flicked to the dais where Duke Thalric Veynor lounged like a predator in velvet. His black mask glimmered with silver filigree, his smirk as dangerous as the wine in his goblet. Every laugh he gave, every calculated glance, pressed upon the nobles like chains. He was here not to celebrate, but to measure the room, to remind them of his reach.

A hand brushed Serenya’s arm. She flinched.

“Careful,” a low voice murmured, threaded with quiet amusement.

She turned, and her breath caught. The man before her wore a mask of shadowed steel, plain compared to the jeweled monstrosities around him. Yet his presence held more weight than any duke or knight in the hall. Kaelen Draven. His stance was relaxed, but his eyes — what little she could see of them through the mask’s cut — burned with intensity, as though he had tracked her across every corner of the keep.

“You don’t belong here,” Serenya whispered before she could stop herself.

“Neither do you.” He tilted his head, lips curving into the ghost of a smile. “But I imagine your reasons are far more dangerous.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. Did he know? Or was he baiting her?

Before she could answer, the musicians shifted to a slower melody. Couples flooded the floor, masks brushing as they twirled. Kaelen extended a hand, his voice steady.

“Dance with me. Or every eye will notice how desperately you wish to disappear.”

Her fingers trembled as she placed them in his, the warmth of his touch sparking a shiver that had nothing to do with fear. They moved into the swell of the dance, his hand firm at her back, guiding her through the crowd with practiced grace.

“You’ve been watching,” she accused softly.

“Only enough to notice someone else watching you,” he said, his tone sharpening. “Thalric’s gaze hasn’t left you all evening.”

Serenya’s chest tightened. She risked a glance toward the dais — the duke’s eyes gleamed from behind his mask, narrowed in interest that chilled her blood. She forced her lips into a smile, turning her head as if the dance itself held her complete attention.

“You draw attention to us by speaking,” she hissed.

“Perhaps,” Kaelen murmured, “but if I leave you standing alone, it will draw more.” His hand tightened fractionally at her waist. “Better the room thinks you are merely a mystery than prey.”

His words should have unsettled her. Instead, they steadied her. For the first time since stepping into the ballroom, she felt less like quarry and more like someone with a shield.

The music swelled, and for a heartbeat, the masquerade vanished. It was only his eyes, sharp and searching, and her heart pounding too fast. She hated how easily he unsettled her, how quickly he made the walls she had built tremble.

“You speak as though you know me,” Serenya whispered.

“Perhaps I do.” His voice was quieter now, just for her. “Perhaps I’ve known shadows longer than faces.”

Her lips parted to answer, but the dance ended, applause breaking around them. Kaelen bowed, releasing her hand. The sudden absence of his touch left her colder than the marble floor beneath her feet.

Before she could speak again, a servant slipped between them, murmuring, “Wine, my lady?” Too late, she realized it was no servant. A note was pressed discreetly into her palm, hidden beneath the tray’s rim. When she looked up, the figure had already vanished into the crowd.

Serenya’s heart hammered as she unfolded the scrap of parchment under the cover of her skirt. The message was scrawled in hurried ink:

“The throne is not what it seems. Meet me at the north gallery before dawn.”

Her pulse roared in her ears. Someone knew.

Kaelen’s hand brushed hers again — a warning, or perhaps a question. His eyes searched hers, as if he had seen the note, as if he too carried secrets that whispered from beneath his mask.

And somewhere across the hall, Thalric Veynor raised his goblet in a silent toast, his smirk widening.

Serenya forced herself to breathe, but the masquerade had shifted. The chandeliers no longer glittered — they loomed. Every mask in the room seemed to hide not merriment, but daggers.

And she was caught in the center, tangled between the protector who danced with shadows, the duke who hunted her with a smile, and a message that threatened to unravel the kingdom itself.