Masked faces flicker in and out of torchlight, laughter sliding through open windows into the wild gardens. Wild Bloom Inn feels alive, humming with anticipation as the masquerade overtakes every hallway, every shadowed nook, every trembling heart inside. Ellira Wint presses the gilded mask to her face, fingers shaking. Somewhere across the lantern-lit lawn, she senses Dax—her exhale stills as she turns, catching a first glance of his broad shoulders, the worn suit jacket straining against them, mask hiding half his scars and all his fear.

A violin song rises, low and desperate, and guests whirl in a riot of color. Ellira weaves among them, searching. She finds Neryth first, red lips curved in a wicked grin, silver mask askew atop unruly black hair. Vionwyn, the inn’s chef and lately so much more, stands close beside her, the shell-pink of her dress offsetting sharp eyes, her laughter uncertain but honest for the first time. Their hands brush—fingers interlacing, then untangling, as though even touch could be stolen in this place, this night when anything might happen.

A hand grips Ellira’s wrist; it’s Dax, and the mask can’t conceal the way his gaze burns, pleading. He pulls her out to the moonlit terrace, tension tight between them, words hovering—unsaid, dangerous, necessary.

“I have to say it, Ellira.” His voice breaks, lower even than usual. “I caused the accident. I let her—I let her fall. I didn’t stop it.”

She’s spent days wading through guilt and longing, torn between the world she left behind and the wild need here, now. He waits, agony etched into the set of his jaw.

She inhales, shaky, then kisses him—hard, furious, desperate. “I know,” she whispers into his mouth. “You’re not unforgivable. I chose you. I choose you again.”

They stumble backward inside, past ghostly dancers, through a door half-hidden by trailing vines. Her fingers yank open Dax’s shirt; his hands tremble as he peels the mask from her face, dragging his lips down her throat. She arches into him, freeing herself in the way only he has ever summoned—a gasp, a shudder, heat pressing between thighs, her name rasped in his ear.

He lays her across the bed, moon spray painting her skin, every kiss an apology, a vow. She presses her palms to his scars, anchors him as he slides inside, and the past falls away in a tangle of limbs, mouths, sweat, and forgiveness.

Elsewhere in the inn, Neryth waits until the midnight hour before finding Vionwyn alone in the kitchen. Vionwyn’s arms glisten: flour-dusted, strong, honeyed with exhaustion and midnight light. Neryth approaches slowly, every step a promise, every glance a question. She reaches for Vionwyn’s wrist, turning it over, pressing a slow kiss to the inside—right over the old bruises, the ones no one speaks of.

“We’re not running,” Neryth says, voice rough. “Not tonight.”

Vionwyn’s armor cracks; something wounded and luminous glows behind her eyes. She traces the curve of Neryth’s bare shoulder, following the line down until her fingers tremble with want.

Clothes drop to the kitchen tiles one piece at a time: soft dress, loose shirt, panties, jeans. Neryth cups Vionwyn’s face, drags her in for a kiss slow as honey, deep as the tide. The first stroke is tentative—hesitation giving way to hunger, Vionwyn’s moan muffled by Neryth’s mouth. They back up against the counter, cool marble shocking bare thighs, the sticky spill of cherry preserves forgotten as Vionwyn slides to her knees, mouth worshipping, hands braced on Neryth’s hips.

Neryth pulls her up, turning, pinning Vionwyn with her back to the pantry door. They move together helplessly—skin to skin, hands everywhere, breathless, relentless, no hiding, no shields left. “God, I feel you,” Vionwyn pants, tears hot and sudden. Neryth touches her face, gentle, insistent. “Then let me in.”

They climax together, clinging, laughter and sobs tangled with sweat, the taste of sugar lingering on lips, everything broken remaking itself in the dawn.

In the barn, Marstyn slow-dances alone, eyes lingering on the glow of the inn, pain bright and raw but shifting—he finds Soriel out with the cows, and together they spin under the stars, something like hope flickering between them.

As morning glimmers gold through wildflower fields, Ellira and Dax stumble outside, masks discarded, hands tangled. Neryth and Vionwyn already wait in the dew-damp grass, breathless, unguarded. No words needed: there are only bodies and bright blooms, lips finding lips, tangled limbs among petals. Each kiss, every sigh, a spell woven for healing, for home.

Sunrise catches them entwined—four souls scorched and soothed, finally, impossibly, seen.