Lyra stands before her dorm mirror, the borrowed velvet mask pressed into trembling fingers. The deep red of her gown skims her collarbones, beads catching low light like thorns, her eyes glassy with hope and dread. She palms her lips, searching for an anchor in the humming dark, every restless thought of Peris rising and cresting inside her.

Down the corridor, laughter slides along stone walls, torchlight flickering over shifting shapes. She slips the mask over her flushed face, hands shaky, and heads out with her spine straight, shoulders squared—her body taut with longing, her heartbeat a wild thing.

The ballroom churns with masked bodies, feathers and silk at war with secrets. Peris stands apart, his dark suit impeccable against the candlelight, the black mask carved sharp above sorrowful eyes. His hair falls unruly over his brow and his mouth is drawn, lips pale, but his gaze is restless—tracking Lyra the moment she enters, a silent cord tugging him closer.

Caelum looms near the punch table, his posture ramrod straight, a silver mask clinging to the icy set of his jaw. Sweat beads along his temple, not from the crowded room but from something bitter and raw rattling through his chest. Every time Lyra’s laughter peals or Peris shifts his weight, tension stabs through his gut.

Torrek prods at the tie of his costume—shirt half-untucked, mask skewed, anxiety chewing his insides open even as he flashes his teeth at passing girls. The team gives him wary distance now; his hands twitch, but for once, he does not hide them.

Saille weaves through the crowd in a tornado of emerald satin and foxfire glances, brushing caresses into whatever secrets she finds unattended. She traces the path that will leave hearts bruised and throats uncertain.

Peris finds Lyra near the edge of the dance floor. His hand hovers before closing gently over hers—a brush of fingertips, a silent plea. “We need to talk,” he breathes, voice hushed, barely masking the ache in it.

She follows him to a darkened antechamber, pulse battering at her skin. Behind the oak door, distance collapses as he frames her face in trembling hands, mask discarded, cheeks slick with salt. “I shouldn’t—” he manages, voice broken.

She presses up, mouth capturing his in a kiss so full of hunger and grief it scorches them both. His arms seize her waist, hers thread through his hair. Their bodies press together, hands desperate, clothing rumpled, her dress sliding from her shoulder as his lips find the vulnerable slope of her neck. The world shrinks to skin and breath and the frantic honesty in their touch—a final, frantic surrender as they cling to each other, eyes shut tight against the cost.

When they break, Lyra’s mascara runs in delicate rivers, and Peris’s fingers tremble as he cups her jaw. “I have to go,” he whispers, agony thickening the words. He presses a final, shattering kiss to her brow, and steps away—his body hunched, suit askew, the resignation letter already sealed in his pocket.

Back in the ballroom, Caelum corners Saille, his mask gone, eyes bloodshot and wild. “It was you, wasn’t it? The threats—everything,” he spits, his voice cracking.

Saille only smiles, lips gleaming, her gaze slicing through his certainty. “Isn’t it delicious,” she purrs. “What we do to those we want to keep?” She sweeps past, leaving Caelum standing fractured, air furious in his lungs, betrayal mingling with relief.

Torrek steps onto the edge of the field beyond the hall, mask dangling from his fingers. No one whispers now; his panic is public, and the sting of shame has faded into raw relief. Lyra catches his eye through the French doors, her hand pressed over her heart—her gaze soft, regretful, but honest. They share the smallest of nods, something like forgiveness or the start of a truce.

The crowd begins to thin, laughter now uncertain, the pulse of the night fractured by what has been lost and what still aches. Peris slips away beneath the old oaks, Lyra’s scent clinging to his collar. Caelum’s fists clench white, his perfection shattered, but in his ruin, his face is finally unguarded.

Saille stands at the balcony, surveying the scattered hearts below. She blows a kiss into the midnight air—a promise or a threat—her eyes glimmering with secrets too enticing to let sleep.

Inside Marrowridge, doors close, the ache of longing and the hush of heartbreak settling into stone. The masquerade is over, but desire lingers, fever-bright and impossible to name.