Maelis’s dress is midnight blue, its back a mess of unraveling ribbons, pollen and bruises tucked beneath her skin like half-formed secrets. She hovers restlessly at the edge of the ballroom, hands trembling around a half-wilted rose, gaze flicking between the golden throng and the darkened corridor behind her. Her makeup is perfect except for one smudge of eyeliner she forgot to fix—a jagged, lonely mark beneath her left eye. The air is too warm with candlelight; her breathing stays shallow.

Footsteps echo—purposeful, too heavy to ignore. Sylith’s posture carves the distance: sharp black suit, every button neat, arms folded, braid pulled so tight her features seem almost severe. She blocks Maelis’s escape with a look that could freeze blood. Her eyes flick to the failed attempt at hiding fear in Maelis’s posture, then away, jaw clenched hard enough to spark a vein at her temple.

“Is there a reason you keep ducking into storage,” Sylith murmurs, voice smoothed into velvet threat. Maelis forces out a scoff but her fingers betray her—twisting the rose stem so sharply a thorn bites skin. Sylith steps closer, their bodies close enough Maelis feels the heat radiate through starched fabric and cold steel authority. For a moment, Sylith’s hand hovers, wanting to brush hair from Maelis’s cheek or maybe just cup her jaw—but she lets it fall, fingers curling.

Maelis tries to meet her gaze, but under that gray stare the soft core of her is exposed—needing, ashamed. “Sometimes hiding is the only thing I’m good at,” she says, so softly it’s almost guilt. Sylith’s lips twitch; the faintest, almost sorrowful smile. In the next instant, she leans in, her mouth barely brushing Maelis’s ear. “Keep her safe. I won’t ask again.” The words are an impossible mercy, breath hot against trembling skin. For one ragged heart-beat, Maelis wonders if Sylith will kiss her. She doesn’t. Still, her gaze lingers—hungry, frustrated, longing leaking through rips in armor.

Behind them, Leor’s laughter stutters as he intercepts a waiter mid-fall. He’s less put-together tonight: shirt askew, tie loose, cheeks flushed with more than just wine. He watches Sylith and Maelis too long, amusement shadowed by a brief, bruised ache. He forces a grin, swoops behind Maelis, whispering, “Your flowers are crying for water—and so are you.” She swats at him, nearly smiling, but there’s no time for comfort.

A sudden commotion pulls them apart—Arkyn’s voice slicing across the celebration, imperious, demanding. Guests freeze mid-tango. Renn watches from the edge, hair untidy, eyes trained on Maelis and the secrets she can’t hide. His paramedic jacket is thrown over his arm, sleeves rolled, a faded music tattoo peeking out. He steps toward her, concern etched in the furrow of his brow.

“Is everything—?” he begins, but she’s already collapsing into his arms behind a marble pillar, chest pressed to his, fingers digging into his sides. “I almost lost her,” she whispers, meaning Seria, meaning herself. His hands are warm anchors—one pressed to her back, one cupping her jaw, thumbs skimming over trembling lips.

Their mouths meet, first trembling, then fierce, drawing solace and surrender in urgent kisses. She tastes like nerves and hope. He breathes her in, as though pulling pain from her with every tangled touch. The world narrows: hands fumbling at zippers, dress slipping from her shoulders, his shirt bunched in her fists. Renn’s need is raw; he lifts her onto the rain-slick terrace rail, moonlight skimming bare thighs and the arch of her throat as he mouths promises into her skin. Maelis’s laughter cracks, turns to a gasp. For a moment—legs wrapped around him, cold air shocking where his hands aren't—she lets herself shatter, lets him worship what’s left.

Breaths ragged, sweat mingling with the threat of tears, Maelis pulls back, eyes wild with fear and want. “If they find out—about Seria, about us—” she starts, but he silences her, forehead pressed to hers, voice hoarse. “I’ll protect you both. I swear it.”

The terrace door slams. Arkyn’s silhouette glows sharp in the hall, a predator’s smile on his lips. “Interesting company you keep, Maelis,” he drawls. “Shall we talk about your daughter now—or shall I tell the whole gala?”

Maelis’s heart stutters, Renn’s grip tightening protectively. The music inside stutters, the promise of safety dissolving into threat.

To be continued…