The first whisper of scandal whirls through the candlelight, brushing Maelis’s skin with a chill she refuses to let show. She stands at the edge of the ballroom, molten red silk hugging her curves, arms folded protectively as she watches the crowd coil around Arkyn Lysander’s latest toast. Her chin is high, defiant, but her eyes betray her exhaustion—the bruised violet beneath them a testimony to weeks of sleepless hope and fear. She finds Seria’s gaze from across a lattice of bodies and gives the smallest, trembling smile, longing to cross the polished floor and snatch her daughter into safety.

Renn weaves through champagne-scented clusters in his uniform, the white of his shirt crisp against bronzed skin, jaw set with stubborn resolve. His dark hair is tousled, a single unruly strand falling over his brow as he edges closer to Maelis. His heartbeat punches at his ribs. “They know,” he murmurs under his breath, not touching her but lingering just close enough that her perfume tangles with his. “Rumor’s out. Seria—” Her name sticks in his throat, fear glinting in those gentle brown eyes.

Maelis’s mask threatens to crack. “Tell me what to do.” Her voice is a raw thread, knuckles white against her elbows. But before he can answer, the crowd parts. Sylith stands there, sharp in black, every line of her body precise, eyes silvered with conflict. “You need to move her,” she intones, low, barely a whisper. Her lips are taut, but there’s compassion flickering at the edge of her stoicism, something Maelis wants to trust but can’t.

From across the room, Leor watches—cobalt vest slightly disheveled, tie askew, a bead of sweat tracking his temple as he tops-off flutes with trembling hands. The laughter in his words has faded; there’s only brittle concern as he catches Maelis’s eye and swallows, tongue flicking nervously over his lower lip. Later, wounded and drunk, he finds her alone in a back hallway, the air between them thick with grief. “Let me help,” he pleads, voice splintering. “I should’ve told you before—I can’t stop thinking about you.” His confession cracks the tension—her hand finds his cheek, lingering with something more than gratitude. He leans into her, desperate, mouth searching. For a moment, Maelis gives in—bare skin against bare skin beneath her silk, breath hot. But she pulls away, tearing herself free, guilt flashing in her eyes as his hope collapses.

Renn appears, shoulders tense, jealousy flaring across his face before he buries it. “Maelis, we have to go. Now.” He reaches for her arm, possessive, protective. His ex, a vision in icy blue, steps from the shadows—smirk cruel, eyes bright with old rivalry. “You’re going to lose everything for this?” she spits, voice sharp and eager for blood. Renn's jaw clenches; Maelis squares her shoulders, refusing to back down, but terror simmers beneath her defiance.

As the ballroom erupts in whispers, Arkyn’s voice booms—commanding all eyes. The news is out, and Maelis is cornered by judgment and threat. Her world spins, the strength she’s clung to all night flickering at last. From somewhere behind her, Sylith’s hand hovers at Maelis's back—solid, steadying, a wordless promise that Maelis isn't alone.

Across the marble floor, Seria’s small face appears, open and unguarded in the chaos—her secret now naked to the world.

To be continued...