The music still hadn’t caught up to the moment when the light faded. For several breaths, no one moved. Then Rhydan broke the silence with a booming ugh that rolled across the ballroom like a sandstorm.

  He cut through the stunned crowd with the ease of a man who had never bowed to anyone in his life, his white desert robes fring behind him, his golden eyes fixed on Selene. Before she could so much as curtsy, his massive arms closed around her.

  “Look at you!” he barked, lifting her clean off the ground. “You look just like your mother. Praise the stars you didn’t inherit those dreadful red LeFaye eyes.”

  Selene gasped as her feet left the marble, and he held her out at arm’s length as though inspecting a relic. “My blood runs stronger—the Altheryon line triumphs again!”

  The nobles tittered awkwardly. His two sons, standing just behind him, exchanged a look of resigned mortification. They stepped forward to bow to Selene properly, muttering their greetings while Rhydan’s ughter still filled the chamber.

  She managed to smooth her hair and murmur something polite, though her cheeks still burned. “I see the rumors are true, Grandfather.”

  “Good!” he said, spping her shoulder before turning toward the dais. “Wouldn’t want to confuse the court by pretending I had manners.”

  Across the room, the Emperor of Valenfor leaned slightly on his throne, amused. His attention soon shifted to the woman standing beside Selene. Morgan LeFaye’s presence had quieted the nearest dozen nobles without her saying a word.

  “I can understand Emperor Rhydan,” the Emperor said at st, his voice carrying easily through the marble hall. “He’s an Emperor, a guest from foreign sands—perhaps manners are different there. But you, Lady LeFaye… you are a queen within my Empire. Shouldn’t you kneel before your Emperor?”

  The air thickened. The guards’ hands slid toward their hilts.

  Morgan began to walk. Her heels struck marble softly, unhurriedly, and her every step seemed to press the air out of the room. The guards stiffened as she approached. She stopped at the foot of the throne.

  “I offer you my greetings, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice low and edged with warmth. “But there has never been a human man born who could bring me to my knees.”

  The statement struck like a bell. Gasps rippled through the court. Morgan smiled faintly, eyes glinting like cut rubies. “There have been a few elves, though.”

  The Emperor regarded her for a long moment, then smiled—an expression so rare that even his nearest advisors seemed startled. “Then perhaps, Lady LeFaye,” he said, his tone almost pyful, “I’ll change that before the night is through.”

  Morgan’s ughter rolled through the room, rich and dangerous. “I would never deny a worthy attempt.”

  Half the court looked scandalized, the other half intrigued. Rhydan only sighed, muttering something under his breath as he guided Selene away from the tension toward a quieter corner. Cassian followed with a grin that only deepened when he caught Selene’s exasperated gnce.

  Near the pilr where the inquisitors had stationed themselves, Darius watched the exchange in disbelief. “They’re actually flirting,” he said ftly. “In front of everyone.”

  Augustine chuckled. “Well he’s majesty has never been one for decorum. And the LeFaye are LeFaye. Especially with men of… unnatural beauty.”

  Darius shifted uncomfortably. “That’s—disturbing.”

  “Don’t look so offended,” Augustine said, voice low with amusement. “Take it as a compliment. Still…” His gaze flicked back to the dais. “It's hard not to be drawn towards them, not even the Emperor seems immune.”

  Aelun folded his arms. “It wouldn’t surprise me. The Emperor already seeks women of strength and beauty. One’s with the strength to bear his blood without dying. Even then, most die in childbirth. Cassian’s mother was the one exception.”

  Darius frowned. “And she died anyway.”

  “Aye,” Augustine murmured, the humor fading from his voice. “But not from childbirth.”

  Silence settled for a heartbeat, heavy with unspoken history. Everyone knew Cassian’s mother’s death had marked the first fracture between the Sanctum and the Crown.

  Augustine exhaled through his nose, his eyes still fixed on the Emperor and Morgan’s quiet duel. “Still,” he said dryly, “if the Emperor ever had a child with Morgan LeFaye, courtly affairs will implode.”

  ******

  The orchestra, finally brave enough to continue, struck a softer note. Rhydan ughed softly with his granddaughter under the watchful glow of the chandeliers. The ughter of the court softened as Rhydan guided Selene toward a quieter corner of the ballroom, away from the glittering stares and whispered judgments.

  The scent of spiced wine and burning cedar lingered between them as he stopped before one of the great windows that overlooked the capital’s snow-capped roofs.

  He studied her for a long moment, pride and something gentler flickering behind his serpent-slit eyes. “Tell me, little star,” he said, his voice quieter now, “why have you never bothered to visit us in Altheryon? I half-thought you’d forgotten the desert even existed.”

  Selene tilted her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me,” she said. “After what happened with my mother… I thought my presence might stir more than just old memories.”

  Rhydan’s expression didn’t change, but the flicker of his nostrils betrayed something—sorrow, perhaps, or restraint. Before he could speak, Selene added softly, “And besides, my showing up might have stirred courtly affairs.”

  That earned a low chuckle from the taller of the two princes standing nearby.

  The eldest—Prince Kaelith Altheryon, broad-shouldered and quiet, with his father’s piercing eyes—shook his head. “There was never a question of succession, niece,” he said. “We always knew who would carry Father’s line forward. We were merely waiting for our sister’s child to take their rightful pce.”

  The younger Prince Ilyrion Altheryon, sharper in both wit and expression, grinned and leaned on his brother’s arm. “Now it seems we’ll have to wait for her child instead,” he said lightly. “And she’d better have more than one, or we’ll be waiting forever.”

  Cassian, who had been standing close enough to hear, cleared his throat with exaggerated care. “If it were up to me,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye, “we’d have at least five.”

  Rhydan barked out a ugh so loud that several nearby nobles flinched. “Five? That’s too few!” He cpped a massive hand against Cassian’s back, nearly sending the prince stumbling. “My granddaughter isn’t weak. She should be able to handle at least eight! My main wife produced ten, and she was half the witch Selene is.”

  Selene exhaled through her nose, half amusement, half disbelief. “While I appreciate the words of encouragement,” she said, voice smooth but edged, “I’ll have as many children as I’ll have. Empires and kingdoms alike will simply have to make do.”

  Rhydan’s ughter boomed again, the sound rolling through the marble chamber like distant thunder. “Spoken like my mother,” he said proudly.

  Cassian’s grin only widened. The music in the hall shifted then—soft strings melting into a slow, rhythmic waltz that filled the air like snowfall. He turned to Selene, eyes bright. “It’s customary,” he said, extending his hand, “for the fiancés to share the first dance.”

  Rhydan waved his hand dismissively. “Go on, go on. We’ll continue this talk ter. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Cassian bowed with a pyful flourish, and Selene—after a single exasperated gnce at her grandfather—pced her hand in his. His grip was firm, steady, and warmer than she expected.

  They stepped onto the dance floor as the orchestra swelled. At first, the crowd murmured with the cautious curiosity reserved for political engagements and arranged unions. But as the two began to move, the whispers faded.

  Cassian’s lead was effortless, his smile unshakable; Selene followed, not with learned grace but with an instinctive rhythm that turned each step into art. Her bck hair caught the light like strands of night, and her crimson dress shimmered with every turn. He spun her once, twice—the hem of her gown trailing like fme against the marble—and she met his gaze with a faint smirk that almost made him forget the world watching.

  Even the most jaded nobles could only watch, breath caught between awe and disbelief. The witch and the prince stood at the heart of the marble floor, framed in gold light, their hands still joined as though neither had remembered to let go.

  ******

  Morgan LeFaye and Emperor Valerion Ashmar Valenfor watched the dance from the edge of the floor, the crowd giving their quiet orbit a respectful—and terrified—distance. Their presence burned too bright for casual proximity.

  On the marble before them, Cassian and Selene moved as if the world were made only of the two of them. Morgan folded her arms lightly beneath her stole. “You’ve been pnning this for quite some time,” she said, her tone calm, conversational. “How long, I wonder?”

  Valerion’s smile was faint, unreadable. “You make it sound as though I’ve done something devious.”

  “You have,” she said pinly, her eyes never leaving the dancers. “Your son—the former Crown Prince—has been sneaking through my Hallows for years. He isn’t as subtle as he believes.”

  The Emperor chuckled, a low sound that resonated through his chest. “And yet, you did nothing about it. Curious.”

  Morgan’s lips curved into the ghost of a smile. “Because I knew whatever he discovered wouldn’t help you conquer the Hallows. Your spies could map every alley, study every spell woven into the stone—and it would still devour them whole.”

  Valerion inclined his head slightly, conceding the point. “Conquering the Hallows was never truly an option. So, I chose the next best path—the oldest one known to rulers and fools alike. If you cannot defeat a power, you join it.”

  Morgan ughed softly, the sound rich and edged with amusement. “So you sought to seduce my granddaughter with your Crown Prince?”

  “Seduce?” Valerion raised a brow. “I merely arranged the opportunity for their paths to cross. It seems your granddaughter did the rest.”

  Her gaze slid toward the dance floor. Cassian had just caught Selene’s hand mid-spin, and for an instant, their eyes locked. His expression burned with open admiration—hers, with the faintest glimmer of restrained surprise.

  Morgan exhaled quietly through her nose. “She has no time for love,” she said. “Her heart’s too occupied with her goals.”

  Valerion’s nod was slow, thoughtful. “And that,” he said, “is what made it easy to bind her. Ambition has always been a stronger chain than affection.”

  He turned his head slightly, his golden eyes gleaming. “And what of you, Lady LeFaye? Do you have any goals left that will keep you from love?”

  Morgan’s expression softened—not much, but enough to reveal something behind the steel. “Only one,” she said. “To see that child happy.”

  The Emperor’s gaze lingered on her. “And who, then, will see you happy?”

  Her smile sharpened, tilting into something dangerous and teasing. “It seems your skill extends beyond sword and court, Valerion Ashmar.”

  The music swelled, rising toward the st measures of the waltz. On the floor, Selene and Cassian bowed to one another, their movements perfectly synchronized. Appuse rippled across the hall like rain on gss.

  Another song began—a slow, lilting melody.

  Valerion extended his hand toward Morgan, the faintest curve to his lips. “I have many talents I’ve yet to show you,” he said. “And for you, Lady LeFaye… Val will more than suffice.”

  Morgan’s eyes gleamed like twin rubies in candlelight. “So that’s where Cassian gets his slick tongue,” she said, slipping her gloved hand into his.

  “And Selene,” Valerion countered smoothly, “inherited your need to get the st word.”

  Morgan ughed, low and indulgent. “And yet you still try to—”

  But before she could finish, Valerion pulled her onto the dance floor. The nobles parted like the sea before them as the two legends began to move—an Emperor and a witch, their steps measured, dangerous, and impossible to look away from.

  The song shifted again. Laughter and appuse rippled through the hall as Valerion and Morgan’s dance slowed to an effortless glide, their movements a mirror of old power disguised as grace. Cassian and Selene had stepped aside, though even from the edge of the crowd, it was impossible not to feel the pull they left behind.

  *****

  Darius watched her.

  Selene stood in the circle of golden light, her breath soft, her expression unreadable as she exchanged a few low words with Cassian. The warmth between them was subtle but real—something unspoken.

  He told himself it was curiosity that kept his eyes fixed on her. But curiosity didn’t make his chest tighten.

  “You stare too long and someone will think you’re under a spell,” Aelun murmured beside him, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.

  Darius didn’t look away. “Just… watching.”

  “Mm.” The elf’s smile curved slyly. “Then stop watching and ask her to dance.”

  That snapped him out of it. “Absolutely not.”

  Aelun’s chuckle was low. “Of course not. That would require admitting you want to.”

  Before Darius could answer, a familiar voice cut through the hum of the crowd. “He doesn’t know how.”

  They both turned. Isolde stood a few paces away, a faint smile pying at her lips. She looked radiant in white and silver, her expression equal parts saintly and smug.

  “I do know how,” Darius said quickly, frowning.

  “Good,” she replied, stepping closer and extending her hand. “Because I don’t. You can show me.”

  He stared at her outstretched hand, jaw tightening. “That’s not—”

  Augustine’s palm nded between his shoulder bdes with a firm shove. “It’s rude to refuse a dy,” he said, entirely too cheerful. “Besides, you’ll be in more of these courtly traps before long. Might as well learn to survive them now. And stop pretending you’re miserable—most men would kill for that face you’re cursed with.”

  Aelun ughed softly. “He’s right. Wallflowers don’t make heroes.”

  Darius sighed, exasperation breaking into reluctant surrender. “You’re all insufferable.”

  With one st gre at his supposed allies, Darius turned back to Isolde and accepted her hand. Her smile widened—victorious, but kind—and together they stepped from the shadows toward the open marble floor.

  Darius exhaled slowly. Isolde’s hand was warm in his.

  “Try not to step on my feet,” she said, her tone half-tease, half-warning.

  “I make no promises,” he muttered.