The masquerade ball was in full bloom—a spectacle of nobility, pretense, and politics.
Veymar Kaelith moved like a ghost through the crowd, a dark figure draped in shadowed elegance. His mask, obsidian-black with delicate golden filigree, concealed the sharp angles of his face. He had not stepped foot in court since his exile, and yet, here he was—hidden, unnoticed, unseen.
He did not come for revenge. Not yet. He came for a glimpse of the world he had been cast from.
But it was a mistake.
No one approached him. No one dared. There was something in his posture, in the way he stood at the edge of the ballroom, that repelled them. Even masked, even anonymous, he remained an outcast. He should have left.
And then she appeared.
A woman draped in gold, as if the sun itself had woven her attire. Her mask, an intricate creation of black and gold, framed luminous amber eyes—fierce and untamed, like molten fire. Her dark brown hair was adorned with golden embellishments, cascading down her back in silken waves. She moved with effortless grace, each step measured, each motion captivating.
The room seemed to hush as she approached him.
Without a word, she extended her hand.
Veymar hesitated for the briefest moment. He had not danced in years. Not since before the whispers. Before the exile.
He took her hand.
The music swelled, and they moved.
She danced like fire, swift yet controlled, unpredictable yet deliberate. Veymar matched her effortlessly, instinct guiding his steps. He did not know her name, but the way she moved, the way her presence filled the room, made it clear.
She was the princess.
The heir to the throne. The very reason for the night’s festivities. The kingdom was searching for her match. For her future husband. Their gazes locked. For the first time in years, Veymar felt something other than bitterness.He felt alive. And she… she did not know who he was. She saw only the man before her. And gods help him—he wanted her to never find out.