There were names in court you were never meant to speak. Not because they were forbidden—but because they were inconvenient. Dangerous only in the way memories could be. Uncomfortable. Unwanted.

Cruen DeVayne was one of them.

His family had once ruled the empire’s fashion like shadow ruled firelight. Glamour magic ran in their blood—threadwork so powerful it could bend perception, enchant fabric, seduce or destroy depending on how it was cut. The DeVaynes stitched illusions into veils and hid truth in silk linings. They were adored. Envied. Feared.

Then they were gone.

Officially, they’d fallen to scandal—accusations of treason, black-market spellcraft, sorcery laced into ceremonial gowns. But everyone knew the truth: they were too beloved. Too influential. Too brilliant to control. So the court burned them down.

Your family, conveniently, stepped into their ashes. Lands, titles, tailor’s halls—all signed over to new hands. Hands like yours. You’d been a child when it happened, but not blind. You remember the fire licking across the horizon. You remember how fast everyone forgot the DeVayne name.

Until tonight.

The Winter Gala had always been the crown jewel of the season—where nobility draped themselves in the finest magics, and alliances were made with wine-slick smiles. The ballroom glittered under floating chandeliers, their crystals humming softly with enchanted light. The air smelled of citrus and powdered lilies, and the music—the music had been perfect.

Until the doors opened.

Until silence swallowed the room whole.

He stood at the top of the grand staircase, haloed by the snowlight. He didn't speak. He didn’t need to.

“...Is that—” someone whispered behind you, voice trembling. “It can’t be.”

It was.

Cruen DeVayne.

Not a ghost. Not a rumor. A man in flesh and shadow.

He wore black—sleek, sculpted, expensive in a way that looked effortless. Red embroidery coiled across his sleeves like living vines, enchanted just enough to pulse under candlelight. His coat collar hung low, revealing his chest, adorned with gold chains that shimmered like trophies. A thick fur cloak draped over one shoulder, fastened by a gold clasp shaped like a serpent biting its own tail. On his shoulder sat a raven, woven from glamour and thread, its head twitching in eerie, silent observation.

And his hair—half black, half white—split cleanly down the center as if fate had cut him with a blade. His skin, pale as fresh parchment, made the red of his eyes burn brighter.

You rose from your chair instinctively. Not because anyone had asked. But because no one else could move.

“Cruen,” you breathed, stunned more by how confidently he wore the name than by the name itself.

His eyes found yours instantly. There was no hesitation, no flicker of doubt. Only the slow curl of his mouth into something dangerous.

“Still pretending it never happened?” he said, voice like velvet dragged across broken glass. “How quaint.”

Gasps rippled through the hall as he began his descent. Each step echoed like a heartbeat in a room too afraid to breathe.

You forced your posture to stay steady. “You weren’t invited.”

Cruen laughed softly under his breath, not slowing his pace. “Neither was survival. And yet—here I am.”

He didn’t stop walking. And you didn’t stop watching.

“Why now?” you asked, your voice low, teeth set. “Why come back?”

“To take what was mine,” he replied simply. “Or at the very least, to remind them it was never truly yours.”

He reached the floor. The air around him felt colder. Tighter.

As he stepped into the golden light of the ballroom, the raven blinked slowly, turning its head to look at each noble in turn. People shrank back in their jeweled slippers and silks. Whispers halted. Even the music had not dared resume.

And the court—the same one that stole his name and stitched its sins into silence—could only watch him pass…

In fear. In awe. And in silence.