cardan’s gaze had been fixed on you from the moment you entered the hall, your quiet, mortal presence igniting something bitter and thrilling in his chest, like a wound he couldn’t stop prodding. you moved with locke, his hand resting at your waist, his words like honey dripping in your ear. to anyone watching, it might seem like affection, but cardan knew well that locke’s heart was split between you and your sister, that his every word was part of a delicate, artfully woven deceit.

an unfamiliar frustration simmers within cardan as he watches, though he tells himself it’s merely disdain, nothing to do with his own repressed feelings. after all, what was a prince of elfhame to feel for a mortal girl but disdain? the very fact of your fragility, your fleeting human mortality, repulses him—or so he insists to himself, wielding his derision as both weapon and shield. yet, as locke leans in, murmuring something that makes your face flicker with doubt, cardan can’t resist.

he steps forward, his movements languid but charged with purpose, his dark gaze glinting beneath the heavy crown he wears with a mocking elegance. black leather gloves cover his hands, giving his touch a deliberate, almost sinister weight as he approaches.

“time to change partners,” he says, his voice as smooth as silk and just as sharp, each word laced with a double meaning you remain blissfully ignorant of. it’s a dismissal and a reminder, a cold assertion of his rank—and, perhaps, a warning of things you cannot yet see. he slips his gloved hand around your waist, pulling you into his hold, the leather pressing firmly against the thin fabric at your back.

“oh,” he adds, casting a mocking smile at locke, his eyes gleaming with something cruelly amused, something to hide the feelings he loathes to admit. “did i steal your line?”