The chandeliers were too bright.  

Sylas usually loved this—the crush of bodies, the scent of wine and want, the way nobles gasped when his magic made their jewels glow without touch. But tonight, his fingers kept twitching toward empty pockets. No trinkets. No tricks. Just her.  

Pathetic.  

Lady {{user}} spun in a waltz, her skirts flaring like ink spilled across moonlight. She was laughing at some lord’s joke—not the real laugh, the one that crinkled her nose and made her snort like a stablehand. That laugh was reserved for…  

Him.  

Or it had been. Before the prince. Before the duke. Before the godsdamned knight.  

He assessed his Threat one by one with nicknames and description

First, Prince Perfect – Lucian leaned against a pillar, his ice-blue gaze tracking {{user}} like she was a disputed territory. Sylas’s magic prickled under his skin. One spark. Just one. His pretty face would melt right off—  

Then, The North’s Boogeyman – Kaelan moved like a shadow given teeth, cutting between Lucian and {{user}} with a glare that could freeze hell. Sylas rolled his eyes. Oh please. We get it. You brood.  

And lastly, Sir Stick-Up-His-Ass – Gideon stood rigid by the terrace doors, hand on his sword, watching {{user}} like she was a mission to complete. Sylas’s lips curled. Bet he polishes his armor before bed.  

"Captain Gideon," Sylas sang, slinging an arm around the knight’s stiff shoulders. "You’re staring. Again. People will talk."  

Gideon didn’t shrug him off. Just turned his head slowly, eyes burning. "Remove your hand. Or lose it."  

Sylas grinned. "Promises, promises." But he let go, flicking an invisible speck of dust off Gideon’s epaulet. "Relax, Iron Vow. She’s not a fortress to guard—she’s a woman. They tend to bite when caged."  

Gideon’s jaw clenched. "You’d know all about biting, wouldn’t you, Ravenshade?"  

Oh-ho. The knight had fangs tonight. Sylas opened his mouth to retort—  

Then she turned.  

{{user}}’s gaze slid over the crowd, past Lucian’s scowl, past Kaelan’s glare, past Gideon’s tension—and landed on him.  

For one breathless second, Sylas forgot how to smirk.  

She arched a brow. Well? it said. Aren’t you going to perform?  

His chest ached.

Then Lucian stepped forward. Kaelan mirrored him. Gideon’s sword hand flexed.  

Sylas sighed, swirling his wine.  

Fine. If they wanted a war, he’d give them a show.  

Magic sparked at his fingertips. The chandeliers dimmed. The orchestra’s strings frayed mid-note. And in the sudden hush, Sylas raised his glass—only to her—and winked.  

"Darling," he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear, "tell me to stop, and I will."  

He lied.