I reached for another glass as soon as a white-clad waiter passed in front of me.

  If I was to survive yet another conversation about how a widow was rumored to be secretly seeing the very much married Assessor Thorn, how the daughter of House Bliaght was dating a wealthy non-magical man, or how the Collegium of Aetheric Medicine had denied enrollment to certain students this year as well, I'd better have liquid patience in my hands.

  "Well, I suppose, seeing the reluctance to adapt to the environment, compatibility was always going to become an issue," Lady Harrieth said, twirling absentmindedly the contents of her glass—the color resembling that of her hair.

  Vera Sheil nodded. "Of course. Keeping society's safety and harmony is just as important as education."

  "It would be best," a young Lord Archer added, "if the new family mages sought disciplines more... aligned with their capacities."

  The rest of the group nodded before changing the topic.

  My attention quietly slipped, my gaze moving around the room.

  This year's Yule Ball was even more eccentric than the last.

  Ice sculptures lined the perimeter, enchanted to keep them from melting.

  Enchanted fountains placed strategically around the room spilled champagne instead of water.

  Somewhere to the left, a living tree rose from the marble floor, its branches heavy with gilded leaves made of chocolate, dusted in real gold. Guests plucked them freely, laughter bright as the flakes caught the light.

  Near an ice sculpture of Therion Orapher, founder of the oldest House in Belaria, stood the Cassel twins.

  I lightly touched the arm of the nearest lady in the group. "You'll excuse me—I see acquaintances I ought to greet."

  The Cassels noticed me before I reached them.

  Corvin lifted his glass a fraction in my direction, his smile sharpening with amusement. "Lady Alya. Have we had the honour of saving you from Lumerian gossip?"

  I chuckled, feeling my cheeks warm. "Is it still considered saving if I genuinely enjoy your charming company?"

  Solay laughed lightly behind her hand. "We were beginning to fear you might be trapped there indefinitely."

  I let out a soft breath that could almost pass for a laugh. "I assure you, I was moments away from developing a deep and sincere interest in the marital habits of distant cousins."

  "That does sound perilous," Corvin replied gravely. "You did well to flee."

  "I didn't flee." I settled beside them, accepting the subtle shelter of their proximity. "I merely exercised good judgement."

  His sister tilted her head, eyes bright. "In that case, we're honoured you chose us as your refuge."

  I held her gaze before the three of us shared a small laugh.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  I spent a good portion of the evening in their company.

  We spoke of trivial things at first—the spectacle, the absurdity of edible gold, the music. Corvin remarked on the enchantments with genuine curiosity rather than awe. Solay made a dry comment about how many fortunes were being burned per minute.

  At some point, Corvin—ever the gentleman—extended his hand to me in a silent invitation to dance.

  The music was, indeed, sublime. The Orapher family had never cared about budget when hosting their prestigious events.

  I couldn't help but compare Corvin's dancing to Sirius's. Corvin's movements, though skilled, were less fluid and more... youthful. He seemed to dance to genuinely enjoy himself, rather than to impress or strictly follow social norms.

  "I couldn't help but notice," he said as he twirled us among the other dancers, "that you seem to be more present in Lumeria's social life lately."

  "I... recently noticed how much I was missing out," I replied with a polite smile.

  I could tell by his eyes that he didn't quite believe me, but he chose not to comment. I was grateful for that.

  "Alya!" Aester greeted me as soon as we returned from dancing.

  Beside her stood an amused Solay, and next to them a young woman I recognized as the daughter of Mr. Mortain, one of my father's associates—though her name escaped me.

  Aester took one of my hands warmly. "Have you seen the gold-dusted petals? They're edible!" she laughed, delighted.

  I couldn't help but find her laughter contagious, even as I reminded myself that this was networking rather than real connection.

  "Aester, it's marvellous to see you again. Yes—we were discussing the golden chocolate wonder just moments ago."

  "Have you met Octavia Mortain?" she asked. "She's an old friend of mine. We were in a few classes together at the academy."

  That meant they were peers—a couple of years older than me. With her round face and wide green eyes, she had maintained a youthful appearance. Which contrasted with her tight lipped smile and her stiff bow.

  "Octavia," Aester said, "this is my dear friend, Lady Alya Velmire."

  After the introductions, the four of us spent some time together, until Aester spotted her fiancé entering the room and departed in a flurry of dusky pink and gold fabric.

  The night spiralled forward. The Cassel twins's company was required by their father, and miss Mortain disappeared without me noticing.

  I found myself surrounded by another group of acquaintances.

  My father found us not long after.

  He appeared at my side with the effortless authority of a man to whom rooms like this naturally rearranged themselves—conversations pausing, glances turning, space opening.

  "Alya," he said, already reaching for my arm, "you'll indulge me."

  His hand shifted, and with it came Lord Allistair Merwood.

  I had known Allistair for years , trained closely for months—long enough to recognize the steadiness in his posture, the way his attention never wandered without purpose.

  There was comfort in that familiarity, even here. Even after he’d disappeared once it was clear the mission had failed.

  "Lord Merwood," my father said warmly, "you remember my daughter."

  Allistair inclined his head. "Of course. You look lovely, lady Velmire." I felt a small pang of irritation crawling into me. I pushed it down with a tight lipped smile. I don’t know if I would have done things differently, had I been in his position.

  "So do you," I replied, because it was true, and because this was the kind of truth permitted in rooms like this. His long dark hair and tanned skin contrasted beautifully with his cobalt eyes.

  What followed was a practiced circuit.

  My father guided us through the ballroom with unhurried precision, pausing to greet old allies, distant cousins, men whose names carried weight in council chambers and women whose smiles concealed sharper instincts. Introductions layered themselves neatly—House affiliations, past favors, future possibilities—each interaction brief and polished.

  I let my father's hand at my elbow steer me, even as a quiet tension gathered between my shoulders.

  At some point, as if sensing my thinning patience and growing discomfort, Allistair turned to me.

  "Would you honour me with a dance?" he asked, already offering his hand.

  I accepted.

  Allistair danced well—confident, precise, attentive without being restrictive. He adjusted instinctively when I shifted, followed my lead when I took it.

  "You're tense," he observed lightly, not unkindly.

  "Am I?" I asked.

  "A little," he said. Then, softer, "It's understandable."

  We turned with the music.

  "You don't have to call me Lord Merwood, you know," he added after a moment. "Not when it's just us."

  I met his eyes, amused despite myself.

  "Mmm... I imagine our shared past allows for that, Allistair."

  His mouth curved, just slightly. "That's better."

  When the dance ended, we found ourselves near one of the champagne fountains. Crystal flutes appeared as if summoned by thought alone.

  I took one, letting the cool glass anchor me.

  My father had already drifted a few steps away, deep in conversation. For the first time that evening, I allowed myself to wonder why he had chosen tonight to place Allistair at my side so deliberately.

  It wasn't subtle.

  And my father was never careless.

  I lifted the glass, watching the golden bubbles rise.

  Then something shifted.

  At first, I thought it was the crowd—a subtle change in the current of bodies, a ripple of attention moving across the room. My gaze followed it instinctively.

  And there he was.

  Sirius stood near the far edge of the ballroom, partially obscured by a cluster of guests, dark against the brilliance of the hall. He was not yet engaged in conversation, his attention angled elsewhere—but unmistakably present.

  For a heartbeat, the noise dimmed.

  The laughter. The music. The weight of gold and magic and expectation.

  All of it fell away.

  My grip tightened on the stem of my glass.

  "There's someone you know?" Allistair asked quietly, following my line of sight.

  I forced myself to breathe, to blink, to return to the room.

  "Yes," I said carefully.

  The Liorens were known to celebrate Yule in a more private way.

  Yet, here he was.