The Grand Hall glittered.

  Light spilled from chandeliers strung like upside-down consteltions, catching on crystal, silver, jewels. A river of silk and brocade flowed beneath them: nobles in their finest, Tower dignitaries in formal robes, foreign envoys with their own strange fashions. Music curled around it all, bright and effortless.

  I felt like a stain on a painting.

  Prince Corveaux guided me down the st few steps of the marble staircase with the easy assurance of someone who had done this a hundred times. His hand rested lightly over mine, his grip not harsh, but unyielding.

  Rocher walked at my other side, one pace behind, dressed in fitted bck and silver. The Hero's sigil gleamed at his colr. Eyes flicked to him in quick, hungry gnces, then to Corveaux.

  Some of the looks slid over me, calcuting. Not witch. Not nun. Just a woman on the Crown Prince's arm, and all the possibilities that implied.

  Whispers followed us like smoke.

  I tried not to hear them.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the crowd parted. A herald announced our arrival. Titles. Honors. Words that had nothing to do with who I was.

  Corveaux leaned just close enough for his breath to brush my ear.

  "Smile."

  I did.

  It felt like my face might crack.

  We moved into the hall together. Corveaux steered me with small, precise touches. Rocher drifted to my other side, a half-step out of sync.

  I didn't see Evelyn at first.

  I told myself that was a mercy.

  Then I looked harder. Searched for the glint of her sable hair, her easy slouch, the way she always took up more space than she needed just to annoy people.

  Nothing.

  A cold knot formed in my stomach.

  "Is Evelyn not coming?" I asked quietly, trying to sound casual. "I thought she would at least be here for Seraphine."

  Corveaux's eyes flicked to me, then back to the crowd.

  "I requested that she stay out," he said.

  My step faltered. "Why?"

  He gave a soft, apologetic sigh. "I assumed you would not wish to see her."

  The knot tightened. "You assumed wrong."

  His gaze dropped to me, mild, almost puzzled. "She betrayed your trust. Delivered you into my custody. Did you forget?"

  I had not. My mind still remembered the white fsh. My skin remembered the fire.

  But I remembered Evelyn's voice too: 'It was the only way.'

  Corveaux continued, tone gentle. "I thought sparing you the sight of her would be a kindness. For both of you. Guilt makes cowards of most of us."

  A kindness was usually something you offered, not something you enforced.

  I swallowed. "You didn't ask me."

  "No," he agreed. "I did not."

  He said it like a simple fact. Like my opinion didn't matter.

  "Besides," he added, more lightly, "I'm certain she would prefer tonight's narrative remain about Seraphine. Not her... exploits."

  There were a dozen things I wanted to say. None of them polite.

  Before I could open my mouth again, a sharply dressed footman approached, bowing his head.

  "Excuse me," Corveaux said then, voice smoothing into something more formal. "The stage calls for me."

  He kissed the back of my hand, nodded once to Rocher behind me, then stepped away, easily absorbed by a cluster of nobles and courtiers.

  And suddenly it was just the two of us, standing in the middle of a ballroom that felt too rge, too bright, too sharp.

  I turned to find Rocher's green eyes blinking softly, strands of his hair fallen loose over them.

  My pulse spiked. Alone was not safety. Alone was opportunity, and opportunity was a thing Corveaux could punish.

  I shifted a half-step away.

  "You look overwhelmed," Rocher observed.

  His tone wasn't unkind. Merely noting a fact.

  I forced my shoulders to lower. "Just tired."

  He considered that, then moved toward a passing footman and plucked two delicate crystal flutes from the tray. He turned back and pressed one into my hands.

  "For you," he said.

  Our fingers brushed. I felt it like a spark.

  I adjusted my grip deliberately, taking the flute by the stem so our hands would not meet again. Courtly. Clean.

  He watched my face as I took a careful sip. "Is it helping?"

  "No," I said honestly. "But I appreciate the attempt."

  He huffed a quiet ugh. "That sounds familiar somehow."

  I almost smiled.

  The musicians shifted to a softer piece. Conversation dipped, then swelled again.

  Near the far end of the hall, a small dais had been erected. Corveaux moved toward it with the easy grace of a man very aware every eye was on him.

  The herald's staff struck marble three times.

  "His Highness, Crown Prince Corveaux Aurelio Valmont, heir apparent to the throne," the man announced, his voice booming out over the hall. "And in honor of tonight's elevation, the presentation of our new Sage."

  The chatter died.

  Corveaux stepped onto the dais.

  He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The hall seemed to lean toward him.

  "My lords, my dies," he began, "and honored guests. Tonight, we gather to recognize not merely a title recimed from history, but a promise made to the future. In turbulent times, wisdom is as vital as steel. And those who brave corruption to bring us such wisdom deserve more than whispered thanks."

  He smiled, small and controlled.

  "Allow me to present: Seraphine Maxwell, Sage and new acting head of the Tower."

  The doors on the far wall opened.

  Seraphine stepped through.

  The dress seemed wrong on her.

  It was beautiful—of course it was beautiful. A deep midnight blue, embroidered with shifting silver sigils that echoed the stars. The neckline modest but elegant. Sleeves sheer enough that the light turned them into ghosts of fabric around her arms. Her hair was gathered up into a coronet braid threaded with tiny crystals.

  But my image of Seraphine was practical robes and leather belts and soot on her cheekbones, not jewels.

  She moved like she had decided the dress was armor for tonight and nothing more.

  And beside her—

  The White Warden.

  His armor was polished to a mirrored sheen. Gold and white.

  His helmet was absent; his bearded face was visible. Calm. Remote. Formal.

  He walked half a step behind Seraphine. A respectful distance.

  It did not matter.

  My lungs forgot how to work.

  Iron bands cmped around my ribs.

  Rocher's voice blurred. "...Cire?"

  The hall, the lights, the music—all of it smeared into noise.

  All I saw was Seraphine's small, steady profile beside that armor.Her hand resting briefly on the crook of his arm as they ascended the short steps, for bance.The Warden inclining his head to Corveaux with knightly precision.

  The same eyes that had glowed white-hot as they dragged me toward the ceiling.

  My vision tunneled.

  The flute shook in my grip. Champagne sloshed dangerously close to the rim.

  Rocher's hand closed over mine before I spilled it. His fingers were warm, firm. Startlingly sure.

  "Cire," he said, low and sharp. "Look at me."

  I tore my gaze away from the dais with effort.

  His expression wasn't flirtatious now. Or amused. Or charming.

  He looked worried.

  "You're pale," he said. "Come on."

  "Rocher, I'm fine—"

  "You're not," he said, with the kind of stubborn certainty that felt like an old habit. "Let's get some air."

  Before I could argue, he eased the gss from my hand, set both flutes on a nearby tray, and guided me through the crowd. His touch on my elbow was careful, but steady.

  We stepped out onto a side balcony.

  Cool night air rushed over my skin, smelling of stone and distant sea and faintly of flowers from the garden. The sounds of the ballroom dulled behind us, muffled by marble and gss.

  I went to the balustrade and gripped it with both hands.

  Breathe in.Breathe out.Breathe in—

  Rocher hovered a pace away, watching.

  After a moment, he joined me at the railing, leaning his forearms on the cool stone. He turned his head slightly, studying me in the moonlight.

  "Are you alright?" he asked quietly. "You look different out here, at least."

  I let out a breath that might have been a ugh, if it weren't so frayed. "Is that your way of telling me I look terrible?"

  "No," he said, surprisingly earnest. "You look..." He trailed off, searching for the word. "Real."

  I blinked. The word nded like a palm against a bruise.

  "Don't," I said too quickly, and then softened it into something safer. "Not here."

  I turned my gaze back toward the open doors, toward light and witnesses, as if looking at him too long might become a confession.

  "I'm gd," he went on, following my eyes. "In there, you looked like you were one of the statues. Polished. Cold."

  He sighed, like he was annoyed with himself for saying it.

  "But I got the feeling..." he whispered, looking at his feet. "You were one step from falling apart."

  My throat tightened.

  "I'm sorry. I know you're trying to hold it together. And you're doing remarkably well."

  He looked up and met my eyes.

  "Rest assured I'm the only one who noticed," he said with a shy smile. "There's just something about you. It's hard for me to look away."

  I turned my head so he wouldn't see the way that hit me.

  It almost sounded like the Rocher I knew.

  Almost.

  Footsteps approached from behind.

  Corveaux's voice slipped into the air between us like a knife sliding between ribs.

  "There you are."

  I stiffened.

  Rocher straightened, jaw tightening, as if bracing for something without knowing what.

  Corveaux stepped onto the balcony, the light from the hall gilding the edges of his hair and shoulders. As a shadow passed over it, his expression softened, as if rehearsed.

  "Cire," he said. "Are you feeling unwell?"

  "I'm not," I lied.

  His gaze flicked to my hands gripping the stone so tightly my knuckles had gone white. Then back to my face.

  "It must be difficult," he said gently. "Seeing Seraphine like this."

  I swallowed. "She deserves to be recognized."

  "She does," he agreed. "For surviving what she did. For making a choice few could."

  I didn't like his tone.

  "And for learning to work with the man who once hurt you," he added, voice mild. "Some might call that cruel. Others would call it pragmatic."

  Rocher frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "The White Warden interrogated Miss Cire once." Corveaux tilted his head, as if surprised he didn't know. "You know how brutal Tower padins can be."

  He shook his head, clicking his tongue. "All the same, he'd been tasked with leading the Tower's magical armada against the Demon Lord. Now he and Seraphine share the responsibility. Setting aside their differences—for the good of the kingdom. All perfectly sensible."

  My stomach churned.

  "She's doing what she has to," I said, for my own sake as much as hers.

  He nodded. "But sensible can still sting. Especially for those of us who value loyalty above sense."

  He said it like it was an objective truth.

  Not like he had just slid a wedge into the small, fragile piece of ground where Seraphine and I still stood.

  I refused to say anything that would help him hammer it deeper.

  "I don't bme her," he continued. "People move where they are valued most. Toward safer, higher ground."

  He let that hang for a moment. He wanted me to hear myself in that, too.

  "Try not to dwell on it. It will only make you unhappy."

  Rocher looked between us, confusion tightening his features. His fists had clenched at his sides without him seeming to notice.

  Corveaux's attention shifted to him.

  "And you, brother," he said smoothly, "how goes your mood tonight? Any troubling symptoms?"

  Rocher blinked, dragged abruptly from whatever he'd been feeling. "Symptoms?"

  "Headaches. Disorientation. I was afraid the crowd might have aggravated them."

  Rocher hesitated. "I've been doing alright so far."

  Corveaux turned back to me. "Do report anything unusual. He's the stubborn sort."

  Rocher bristled faintly. "I am completely capable of speaking for myself."

  "Of course you are," Corveaux said pleasantly.

  The music inside swelled again, shifting into a new dance.

  "Ah, it's time," he remarked. "May I recim my escort?"

  Corveaux offered his hand to me.

  Without warning, Rocher's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. The sound of fabric on skin cut through the soft music.

  Corveaux's eyes fshed—the barest glint of interest—before smoothing back to polite indifference.

  Rocher blinked and meekly retracted his hand.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know what came over me."

  His eyes, though, were fixed on Corveaux's hand like it was something venomous. Corveaux's gaze narrowed in response.

  Before Corveaux could say another word, I pced my fingers in his. I met his eyes. A silent request.

  Let it pass.

  His grip closed around mine. Cool. Measured. Possessive in a way that could be mistaken for courtly manners.

  He led me back into the light.

  The ballroom devoured us in a rush of sound and color. The dancers parted just enough to let Corveaux guide me to the floor. He slipped an arm around my waist, took my hand in his, and moved into the opening pattern of the waltz with practiced grace.

  I followed automatically.

  My feet knew the steps. My body remembered the hours of drilling, the endless corrections. Shoulders down. Chin lifted. Do not look at the floor. Imagine the room bending around you, not the other way around.

  I could have been anyone in that moment. Any woman in any dress, partnered with any prince.

  Corveaux's breath brushed my temple. "Good," he hummed. "You're doing well."

  The words nded with the weight of an order.

  I focused on the pattern of the dance. Turn. Glide. Step. Turn.

  With every quiet remark at my ear, the faces around us blurred.

  From the corner of my eye, I caught a fsh of bck and silver near the edge of the crowd. Rocher stood there, just outside the ring of dancers, watching.

  He looked... uneasy. His expression tightened like he was holding something back with his teeth.

  I let my eyes slide away first. I let my smile return for Corveaux on the next measure, bright enough to read as ease.

  Rocher's jaw flexed, and the small part of me that still remembered us flinched in relief.

  His gaze tracked every turn Corveaux and I made.

  Every time Corveaux's hand settled at the small of my back.Every time my skirts fred.Every time I forced a polite smile in response to something Corveaux said.

  The music swelled. My heart did not.

  By the time the dance ended, my cheeks ached from holding my expression in pce.

  I looked over again for Rocher. He was gone. My stomach twisted in a knot.

  Corveaux bowed over my hand, lips almost brushing my knuckles, eyes never leaving my face.

  "See?" he said softly. "Untouchable."

  I felt anything but.

  "So long as you are with me, I will not abandon you," he promised.

  My throat closed. Before I could respond, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

  "Your Highness."

  Lumiere stood at the edge of the dance floor.