The alcove was small, tucked between two pilrs draped in velvet, far enough from the ballroom that the ughter and music reached only as a distant hum.

  Lumiere liked it for that reason. The Grand Hall had a way of swallowing people whole; she preferred corners where the walls did not listen so closely.

  Duke Etienne Aurelio leaned against the balustrade beside her, rolling the stem of his gss between thoughtful fingers.

  "Tell me I am not imagining it," Lumiere said quietly. "Every concession we've won so far... he let us have."

  Etienne gave her a sideways gnce.

  "It certainly felt that way, yes." His mouth curved into a bitter half-smile. "I dislike it, Lumiere. This entire situation feels... lopsided."

  Lumiere exhaled slowly.

  They had spent the st few days wrestling what looked like favorable terms out of the Crown Prince—an end to Cire's visible confinement after the ball, continued residence in the pace under his protection, and restrictions rendered official instead of quietly absolute. All of it sounded reasonable.

  And yet.

  "It is the way he agreed," Lumiere murmured. "Like he had never intended to deny us—as though we were confirming his pn, not challenging it."

  Etienne swirled the wine in his gss, watching it catch the dim light. "He is pying a deeper game. It's what he does."

  Lumiere sighed, pushing a hand through her fxen hair. "At least for the meantime, Cire has Rocher. At least she is not facing him alone."

  Etienne nodded, but his demeanor carried the same uncertainty tightening in her chest.

  She lowered her gaze for a heartbeat, lips moving soundlessly in prayer. A silent plea to the Goddess. Not for victory. Just for mercy.

  But a sudden, uneven footfall struck the threshold, interrupting her thoughts.

  Both of them turned.

  Rocher stood in the archway, as if answering her prayer.

  His doublet was askew, as though he had tugged at it without realizing. He was pale beneath the warm mplight, breath uneven, hair damp with sweat. His eyes—normally steady, even in the worst storms of the world—darted between them like a man bracing for a blow.

  But the strangest part—the part that made Lumiere's stomach drop before he even spoke—was that he wasn't looking at her.

  He looked at Etienne.

  "Uncle," Rocher said, breathless. "There you are."

  Lumiere went still.

  Etienne blinked in surprise. "Rocher?"

  Rocher stepped into the alcove. "I need your help," he said, voice strained. "I... something is wrong. I can't make sense of it."

  Lumiere moved toward him instinctively.

  "Rocher," she said gently. "Start from the beginning. What happened?"

  His gaze flicked to her—brief, confused, almost startled—then snapped back to Etienne.

  That was wrong.

  That was deeply, terribly wrong.

  He should have come to her first. Even if distressed. Even if terrified.

  For him to bypass her now...

  Rocher's panic spilled out of him, fast and uneven.

  "There's this girl. Cire. She's been taking care of me." He dragged in a breath. "She came tonight with Corveaux. I thought she was his... companion."

  He swallowed drily, throat working.

  "She was shaking," he said. "I don't know why. I thought perhaps the crowd was too much for her. I was trying to get her somewhere quieter. And then he came for her."

  Etienne straightened. "Slow down. You're not being clear. Corveaux approached the two of you?"

  Rocher nodded sharply. "Yes. He spoke to her like he always does. Polite. Controlled." His jaw clenched. "But it was his tone that struck me."

  Lumiere felt her pulse stutter. "His tone?"

  Rocher squeezed his eyes shut. "The same one he used on me when I was a child. When he wanted me quiet. When he wanted me compliant." His voice dropped. "When he wanted everyone else gone."

  Etienne swore under his breath.

  Rocher looked between them, shame flooding his face.

  "I barely know her," he said. "I shouldn't care."

  His hands curled into fists. "But I do. I can't stand the thought of her being alone with him. Watching him corner her. Watching him take her away."

  He shook his head, breath hitching. "It feels like something is being carved out of me."

  The alcove went still.

  "Rocher," Lumiere said carefully. "Do you truly not remember?"

  Rocher opened his eyes and finally looked at her. His expression twisted—humiliation, confusion, fear all tangled together.

  "No..." he whispered. "I've lost everything from the past year."

  Lumiere felt the floor tilt under her.

  Corveaux knew. Of course he knew.

  He just didn't tell them.

  He'd controlled their access from the start.

  Visits routed through attendants. Messages deyed or summarized. Every update about Rocher filtered through Corveaux himself—brief assurances delivered with practiced calm.

  Awake. Stable. Recovering.

  Nothing that invited questions. Nothing that suggested absence.

  Lumiere and Etienne had assumed Cire was safe, because Rocher was with her.

  But Cire wasn't with Rocher—not the Rocher who knew how to shield her.

  Cire was standing beside the shell of the man who once would have torn the world apart for her.

  Lumiere grabbed Rocher's trembling wrist.

  "Listen to me," she said, voice low, fierce. "Cire is in danger."

  Corveaux had hidden it from them. Deliberately.

  She did not know the purpose yet. Only that it had been done on purpose.

  Rocher flinched. "I didn't understand it at first, but now—now I can feel it." He pressed a fist to his sternum, as if bracing against an old bruise. "He's doing it again. Separating. Isoting. Making sure she has no one but him."

  Lumiere exchanged a sharp, urgent look with Etienne.

  There was no time left.

  Not for expnations.Not for caution.Not for diplomacy.

  "Where is she now?" Lumiere demanded.

  Rocher swallowed. "The dance floor. With him."

  Lumiere was already moving.

  She caught Rocher's hand, dragging him through the alcove door with a command that brooked no refusal.

  "Come on," she said. "We're not leaving her there."

  Etienne set down his gss with a soft clink and followed, expression hardening into something colder than steel.

  The ballroom light fred brighter as they approached, music swirling, ughter echoing, silk whispering across polished floors.

  Lumiere saw her first.

  Ash-blue gown.Chin lifted.Smile brittle as gss.

  Corveaux bowed over her hand, lips hovering close to her knuckles, possessive in a way only trained court eyes could recognize.

  Rocher stopped short beside Lumiere.

  His breath hitched.

  "There," he whispered.

  Lumiere squeezed his hand once—quick, grounding, resolute.

  Then she stepped forward.

  "Your Highness."

  I turned and spotted Lumiere at the edge of the dance floor. Her voice cut clean through the music.

  She wore a gown of soft gold that made her look like a fragment of sunlight given human shape. Duke Aurelio stood beside her, smiling amiably, but there was a subtle tension in his posture, as if he were ready to intervene if anything went wrong. Rocher stood behind, slightly out of breath, his loosened hair shadowing his eyes.

  Lumiere's attention, however, was fixed entirely on me.

  Corveaux straightened. "Lady Lumiere," he said warmly. "Enjoying the festivities?"

  She dipped a shallow curtsy. "Immensely. May I borrow Cire for a moment?"

  It was politely phrased. But not a request.

  Corveaux's smile thinned by a fraction. "We were just speaking."

  "And now," Lumiere said, still smiling, "I'd like a moment with my friend."

  A hush fell over the eyes watching us. I saw him register it before he turned to me.

  "Do you wish to go?" he asked.

  His tone was mild enough that anyone watching would think him considerate.

  I knew very well it was a test.

  I met Lumiere's eyes. Saw the concern there. The silent plea.

  "Yes," I said. My voice came out hoarse. "Please."

  Corveaux inclined his head. "Then, by all means."

  He held my hand for a heartbeat too long, daring me to go, before he finally released me.

  Lumiere reached for it at once, fingers warm and familiar. She gave Corveaux a fwless smile.

  "Thank you, Your Highness. Enjoy your evening."

  Then she tugged me gently but firmly away from the dance floor.

  Corveaux's icy gaze never left us, as if he was committing to memory every detail of the rescue.

  We moved through the edge of the crowd, past Aurelio's approving nod, down a quieter side corridor lined with tall windows and unlit sconces. The noise of the ballroom dimmed behind us.

  Only when we were out of sight did Lumiere stop.

  "Cire," she whispered. "Sweetheart. Look at me."

  I hadn't realized I'd been staring straight ahead the whole time.

  I turned my head.

  Her face came into focus.

  Her eyes were brimming. "Oh, Cire."

  Something inside me gave way.

  The smile I'd been holding onto slipped. My jaw trembled. My vision blurred.

  "I'm fine," I tried to say, but it came out broken.

  Lumiere didn't argue.

  She just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a hug that smelled like frankincense and clean linen and something soft and floral.

  For a heartbeat, I remained rigid.

  Then I folded.

  My forehead dropped to her shoulder. My hands fisted in the back of her gown. A shudder tore through me that had nothing to do with cold.

  "It's alright," Lumiere murmured, rubbing small circles between my shoulder bdes. "I've got you. I'm here."

  I shook my head against her. "You saw him," I choked out. "You saw Rocher. He doesn't remember. And Seraphine—with the Warden—and Evelyn—"

  She held me tighter.

  "We'll fix it," she whispered. "I promise."

  Her voice shook on the st word.

  The pace, the music, the glittering hall—everything else kept spinning beyond these walls.

  But for a moment, in that quiet corridor, I let myself break.

  Corveaux had done his best to scatter us. To pry us apart.

  And still, here we were.

  I didn't know how to put us back together. I didn't even know where to begin.

  I could only count on the fact that some bonds, once made, do not sever cleanly.

  They tear.

  And tearing leaves threads.

  Enough, I hoped, for someone patient—and stubborn enough—to start weaving us back together.