I returned to the ballroom as if I had never left. My heart was the only thing that could give me away.

  The auction had ended. The raised platform was empty now, its significance already dissolving into murmured speculation and clinking glasses. The guests had resumed their careful orbiting—circling influence, opportunity, and one another with renewed ease.

  Father noticed me at once.

  His gaze found me across the room and held for a few seconds longer than comfort allowed.

  I met his eyes calmly.

  Then he looked away.

  Relief settled low in my chest.

  I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing server and had barely taken a sip when a familiar voice reached me.

  "Lady Velmire."

  Lucielle Lumi approached, her smile bright and perfectly timed. I was surprised to see the tall blond woman approaching me for the second time that evening.

  I inclined my head politely. "Lady Lumi."

  We exchanged the expected pleasantries—commentary on the evening, on the orchestra, on the novelty of seeing so many factions sharing a room without open hostility. Lucielle spoke easily, filling silences without effort. I listened, nodded, offered the occasional measured reply.

  Then Lucielle leaned in slightly, lowering her voice.

  "I'm hosting a small tea gathering at my residence in a few days. Nothing formal. Just a few friends. I would be delighted if you joined us."

  I resisted the instinctive tightening of my jaw.

  The last thing I wanted was to spend my scarce free hours enduring polite laughter and shallow conversation among Lucielle's circle. I could already picture it—the subtle hierarchies, the careful cruelty, the way every word would be weighed for advantage.

  But the thought passed as quickly as it came.

  House Lumi was respected. Prestigious. An invitation from Lucielle Lumi was not frivolous. It was acceptable. The kind of social engagement my family approved of without hesitation.

  More importantly, it was outside the Velmire estate.

  I felt the idea take shape.

  "That sounds lovely. I would be happy to attend."

  My tone warmed just enough to feel sincere.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Lucielle's smile widened, pleased.

  "I'll have the details sent to you. I do hope you'll enjoy yourself."

  "I'm sure I will."

  I stayed with Lucielle longer than I normally would have. Asked questions. Offered opinions.

  Laughed at the right moments. Allowed myself to be seen engaging, receptive, agreeable.

  As the music played softly and the evening stretched toward its end, I became aware of a shift in the room.

  Sirius had returned.

  I did not look for him.

  That, in itself, required effort. My gaze remained trained on Lucielle, on the rim of my glass, on anything that was not the familiar shock of pale hair and white fabric moving through the crowd. I refused to give myself away by instinct alone.

  "Alya."

  The voice came from behind me.

  My spine stiffened before I could stop it. Goosebumps rippled along my arms as recognition struck.

  Marcus Alvane.

  I inhaled once, slow and measured, then turned with practiced grace. When I faced him, my expression was politely surprised. Cool, open, impeccably neutral.

  "Lord Alvane. I didn't expect to see you here."

  His smile was sharp, self-satisfied. He had dressed carefully tonight, leaning hard into respectability: dark formalwear, polished boots, a pin at his lapel marking his family crest. His ginger hair was carefully pinned behind his ears. He looked exactly like a man convinced his ascent was inevitable.

  We exchanged pleasantries, each word wrapped in silk and edged with tension.

  He spoke of the evening, of the Prime Minister's speech, of opportunity. Then he leaned closer than I was comfortable with, lowering his voice as though sharing a confidence.

  "My family has been in talks with the Wielders. It's only a matter of time before I'm formally accepted."

  The implication hung heavy between us.

  I smiled.

  Not the smile I once might have offered.

  Sweet.

  "How exciting for you. I always knew ambition would suit you."

  My voice was smooth as honey.

  Marcus preened, mistaking my tone for admiration.

  "I imagine they'll be pleased. Someone eager to prove himself is always such a valuable asset."

  His eyes flickered, but he laughed it off, clearly pleased with himself.

  When he finally excused himself, I felt the release like air returning to a sealed room. I did not watch him go.

  Soon after, the signals came, subtle but unmistakable. Conversations winding down. Coats retrieved. Carriages summoned.

  My family prepared to depart.

  As we moved toward the exit, I allowed myself one final glance across the hall.

  I found him instantly.

  Sirius stood near the far side of the room, engaged in conversation with the mayor and several deputies and senators. He listened more than he spoke, posture relaxed, presence undeniable even in stillness.

  For a brief moment, his gaze lifted.

  Met mine.

  The world seemed to pause on that fragile connection—gold and silver fusing across a sea of bodies and light.

  My heart surged, too fast, too loud.

  Before it could betray me, I turned.

  I followed Father and Grandfather without looking back, my steps steady, my expression composed.

  And behind me, the music played on.

  When I returned to my room that night, the book was waiting for me.

  It rested on my desk as though it had always belonged there—dark leather, time-worn edges, a spine stamped with a faded sigil I didn't immediately recognize.

  I hesitated only a moment before opening it.

  Disappointment followed quickly.

  The text was written in old Belarian, the script uneven and archaic, its runes shaped according to conventions long abandoned. I could decipher fragments, isolated symbols, half-familiar structures, but the spellwork itself resisted comprehension, layered in a logic I'd never been taught.

  The margins were worse.

  Handwritten notes crowded the edges of several pages, theories on etheric manipulation penned in different inks and styles, as if multiple hands had argued with one another across time. Some pages were missing entirely, torn out with no attempt at subtlety.

  No wonder it had ended up at auction.

  Whatever knowledge it once held had been rendered impractical—valuable more for what it represented than for what it could teach. A relic of unfinished thought.

  I closed the book and slid it onto my shelf among my other volumes, already half-forgotten.

  If I ever had the time, I might return to it.

  I had barely exchanged words with him… My nerves had betrayed me.

  The days that followed passed quickly.

  Training with Valdosta settled into a familiar rhythm.

  And sometimes, when I lingered after a session to ask about something I'd read the night before, he answered.

  At times, even with dry remarks that might have passed for humor.

  With Crowold, progress was slower.

  Painfully so.

  Detecting etheric flow consistently took days. Nudging it took longer. And the first time I succeeded in warming the practice doll without scorching it, I ended the session with a headache and a ringing behind my eyes.

  Crowold was ecstatic.

  He praised me as though I'd rewritten natural law, clapping his hands and declaring the moment "marvelous" with an enthusiasm that made me wince.

  I doubted I would ever fully understand him.

  But I found, to my surprise, that his joy amused me.

  Just shy of a week after the gala, Father summoned me.

  A letter lay open on his desk.

  "House Lumi has invited you to attend a tea gathering at their residence in three days."

  I kept my face neutral.

  "Their standing is sufficient. You may attend."

  "Thank you, Father."

  I smiled.