Page 9

Thorne took a step forward, and Kaelen followed, retreating just enough to match Thorne’s lead.

As the strings cleared their throats and began their song, they twisted, moving together in time with the music.

It felt natural, almost eerie in its perfection.

Each movement seemed so fluid, so instinctual—like they had danced together for a lifetime, though neither of them could have possibly known what they were doing just moments before.

The crystalline ballroom shimmered and blurred in the periphery, the dance sweeping them through a space suspended between clarity and chaos.

They dipped, and as they straightened once more, the world coalesced around them, the colors and people swirling away in the wake of their steps.

Step back, forward, side—each motion came like a command.

Somehow, though it was almost haunting in its seamlessness, they moved together well.

Thorne, having grown up a noble within the court, had undergone enough instruction in dance to be proficient.

He never loved the practice, but he was serviceable enough, and his experience showed.

Kaelen, on the other hand, though stiff in his movements at first, followed Thorne’s direction with surprising ease.

His natural ability to mirror Thorne, to follow his lead and yield to the pull and push of the steps, was impressive.

Kaelen might not have many occasions to take the role of the follower, but he did so beautifully, his body straight, firm, a sturdy rutter cutting through calm seas.

Thorne, as the one leading, kept his gaze fixed just over Kaelen’s left shoulder.

He did it for two reasons: first, to watch for any hazards in their path as they drifted through the shifting bodies, and second, as a means of refuge from the prince’s piercing, bright eyes.

Those eyes, ever watchful, ever calculating, were too much to bear directly.

His gaze would flick back toward Kaelen’s face from time to time, but he could feel the weight of Kaelen’s stare even from the corner of his vision.

And despite the grand ballroom, the glimmering gold, and the fine ice glittering in the distance, there was nowhere to look but at him.

And without his beastly mask, so much more to see.

The fur of Kaelen’s cloak fluttered and ruffled with their movements, and Thorne made the mistake of chasing after it with his eyes, like a wolf after a rabbit.

The dark mantle seemed to embody a wildness, a ferocity that contrasted with the soft, light shine of his short hair, which gleamed pure and gilded in the candlelight.

It was a stark contrast—the soft warmth of his hair against the animal presence of his mantle, like he had already been crowned, though the coronation had yet to take place, and in this case, shoddily done.

Thorne couldn’t help but wonder.

The temptation was there, impossible to ignore: the urge to run his fingers through the strands framing one side of Kaelen’s square jaw.

He wondered how the prince’s face had met its demise and assumed its current form, smooth but hardened in a way that only age and battle could create.

The temptation to trace his fingers along the line of Kaelen’s throat was almost unbearable.

The scent of him—musky and woodsy, sharp like winter air—lingered in Thorne’s senses.

This man is a killer.

The thought dropped down upon him like a soft bird, landing heavy with a truth he couldn’t shake.

Debatable as the validity of all the scrambled intel and conflicting stories were, one of the first things Thorne had learned about Kaelen Elenar Olivet was his efficiency.

As a teenager, Kaelen had crushed a rebellion in western Erethos, leaving no survivors.

His blade had swept through the ranks of the resistance with brutal finality, the royal forces rallying to him with alarming precision.

Some reports had painted him as a solemn figure, his resolve unyielding in the face of battle.

Others spoke of his bloodlust, of the madness that had taken hold of him upon the field.

But one thing was certain—Kaelen had been regarded as a force to be reckoned with, both on the battlefield and within the eyes of the crown loyalists.

And Thorne knew, knew from the depths of his gut that Kaelen was no mere puppet, no sheltered prince hidden behind the palace walls.

They made children soldiers in this blasted country, for gods’ sake.

But Kaelen was different.

Thorne didn’t have to read between the lines of any report, didn’t have to listen to the rumors.

Just one look at the man before him, so composed, so steady in his steps, told Thorne everything he needed to know.

Kaelen was a killer.

Kaelen’s steady gaze locked onto him, even as they made another turn together.

Thorne guided them through the motions, and Kaelen followed with no resistance.

His movements were deceptively precise, like a predator stalking the rhythm of the dance.

Thorne’s eyes inadvertently flicked to Kaelen’s lopsided bangs, now falling in a disheveled, artfully imperfect way across his forehead.

The way they shifted with each movement of the dance, shifting ever so slightly in rhythm with the music.

It was a small thing, but it felt so… human.

And Thorne’s breath hitched for a moment, swallowed by something he couldn’t name.

Kaelen was watching him again, and for the briefest second, Thorne forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

He wasn’t supposed to be dancing with this man, not this close, not this intimately.

He should be plotting.

He should be preparing for the moment he was sent here to execute.

But here they were, spinning around the floor like any other couple, like they belonged here, like they weren’t bound by the realities of the night ahead.

Kaelen was a killer, yes, but beyond that, Thorne couldn’t be sure of anything.

The prince had unmasked himself, as if revealing everything there was to know, but even now, as Thorne stood before him, Kaelen remained an enigma.

He had been so vexingly correct, so meticulously noble and handsome in his gestures, in the way he held himself.

But as the night wore on, Thorne couldn’t help but realize that the more he learned about Kaelen, the more he discovered how little he truly understood the man.

What kind of person was he really? A prince, yes, but what did that mean? Even when Kaelen had shed his monstrous fa?ade, the mystery of who he was persisted, thick and impenetrable.

This man, this prince who held him so carefully in his arms, who yielded to Thorne’s lead on the dance floor, as if it were nothing, as if they were equals in this strange performance.

And yet the world outside the dance was anything but equal.

Kaelen commanded an entire room with a mere look.

The courtiers, the soldiers, the nobles, the princesses—everyone bowed to him, either out of respect or fear.

And Thorne had to wonder: what was it about Kaelen that made him so terrifying? What was he capable of that had so many people, from the lowest peasant to the highest lord, quaking in their boots?

They turned again, the movement so fluid, so practiced that it almost felt natural to be in this proximity.

Thorne’s body moved without thinking, guided by Kaelen’s sure hand, and before he knew it, he found himself dangerously close to the hollow of Kaelen’s throat.

The scent of pine, cedar, and wheat rose from the prince’s skin, biting the air like a reminder of some far-off, wild place, a place that Thorne knew he would never again be able to think of without recalling this moment—this dance, this confusing conflict within him.

His senses hummed with the intensity of it: a deep-seated desire to either lean in, to get even closer, or to rip that throat out with his teeth, to end the whole madness with a single strike.

Thorne was too far along now, the rabbit racing down its hole, chasing the end of a path that would lead him to one of two conclusions—empty air, or the taste of blood.

He had been so focused on everything else, avoiding the real answer, avoiding the truth.

Now, though, it was clear: he had looked everywhere but where there might be answers.

He had looked at Kaelen’s face, at his mask, at his mannerisms—but had he ever looked beneath all of that? Had he ever truly seen Kaelen?

Thorne steeled himself, taking a deep breath, and dared to shift his gaze upward.

The first shock of blue surged through his body like a thunderclap, electrifying every nerve, an unstoppable current that left him stunned and breathless.

It was the kind of look that made Thorne’s heart race, a pulse of wild energy that nearly drove him to lunge, to act, to strike.

But then, he faltered.

Kaelen’s eyes locked onto his, steady and intent, and it was as if the world paused around them.

The prince’s gaze was unwavering, his expression focused.

His brow was slightly furrowed, but the rest of his face remained disturbingly neutral, stripped of any softness.

Gone was the boyish blush, the hesitance that had briefly graced his features.

In its place was a hard, guarded look, as though he were closing off every inch of himself from the world—and from Thorne.

His body responded to the subtle shift in the dance, following Thorne’s movements as they adjusted, but his face remained a calm, unbroken surface.

A vast ocean, perhaps, but one that concealed its depth with perfect ease.

Thorne tried to focus, to fight against the strange compulsion that had taken hold of him, but the thought kept coming back.

Kaelen was not only a killer; he was a force of nature, an enigma wrapped in a beautiful, lethal package.

Thorne couldn’t deny it.

He knew it, deep down, even as he continued to dance with him, even as the music swirled around them.

“Your dancing…”

Kaelen’s low voice broke the silence between them, soft, thoughtful, and almost unexpected.

Thorne, momentarily thrown off balance, let out a small, forced huff.

“Sorry to disappoint, I’m not much of a dancer,”

he said, trying to regain his composure.

His gaze remained fixed on Kaelen’s chest, deliberately avoiding the prince’s face.

He was acting like a rabbit fleeing at the first sign of danger, pathetic.

Pathetic.

He was the one with all the claws, wasn’t he?

“I’m far more comfortable with a sword in hand than a...

partner’s,”

Thorne added, his voice dry, as he tried to retreat further into the snark, away from the strange pull Kaelen seemed to have over him.

Kaelen chuckled softly, a quiet, almost imperceptible sound, but one that carried a thread of amusement.

“It’s not that,”

he said, his voice thoughtful, almost contemplative.

“Your movements are very fluid.

It is not, that is to say…” He trailed off, as though searching for the right words.

Then, with a soft cough, Kaelen continued, “Erethosian dances have a tendency to be… ah, stiff.”

Despite his unease, Thorne had to fight to withhold a grin.

He had always been a man of control, but there was something about the way Kaelen moved, about the closeness between them, that made it nearly impossible to maintain composure. “Hmph.”

Kaelen hummed, a low, throaty sound, and fell silent as they continued to move together, the rhythm of the music guiding them seamlessly.

Thorne led them through another turn, and Kaelen followed him without hesitation.

His deep dark cape swirled behind him, the movement catching the light and chasing the ends of Thorne’s own.

It was as if they were two parts of a whole, moving in perfect synchrony, as if no distance existed between them.

Thorne could feel the tension of Kaelen’s hand resting unwaveringly on his shoulder, the warmth of it anchoring him to the moment, to the dance, to this dangerous game they were playing.

Thorne curled his fingers into Kaelen’s hip, feeling the strong, narrow lines of him even through the thick fabric of his tunic.

There was something tactile about it, the sensation of being so close, of feeling Kaelen’s body so firmly held within his grasp.

And then Kaelen breathed in, a noise that was half gasp, half rumble—a sound that made Thorne wonder, not for the first time, what it would feel like to hear that noise again, but this time as the last thing he heard before he plunged a knife through the prince’s chest.

“A mask of the Sylvan air spirit, dancing like a Tarvelan,”

Kaelen murmured, his voice low and thoughtful.

“The fine dress of a southerner…” He trailed off, his words becoming a question unspoken, an observation that hung in the air between them.

Thorne glanced up, his gaze flickering briefly to Kaelen’s face, the prince’s expression unreadable.

“Out with it, already,”

Thorne muttered, his voice rough with the tension that was mounting between them.

Kaelen didn’t miss a beat, his voice soft but steady.

“You’re not from Erethos, are you?”

It wasn’t a question—Kaelen already knew the answer, and yet he asked it anyway, as if savoring the uncertainty of it, of the way the air thickened when Thorne hesitated.

“No.

I am not.”

Thorne’s reply was sharp, curt, a guarded truth.

His steps, once fluid and measured, grew more aggressive as he danced, his frustration momentarily pushing the rhythm into something jagged.

But Kaelen took it all in stride, his hand never wavering upon Thorne’s shoulder, his other hand never leaving its place within Thorne’s grip.

There was something about the way Kaelen moved—so sure, so calm in the face of Thorne’s subtle anger—that made Thorne wonder again just how much of a fa?ade he was seeing in the prince.

What expression did Kaelen wear beneath the surface? Thorne didn’t dare risk another glance.

“You know,”

Thorne said, voice low as he continued their steps, “you don’t exactly dance like an Erethosian yourself.

You can match my movements just fine.”

“Well,”

Kaelen began, his tone contemplative, “that is likely because the one who taught me how to dance…” He paused, drawing in a breath that sounded heavier than it should have.

Thorne’s attention sharpened, drawn to the slight shift in Kaelen’s posture, the subtle vulnerability in his voice.

“She herself learned in Tarvela as well.”

Thorne wasn’t sure what to make of that admission, but there was something profound in the way Kaelen had said it.

The words felt heavy, laden with something that wasn’t immediately apparent.

He glanced up, instinctively catching a flicker of Kaelen’s expression, but the prince had already closed off, his face becoming distant again, guarded as if locking away whatever emotion had flickered there.

Thorne saw it then—deep, empty sadness, the kind of weight that came with unspoken history.

It was gone almost before he could fully process it, but it left him with a strange unease.

He didn’t understand it, but he felt it—a sorrow too deep for the surface to reveal.

Kaelen caught his gaze once more, and just like that, the light returned to his face.

Bright, gentle, like a sunbeam through cathedral windows.

"May I spin you?"

Thorne blinked, his breath catching in his throat.

“We’re...

dancing, you don’t have to ask me to dance while we’re dancing.”

“Very well,”

Kaelen said, that same gentle smile gracing his lips.

“I will spin you then.”

The sudden change in movement caught Thorne off guard, and before he could brace himself, Kaelen’s hand left his shoulder, lifting them both into a fluid break from the formation.

They parted the waves of dancers around them, cutting themselves against the current, and Thorne felt himself spun effortlessly, fingers winding with Kaelen’s as they moved.

The world spun around him, dizzying, like he was caught in the eye of a storm that he couldn’t escape.

The music swelled, rising to meet them as they spiraled.

Kaelen’s grip tightened around Thorne’s hand, pulling him back into the dance with a smoothness that made everything else fade away.

Thorne’s chest brushed Kaelen’s for the briefest moment, a fleeting connection before the prince pulled back, only to bring him closer again.

Back and forth, they shifted, the push and pull of the dance becoming more than just movement.

It was something else—something deep and intimate, where every step, every turn, felt like a promise, a question, a dangerous game they were both unwilling to back away from.

The music seemed to intensify, the strings growing louder, the piano battling to keep pace with the rhythm of their bodies.

Thorne pushed forward, his chest brushing against Kaelen’s again, the sensation fleeting but undeniable.

Kaelen stepped back, pulling him in, the distance between them shrinking with every turn, every step.

The space that had once existed between them—the boundaries of propriety, of roles, of enemies—disappeared, and Thorne couldn’t care less about the eyes watching them anymore.

Kaelen’s eyes were fixed on him, piercing, burning with something that Thorne couldn’t escape.

They seared him, cutting through everything else, and Thorne couldn’t stop himself from watching Kaelen too.

Kaelen was warm—so warm—his heat radiating through Thorne’s gloves, his body pressed so closely that it felt as if the prince were a part of him.

Thorne could feel Kaelen’s breath against his face, could feel the pull of his presence, drawing him in with every movement.

It was intoxicating, the way Kaelen made him feel alive, raw, exposed.

The music, the dance—it was all secondary now to the way they moved together, tighter and tighter, closer and closer, until there was no space left to hide in.

Kaelen’s eyes burned with an intensity that Thorne couldn’t deny, couldn’t look away from.

His smile, a small thing but powerful in its effect, appeared between thin lips, revealing just a glimpse of teeth.

And Thorne… Thorne couldn’t understand it.

He couldn’t explain it.

But he knew one thing for sure: that smile, the way Kaelen held him, the way he made Thorne feel seen—it eviscerated him.

It wasn’t polite distance, or caution, or emptiness, or even radiance.

It was something truer than that.

Something far more dangerous.

It was the most honest expression Kaelen had shown him all night.

And for all Thorne’s planning, for all his attempts at keeping his composure, this was the moment he could no longer control.

The music abruptly cut off, a sudden, jarring silence falling over the room like the aftermath of a battle.

It was as if the notes had leaped off the balcony and thrown themselves into a suicidal swan dive, leaving nothing but the echo of their absence to reverberate through the cavernous ballroom.

Thorne and Kaelen came to a stop, breathless, their bodies still entwined in the aftermath of the dance, the space between them charged with something unspoken, something heavy.

Thorne stared at Kaelen, barely a breath apart, his hand still clutching the prince’s waist, fingers tight enough to leave marks.

The other hand, however, had drifted—unbidden but unresisted—up to the side of Kaelen’s neck, fingers anchoring against the warm skin there.

They were so close, closer than Thorne had ever meant to be, closer than he had ever planned to be.

It was the kind of closeness that made him feel as if the space between them could swallow him whole—close enough to kill him, close enough to kiss him.

Thorne’s mind raced with the conflict between those two truths, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered which one would come first.

A smattering of polite applause broke the silence, smoothing the jagged edges of the moment, easing the ballroom back into focus.

The attention shifted to them—this strange pair who had, however briefly, captured the room’s attention.

Thorne coughed, the air burning his throat as he tried to compose himself, trying to catch his breath, trying to still the wild beat of his heart.

"That was… good," he said, the words tasting odd on his tongue, as though he had said something far too simple for the complexity of what had just transpired.

Kaelen smiled, lips pressing together in that proper, restrained way, his eyes gleaming with a secret understanding. "Indeed."

Slowly, as if both reluctant and relieved, they unwound from each other.

Kaelen lifted his hands from Thorne’s body, stepping back into a more proper, gentlemanly distance.

Thorne felt the absence of him immediately, a coldness flooding into the space where warmth had once lingered.

Kaelen’s hands had left him bare, and that sensation—a sickness that almost felt physical—settled into his gut, twisting in discomfort.

But to look upon Kaelen’s face now was...

different.

The prince’s expression had shifted, the mask of his usual charm briefly slipping away.

Now, there was something deeper there, something Thorne couldn't quite place, but it made the prince even more striking.

It was a vulnerability, however fleeting, a small crack in the perfect, polished exterior.

Thorne wanted to understand it, wanted to know what lay beneath it, but it was too quickly gone.

Kaelen’s voice broke the stillness, low and rumbling, carrying an undertone of something unreadable.

"I know, in our agreement, it was only one dance, but—"

Before Kaelen could finish, another voice interrupted, deep and commanding, cutting through the tension between them like a knife.

Thorne turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as he saw a tall figure approaching, a man with dark skin and darker hair, his presence as striking as a thoroughbred war horse.

His mask was simple, unadorned, and the royal Olivet blue did little to conceal the sharp, green gaze that landed on Thorne the moment Kaelen stepped aside.

“Oh! Elliot,”

Kaelen greeted, his voice climbing several notes, his expression shifting from one of guarded intensity to something more pleasant, almost overly rehearsed.

The change was instantaneous, like a switch being flipped, and the ease with which Kaelen adopted the new demeanor made Thorne feel like he was watching a completely different man.

Thorne’s eyes narrowed.

This man—Elliot—was clearly important to Kaelen, and the way the prince shifted his attention so effortlessly to him made something twist in Thorne’s chest.

It wasn’t jealousy.

Not exactly.

It was something far more insidious, the feeling of being dismissed, of being forgotten.

And worse, Thorne couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been nothing more than a brief distraction, a fleeting interest for Kaelen.

Elliot’s gaze left Thorne, and the sensation of it felt like a physical blow, sharp and precise, scraping something deep inside him, like a surgeon’s scalpel cutting through bone.

The man’s attention shifted entirely to Kaelen, his posture deferential, but there was something in the way his eyes flicked back to Thorne that made him feel even more exposed.

"Pardon my intrusion.

You asked me to—" Elliot began, his voice low but respectful.

Kaelen cut him off smoothly, his smile returning with practiced ease.

"Oh, you're right.

I’d—I'd gotten distracted," he said, his voice almost apologetic, his gaze flicking back to Thorne for a brief moment before shifting back to Elliot.

"I’m so sorry, I—"

“It’s fine. Go,”

Thorne said with a wave of his gloved hand, his voice forced casual as he turned away from the prince and fixed him with a meaningful stare.

"I’ll find you, next time."

Kaelen huffed a small laugh, his expression shifting into something that was almost too much to bear—a tantalizing look that made Thorne’s heart stutter.

But then it was gone, replaced by a pale weariness that seemed to creep in from the edges, a shadow that lingered even as Kaelen turned away.

He followed Elliot through the crowd, swallowed by the shifting masses, and Thorne tracked their figures until they were lost to the dance of the court.

The sharp breath he had been holding finally escaped in a low exhale, his stomach clenching tightly.

His hand closed into a fist, the muscles in his arm tightening as his thoughts narrowed, sharp and focused, like the point of a blade.

He had almost fallen prey to it—to the distractions, to the music, to the soft pull of Kaelen’s gaze.

He had been swept up in it all, nearly barreling forward without realizing what was at stake.

But now, he could see it clearly.

The solution had been offered to him, almost handed to him on a gilded platter.

And with that thought, Thorne knew exactly what he had to do.

The plan was simple.

He would have to seduce the future King of Erethos.