THE MASKED WALTZ.
Recommended Song: Je Te Laisserai Des Mots– Patrick Watson
The grand hall was alive with the soft glow of chandeliers and the murmur of noble conversations. The ball was in full swing, masks concealing the faces of lords and ladies as they wove through the dance floor, lost in an illusion of anonymity. Music swelled through the air, elegant and haunting.
Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.
A shiver trailed down her spine as she subtly scanned the crowd. She felt it again—heavy, piercing. Someone was looking at her. Not just looking—watching.
Then, as if the moment had been fated, a man stepped forward.
Tall. Dark. A presence that commanded the very air around him.
Dressed in deep black with gold embroidery, his mask covered half of his face, leaving only his lips and sharp jawline visible. He extended his gloved hand toward her—silent, expectant.
She hesitated, then slowly placed her fingers in his palm.
He led her onto the floor.
Neither spoke.
The music shifted, slowing into something almost intimate. He pulled her close—closer than what was proper. One hand resting on the small of her back, the other guiding hers with effortless control.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Nyxara."
Her breath hitched.
That voice.
It was him.
Before she could react, he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"You can't run this time."
Her heart stuttered. The realization crashed over her like a wave. It was him—the man from her dreams. The one who appeared and disappeared like a phantom.
She lifted her head, eyes wide beneath her mask, searching for his.
But before she could speak, the music ended.
And he was gone.
Vanished.
The world blurred as her mind struggled to process it. Her fingers clenched. She couldn't let him slip away again.
Ignoring the questioning glances of onlookers, she turned and followed—chasing the shadow he had left behind.
The palace corridors were vast and winding, but she felt it—a pull leading her somewhere deeper into the castle. Away from the golden light of the ballroom, toward a quieter, darker place.
Then she saw him.
His back was to her, standing where the moonlight pooled through the arched windows. The silver glow illuminated his dark hair, casting an ethereal shine upon his figure.
She stepped forward, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What did you mean?"
He didn't turn immediately.
"You know what I mean."
Her fingers curled into fists. "I don't."
At that, he turned.
The sight of him under the moonlight was almost unreal.
Her breath caught.
The ballroom had been dim, his mask a barrier—but here, she saw it clearly. The shade of his hair. A deep, silken black with streaks of silver that seemed to shift under the pale glow.
She froze.
Somehow, it felt familiar.
His golden eyes gleamed beneath his mask. "Then why did you follow me?"
She swallowed, unable to look away. "Because I want to understand." Her voice rose with frustration. "All of this—all of... these." She gestured vaguely, as if trying to grasp something intangible. "You disappear and reappear like a ghost, then say strange words to me."
She stepped forward, closing the space between them. "I don't even know your name."
He studied her for a long moment, then stepped closer.
His proximity sent a wave of heat through her, but she stood her ground.
Then, softly—almost tauntingly—he murmured, "Do you really want to know why?"
She swallowed, but her voice was steady. "Yes."
Something flickered in his eyes. A fleeting amusement, quickly replaced by something deeper. He reached out, fingers brushing against her jawline.
The world around them dimmed—just a little.
It was subtle. Almost imperceptible. But they both felt it.
A shift. A pulse of something ancient and unspoken.
His fingers lingered against her skin, and for the first time, she noticed it—the faint mark on his left cheek, just beneath his eye. Small, yet distinct.
Then she realized—she had one too.
A delicate mole tracing the curve of her jawline.
At that exact moment, a fleeting glow pulsed beneath their skin—faint, like a dying ember, but undeniable. It lasted only a second, gone before it could be understood.
His gaze darkened, lips curving into something unreadable.
Then he whispered, "Fate is truly cruel."
A lump formed in her throat.
She lifted her hand, reaching toward him—toward the mark beneath his eye.
But before she could touch him, he withdrew.
"You may not understand now," he said, voice softer. "But you will."
His golden gaze locked onto hers. "Soon enough."
And then, just like before—he vanished.
Gone, before she could process what had just happened.
She stood frozen, breathless. Conflicted.
Then—
"Nyxara!"
Her uncle's voice snapped her back to reality.
She turned, still dazed as he approached.
The weight of what had just happened pressed down on her, but her uncle didn't seem to notice her turmoil.
As they walked through the corridor, his tone turned sharp. "I saw the way he looked at you."
She stiffened. "Who?"
He scoffed. "Don't play dumb. The king."
Her heart pounded.
"You know he's chosen you," her uncle continued. "But be careful. This king doesn't just pick anyone. There has to be another reason why he wants you."
She didn't respond.
"Don't let your guard down," he warned. "Men like him—like all of them—never do anything without a reason."
His words weighed heavy on her, but she nodded. She had no choice.
They reached her chamber, and as she stepped inside, he paused at the door.
"Rest well. Tomorrow will be a long day."
The door shut behind her, sealing her in silence.
She exhaled slowly, her mind racing.
The king.
His touch.
His words.
Her uncle's warning.
She sank onto the edge of her bed, fingers brushing the spot where he had touched her face. The memory sent a shiver through her.
"You may not understand now, but you will. Soon enough."
Why did it feel like a promise? Or worse—a fate she couldn't escape?