He smoothed his hair away from his face, picking up the blade that sat on the counter and bringing it to his jaw. With careful sweeps, he shaved away his scruff, wiping away the final sign of the days of travel.
Four hells, he wished he had time to rest. He wished for many things, actually. That he had left Paideus earlier, given how fruitless the trip had turned out to be. That he hadn’t let Tristan talk him into spending an extra night in Goldenvale. That he didn’t have to take part in this circus.
Cedric’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the basin. His breath caught, that strange feeling in his chest surging once more.
It wasn’t pain, not exactly. It was deep, but not sharp. Like that tether inside him, previously loose and unanchored, had hooked on a wire. He could feel it threading through his ribs, pulling, twisting—tugging.It almost felt like...
But no.
That was impossible.
It was the stress of his circumstances, the long days of travel. And the fact that Tenny would surely be at the celebration.
He didn’t know why the thought made him feel queasy.
No, that wasn’t true. He did know. And that queasiness only increased as guilt layered on top of his reticence to see her.
He should have been excited. Overjoyed, really, to be seeing his oldest friend again after weeks away. But Lord Church’s final words to him before he left were playing on a loop in his mind. And even if Tenny hadn’t said anything to him herself, Cedric knew better thanto think that her father hadn’t spoken to her about it—about Cedric’sintentions. Or at least what Lord Church so clearly hoped Cedric’s intentions might be.
He could so clearly envision the questions that would be waiting in her eyes.
So, yes, that pulsing, pulling feeling. It had to be his nervousness over what awaited him tonight. That was all it could be.
Cedric shook his head, droplets of water flecking the mirror. “Get it together, Thorne,” he muttered. He went to retrieve his token from the jewelry dish, his lips pursing as he looked at the simple silver ring laying underneath. He seldom wore it for fear of misplacing it, but Cedric supposed that tonight was as good a night as any for a little extra luck.
He slipped it onto his pointer finger and, with a forceful exhale, exited into the bedroom to finish getting dressed.
It was time, and Cedric Thorne had a role to play.
6
BALLS
ELYRIA
Lavish.That was the only word for the ballroom, decked in seemingly boundless opulence. Crystals dripped from chandeliers overhead. A raised dais with a gilded throne sat empty on one end of the long room, while tables laden with food—carafes of wine, heaping bowls of fruit and cheese—lined the walls. In one corner, there was a small fountain set atop a table that appeared to be using mana to cycle an unending river of melted chocolate through it.
Servants and attendants clad in varying shades of gray wove through the throngs of guests, while the Kingshelm elite were dressed to impress. Draped in silks and velvets, candlelight glinting off tinkling jewelry and adornments, the room was a veritable sea of nobility.
The air was perfumed with floral incenseand the admittedly mouthwatering scent of roasted meat. A quartet of musicians wove an upbeat melody through the room.
If the humans were looking for a prize for their performance, surely this sumptuous display would win them first place. Everything about this ball seemed specifically engineered to impress—no, to overwhelm.
It was working.
Elyria’s fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet as she brought it to her lips and took a long drag of sweet, bubbly wine. Light laughter hummed around her, though she stiffened at the distinct pauses in conversation that occurred every time wandering eyes fell on Kit, Nox, Thraigg, Dentarius, and herself.
Ollie, Shep, and Jocelyn hadn’t been granted entry to the celebration, and Elyria couldn’t help but be jealous of the lot of them. She wondered if they’d sniffed out Kingshelm’s finest alehouse yet.
What she wouldn’t have given to go with them.
Kit’s laugh cut through Elyria’s melancholy. Already deep in conversation with a group of human courtiers a few yards away, she was the picture of elegance. Her silver hair was parted down the center of her head, some product in it that kept it slicked down, cascading toward her chin in a crimped wave. Her dark skin gleamed in the light of the chandeliers overhead, beautiful against the deep blue gown draped over her strong frame.
Kit had always carried herself with a sort of regality—an air that betrayed her lineage and upbringing, no matter how much she might try to pretend that she wasn’t a stars-damned duchess-to-be, wasn’t the king’s niece. She couldn’t mask that natural polish, the poise with which she handled interactions with royals and politicians alike. It was admirable and impressive, if not the tiniest bit annoying, that she filled her diplomatic role so comfortably.
Annoying because, well, then there was Elyria. The Victor of Nyrundelle.Decidedlynotpoised. Not polished. Not remotely comfortable.
She downed the rest of her wine in one unceremonious gulp, then immediately swapped the empty glass for a full one.
