“We have an enemy, JingYi. One who moves in shadows and uses our fears as weapons.”
The light from the ballroom glowed ahead of them, distant and warm, as if beckoning them to return to the celebration neither of them belonged to. For the moment, she didn’t move. But he knew, if he didn’t say a word, she’d leave.
And he would lose her—forever.
He took a half-step closer, his voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “Returning isn’t just about us. It’s about defending what’s yours. The future your brother arranged, and the people who have already claimed you as their own.”
A question crossed her features.
“The people of Lornhelm,” he said. “Annett and her baby. Ulrik. Daan and his family. They trust you. They are your people now. And the enemy who stole that letter isn’t just against us—they’re against the stability of the entire fief. Against everyone who relies on the safety we provide.”
Her brows furrowed. He saw the conflict in her—the healer’s instinct to protect warring with the survivor’s instinct to flee.
“I’m not asking you to come back for me.” The lie scraped his throat raw.Yes, you are,a voice snarled inside him.You’re using every honourable word you can find to dress up a selfish need.He was using her compassion as a leash, her sense of duty as a cage. The shame of it curdled in his chest, hot and vile.
She deserved better than his manipulation dressed as principle.
But he couldn’t stop.
“I’m asking you to come back for them. To defend the place you started to heal from the poison hiding within it. To claim the life your brother fought for you, and to protect it.”
More silence stretched between them. Alexander held his breath, watching her face for any crack in her composure, any sign that his words had landed. His heart pounded against his ribs. She studied him, her gaze steady, unflinching—and he felt exposed, like a man waiting for judgment.
“I know what you’re doing,” she said, low and weary. “Don’t ask me to pretend this is only about Lornhelm.”
She stepped back into the ballroom, her silhouette swallowed by the light and sound. Alexander remained, unmoving. He was a small-minded, stupid, proud man. He hated himself for using Lornhelm as leverage, but he needed time. A sliver of grace, just enough to provehe—not just his home and people—could be worthy of her.
When he went inside, the dancers had shifted into a new formation—partners gliding beneath the chandeliers, silks andjewels catching the light. He moved through the throng, limbs stiff, posture aloof. He didn’t know if he was meant to look composed or haunted. He didn’t have the strength to decide.
Then he spotted JingYi. Reiyana, the guest of honour, stood beside her, radiant in sapphire, every inch the Princess of Aethonia. JingYi was more subdued in her aubergine silk, but no less regal. Kaelen and Alarik hovered like bulwarks against the approaching nobles.
He made his way toward them. Murmurs reached him, the words half-hidden behind fans and champagne flutes.
“A Xûen Omega princess, they say. Also, a healer.”
“Is that why she’s standing so close to Princess Reiyana? What has she done to earn that position?”
“And her face . . .Tch.If I had a birthmark like that, I wouldn’t leave my room.”
“Did you see her limp?”
“Why is she here, then, if she can’t dance anyway?”
Hearing his shallow fears given voice, he felt only disgust—for these nobles, for the system, and most of all . . . forhimself.
What, precisely, was so wrong with her face? Her gait?
Marzius, though Alexander could barely stand the man, had been right. If it were a man with a wound like that, he would’ve bought him a drink. Sat him down and eagerly asked for the story. Praised him as a warrior. Toasted his courage. But a woman? Her single mark became an offence to beauty. A flaw too great to forgive. A reason to look away or, better yet, relegate her to the shadows.
Now, he knew: A thousand beauties might adorn a palace, but he had no use for them. No desire for them. A thousand dances could not fill a lonely chasm.
But a woman with conviction, a mind sharp enough to challenge his own, and hands that stitched broken things together?—
That was the kind of beauty he’d never had the sense to recognize.
He watched his wife as she watched the dancers, wistful wonder softening her features. Of course—she’d never seen an Aethonian ball before, where every hem shimmered with gold thread and every movement followed intricate patterns drilled into nobles since childhood. The music was sweeping, meant to showcase elegance, breeding, grace. She stood apart from the crowd, half-shadowed by a marble column, her shoulders tense with the effort of appearing at ease.
His legs took him to her side before he could think twice, and the words left him before he could stop them.
