"Would you care to dance, Mage Ashford?"
Quinten turned to see a young woman in a partial curtsy before him. Her long auburn hair, swept up into an intricate style, and her gown—a deep sapphire blue—sparkled faintly under the crystal light. She offered him a polite, composed smile, her pale green eyes sharing nothing but a hinted curiosity.
It took him a moment, but he recognized her as the water mage who had captivated their Elemental class on the first day so many months before. Quinten's curiosity was piqued by her confidence, wondering if his rapid advancement out of the first-year class was why they'd never spoken.
Straightening, he inclined his head and replied, “Of course,” before taking her extended hand.
As they stepped onto the dance floor, the music shifted into the clear ringing tones of a waltz. Quinten's hand found her waist, his other taking a light grip on her outstretched hand. They began to move in sync with the music, the world around them blurring as they joined the sea of dancers, their polished shoes flashing and colorful skirts whirling around the floor in a large ring.
Court etiquette had changed with the King’s Edicts. Where previously, male mages could, at their leisure, approach and request a dance. They were now in such high demand that was no longer an option. There was always a next dance partner waiting in the wings. The pecking order, a complex series of maneuvering that’d made Quinten's head spin when his etiquette teacher had tried to explain the nuances to him at County Wycliffe.
I really enjoyed learning the steps, though. Quinten thought, thankful his instructor had emphasized the importance of being confident in their performance.
“You don’t seem the type to enjoy these kinds of events,” his partner said, breaking the silence, her tone playful but with a hint of genuine curiosity.
Quinten chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “What makes you say that? I haven’t stepped on your toes, have I?”
Smiling warmly, she shook her head. “No, your dancing is beyond reproach.” Peering at him from the corner of her eye throughout a complex turn, she added, “I remember you from our first week of class. Before you became persona non grata. You didn’t interact with the other students or instructors. And I’ve watched you around the Academy. You keep to your friends and away from the little games others like to play.”
He gave her an assessing look, having underestimated how easy he was to read. “You’re not wrong. Though, it would be fairly hard to avoid this event. It wasn’t exactly optional to attend.”
“Uh huh,” she said, looking at his fine robes with their gold accents through narrowed eyes. “Nearly dragged you here in chains, didn’t they?”
He couldn’t contain his bark of laughter at her dry tone or how accurately she’d called him out.
She was clearly no stranger to the art of wordplay their world required. The dance, the ball, everything was layered with subtext, doublespeak, and hidden motives.
I’d rather someone come at me with a sword than a sharp tongue, he thought. Getting the distinct impression that he would lose a duel of words against the young lady with laughter in her eyes.
“I suppose that depends on perspective. Who’s to say these aren’t chains of gold?” Quinten replied after a beat. “I’m sorry, but I must ask a rude question—to whom do I owe this dance? I apologize. I remember your Gift with water, but I don’t recall your name.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile. “Mage Arita Beaumont,” she said, offering him a somewhat distracting dip of her shoulders in a feigned curtsy. “My family’s lands are on the eastern side of the kingdom, along the coast.”
Quinten nodded, returning her movements with a well-timed dip. Placing a kiss to her gloved hand as a formal greeting in their recovery. “That would explain your affinity with water. I for one, was truly impressed by your connection with the element.” His compliment bringing an appealing blush to her pale cheeks, hiding their light dusting of freckles.
The two continued to dance in silence, just enjoying the graceful steps of the other. Quinten couldn’t help but to appreciate her flowing grace, like a stream slipping over polished stones smoothed by nature.
For a few long moments, they were lost in their own little world, broken by Mage Beaumont’s question, “Have you put much thought in to who you will wed as part of your duty to the crown?”
Unable to hold back an unbecoming snort, Quinten coughed to clear his throat before answering. “Duty to the crown. That is one way to phrase it. It makes you wonder what the Mid-Year Ball is really for.”
An auburn brow rose as she gazed up at him. “The Gentry would never be so bold as to hold an entire event to give interested parties the access and opportunity to facilitate future marriages.”
Quinten grinned at her response, the truth of her words playing out in vivid detail around them. As they twirled across the dance floor, the couples surrounding them painted a picture of the societal changes over the last few years. Young women in luxurious gowns took the lead, engaging in animated conversations with the men they danced with, their expressions a mixture of determination and hope.
Directly to their right, a lady no older than twenty twirled her partner—an awkward young man Quinten recognized from the first-year class—in a series of spins, demonstrating her own talent. Quinten could almost feel the pressure she exerted on the poor boy, trying to secure his attention with each turn.
Mage Beaumont’s voice brought Quinten back to his partner. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? I sometimes think about all that’s changed and wonder if I haven’t been transported to an entirely new world.”
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Quinten smirked. “Fascinating might not be the word I’d use, but we do live in odd times. Growing up—I never expected to be anywhere near the Academy.”
She chuckled softly, her green eyes flashing with—something. “The norm-born man,” she said. “I can imagine.”
Her hand flexed in his own. A privacy barrier of air springing up around them, catching Quinten, and those close enough to feel the displaced air, off guard. Peering at him with an intensity that further set him back on his heels, she said. “You may not have planned to, or even wanted to, attend the Academy, but here you are. And everyone in this ballroom knows exactly why they’ve come. Yourself included, Lord Ashford.”
Quinten raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Oh? And why do you think I’m here?”
She tilted her head, a thoughtful crease appearing on her brow. “No matter how much you try to distance yourself from it, you are still part of the game. Your name, your title, the restoration of your family's honor—it makes you a target, whether you like it or not.”
Quinten's expression hardened briefly at the mention of his family’s reinstatement. While others saw it as a victory, he viewed it as a hollow gesture. His parents were gone, lost to a system that cared for nothing in its path. A sentiment he couldn’t voice. Instead, he maintained a neutral expression, his eyes fixed on Mage Beaumont’s.
“And what makes you think I have any interest in playing?” he asked, his voice low.
Her smile softened, though her eyes remained hard. “You may not care for it, Lord Ashford, but fending off the machinations of others is a fact of noble life. Avoiding them doesn’t make them disappear. They’ll draw you in eventually, just as they did your father. Whether you navigate them, or are pulled under, depends entirely on how willing you are to do what is necessary.”
Quinten's jaw tightened at the mention of his father, but he held his composure. The music swelled around them as her words hung heavy in the air between them. The song began to wind down, and he led her through their final steps. As the music came to a close, they stopped in the center of the floor. Mage Beaumont releasing his hand and giving him a graceful curtsy.
“Thank you for the dance, Lord Ashford. It has been… enlightening. You are not what I was expecting.”
He offered a small bow in return, his eyes never leaving hers. “Likewise, Mage Beaumont.”
*****
Thank the stars I let Q talk me into practicing all of these dances, Cedric thought, guiding Celeste across the floor, their movements perfectly timed as they navigated the intricate steps of the polka. He flashed her one of his trademark grins, his dark eyes sparkling under the soft glow of the enchanted chandeliers.
“You look absolutely stunning tonight, Celeste,” he said, his voice low but clear enough to be heard over the music. “I’d even say the stars have a right to be jealous of your shine.”
Celeste, her sky-blue gown flowing with each graceful step, returned his compliment with a smile. Her golden curls, perfectly arranged, bounced lightly as she tilted her head to meet his gaze. "You flatter me, Cedric," she replied with a soft laugh, her blue eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Cedric spun her effortlessly through the two-four time steps, marveling at how naturally she moved with him. “There is something we need to discuss,” he said, as they slowed into the next turn.
Celeste sighed, likely having an idea of where this was going.
“Our mothers met and spoke a few weeks ago at court.”
Her posture stiffened as her eyes locked on his, going wide. “And what exactly did they talk about?”
Cedric frowned at her reaction. “You and I, what else? But that brings me to my point. Your mother made it very clear that she wished me luck in finding a match suitable for my standing.”
His eyes bore into Celeste’s as he waited for her response. He had never hidden his desire to wed. She had been the aloof one in their relationship.
In a rare moment of visible discomfort, Celeste leaned in and said in a hushed voice, “Is this really the time to be having this conversation?”
Stiffening, he fought down a flood of irritation at her dismissal. “Seeing as you change the subject every time that I try to talk about us, yes. This seems like the only time we can have it.”
With another sigh, she acquiesced, “Fine, what exactly is bothering you?”
“To start, the fact that the woman I have been seeing for months has made no mention of us being together to her family.”
Celeste raised her chin high and stated with an air of superiority, “I enjoy our time together, Cedric. But this is a complicated matter. I have responsibilities as a Duke's daughter that you do not understand.”
Her words beat against the wall of affection she’d built around his heart. Their tone, one she’d never taken with him before, cracking the mortar and taking great chunks out of its surface.
The dance drew to an end and, without a word, Cedric escorted Celeste back to her group of friends. Each lady dressed to impress in their sparkling jewels and vibrant gowns.
Stopping just shy of their destination, he could contain it no longer.
“I am not an idiot, Celeste. Do not treat me like one. I understand the differences between our stations.” She opened her mouth to respond, but his glare had her snapping it shut with a huff. ”I also know your opinion carries weight with your father, and I have seen no evidence of that effort being made.”
This time, when she made to reply, it was not his voice that interrupted her.
“I believe that would be rather pointless—now.”
The two turned to see that Oliver Wyndham, previously hidden amongst Celeste’s friends, was now walking over with the ladies following along in his wake. That same creepy smile appearing on Oliver’s face as he approached.
“What?” Asked Cedric, a fist of dread squeezing his gut.
Ignoring Cedric, Oliver turned to Celeste and offered her a bow. “Good evening, Mage Sutherland. You are looking beautiful tonight.”
She returned a comparable curtsy and said, “Thank you, Mage Wyndham. You look well put together in your formal attire.”
The smile he’d been wearing slowly turned into a sardonic grin. “Now, my dear. I know it’s not official yet—Father just informed me of the news earlier tonight. But there is no need to speak to your betrothed so formally. We are to be wed after all.”
The ground attempted to drop out from under Cedric. His lungs tightening as if someone had wrapped an iron band around his chest, and a cold sweat broke out across his body. For a moment, the noise of the bustling ballroom faded to a dull hum. The word betrothed echoing in his mind, bouncing around his core like shrapnel, along with the broken pieces of his heart.
His eyes locked onto Celeste, searching her face for some sign that this was a misunderstanding—a cruel joke. But she refused to meet his gaze. Her expression remaining composed, almost resigned, as if she had been expecting this moment.
A sharp, burning sensation clawed at Cedric’s throat. His stomach twisted painfully, and the room seemed to spin. Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to demand an explanation, but all he could do was stand there, frozen.
Like a knife to the kidney, realization dawned. The meaning behind the look Oliver had been sending him for weeks clicked into place. It was the smirk of a man who knew something you did not.
Cedric's hand, still lightly resting on Celeste’s arm, fell to his side, numb and heavy with despair.
Excited whispers rushed through the witnessing ladies, news of the engagement spreading like wildfire. Several ran over to Celeste, wishing her congratulations, oblivious to the suffering in front of them.
Cedric swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in his throat as he tried to hold himself together. The ache of loss and the stab of betrayal cutting deeper than any physical blade.