Lowering Izzy into a dip, Quinten felt something shift—a subtle but unmistakable disturbance that punched him in the gut.
He faltered, losing the rhythm and nearly dropping his dance partner. Straightening, he brought them both upright, her eyes wide in confusion and a hint of shock. Instead of resuming their dance, Quinten pulled her off the floor. His instincts, and the clenching in his stomach, screamed that something was wrong.
By the stars, he thought, his jaw tightening. What in starfire was that?
He closed his eyes and delved into the uncomfortable feeling tearing at his insides. What he found shocked him. The feeling had a pull to it, a direction he could follow. Opening his eyes, he chased it with his gaze. He was just able to make out his friend’s tall frame through the packed bodies.
Leaning in close to Izzy, his voice low but urgent, he asked, “Can you find Ronan for me? I saw him heading off with one of the servants.” Indicating where with his head, he continued, “Try the nearby storage rooms. I think Cedric’s going to need us.”
Without waiting for a reply, Quinten pushed his way through the crowd. In his haste, he created a thin cord of telekinetic energy, using it to gently guide people out of his path, leaving them none the wiser.
It only took Quinten a moment to process the situation upon reaching the group. Between Oliver’s smug expression and Celeste’s blank mask, he could have guessed, but with the repeated whispers of “engagement” going around, it wasn’t necessary.
You bitch. Quinten quietly seethed. His hands fisting as he tried to sear her soul with his gaze. Her refusal to meet his eyes only increased his anger.
Deal with her later. Focus on Cedric now.
Turning to his friend, he looked even worse up close. His usual tan was gone, the color drained from his face. He stood rigid, staring at, and hearing nothing. The devastation that Quinten could still feel roiling in his gut, plainly written across his face.
Pushing forward, Quinten took a firm grip on Cedric’s arm. “Come on, we’re done here.”
“Mage Ashford!” Oliver called brightly. Quinten could hear the smile in his voice without having to turn and see it. “Are you not going to ask one of these lovely ladies to dance? Not Celeste, mind you. I’d like this next dance with my intended.”
Quinten didn’t plan on responding, but he only made it a couple of steps, dragging Cedric along with him before he stopped. Turning to the watching group, Quinten gave them a frosty smile. “Congratulations on your engagement—you deserve each other.” If he hadn’t been watching, and hoping, to see his barb land, he might not have seen Celeste flinch, as slight as it was.
When her eyes met his, Quinten couldn’t resist a final, parting comment. Channeling all the anger, indignation, and hurt he felt for his friend, he smiled once more. This one just for her.
“Thank you.”
Cedric didn’t resist as Quinten pulled him through the ballroom, following along in a daze. Cutting a path to the nearest exit with the help of his telekinesis, they quickly left the murmurs and laughter of the ball behind them.
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Just as they cleared the doors to the outside, and its fresh air, a panting and flushed Ronan appeared. His clothes were slightly askew and at least one button was done up incorrectly.
Ronan’s face was a mask of concern and confusion. His eyes met Quinten's, searching for answers, but all he received was a brief shake of his head. Now was not the time for questions.
His friend took one look at Cedric, the blank stare all he needed to see to put him into action. Stepping to his other side, Ronan gripped his arm in support.
The day’s heat had broken and a pleasant breeze carried the scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread from the celebration going on behind them. Quinten frowned as his stomach growled. Between all the dancing and dealing with the night’s dramatics, he'd forgotten to eat.
They rounded a corner and Quinten stumbled, nausea and another jumble of feelings slamming into him. Similar to Cedric’s earlier despair, but there was a physical element of pain to this sensation—and the metallic taste of blood.
“Keep an eye on him.” Quinten said, stepping away. He ignored the look of concern Ronan shot him and hurried toward the sensation currently making him want to vomit.
Quinten barreled past a large bush and realized he’d gone too far. Turning back, he found her sitting in the wet grass, staring blankly into the night in much the same catatonic state Cedric was in.
“Mage Beaumont?” He asked, getting no response. Moving closer, Quinten pushed the Gift into his eyes. Letting the light chase away the dark, everything becoming clear.
Dried tear streaks ran down Mage Beaumont’s face, ruining her perfectly applied paints. Auburn hair, previously done up in an intricate fashion that had made it appear infused with magic in the overhead crystal light, was now hanging down in sections, pulled from its pinnings.
Quinten didn’t need to inspect her further, but he could tell her sapphire-blue gown was torn along one shoulder. The bruising around her jaw and neck, already beginning to darken.
Sucking in a sharp breath, he froze. He’d killed men in the heat of battle, dealing with the turmoil afterwards, but this… he didn’t know how to handle.
“Lady Beaumont?” He said, making his voice as soft and calm as he could.
Giving no response that she’d heard him, she continued to stare into the empty air before her.
“Arita?” Quinten said, trying once more.
“He grabbed me when I went to the lady's room.” She began in a monotone that carried no emotion. “He said it was my fault. That I’d been teasing him the entire year and it was time.”
Holding out both of her arms, she rested her elbows on her knees with her wrists pointed up. Quinten could see the dark purple discoloration, far more severe than what was visible along her throat, wrapping all the way around them.
“I tried to fight back.” A single, fresh tear, glistened in the moonlight as it rolled down her cheek. “He—cinnamon and cloves. It’s all that I can smell.”
That feeling, the need to vomit became overwhelming, and he lost control of his empty stomach, spewing bile into the bush hiding them from sight. It took him a moment to notice Arita had thrown up as well.
I’m feeling emotions, Quinten realized in shock. It only lasted a breath before Arita’s quiet sobs pulled him back to the present, and to her.
“Ronan,” Quinten called, sending his words on the wind to not attract attention.
Not wanting to touch her after what she’d been through, he squat down a few feet away, and spoke as calmly and evenly as he could.
“My friend is a healer. I’m going to have him escort you to the Infirmary. Are you willing to let him help you?”
A slight nod of her head was all he received in reply.
“Arita, who did this to you? I won’t let them get away with it.”
This time, she met his gaze. A small ember burning in their depths like a light beneath the ocean waves, setting her eyes aglow and giving him a brief glimpse of the young woman he’d danced with earlier that evening.
For a long moment, they simply locked eyes. Two fresh streaks running down her pale, freckled cheeks. Then, as though each tear were the price of her words, she finally spoke.
“Instructor Highbridge.”