✧ Chapter Ten ✧
The Masked Waltz of Fate
from Have You Someone to Protect?
By ©Amer
The Silent Waltz, A Dance Meant to Find You, When Hands Remember
—
The grand doors of the ballroom swung open—one side for the ladies, the other for the men.
Each figure stepped forward adorned in elegance, faces hidden behind intricate masks, their eyes bright with anticipation.
It was tradition—an age-old dance of mystery and grace—where every step was a story, every glance a secret.
Tonight, the dancers would first glide across the floor in singular elegance, the ladies moving in delicate harmony, followed by the men who would then claim their place. After the solo dances, they would seek out their destined partner for the final couple's waltz—the dance that would unite them in a single moment of fate.
Somewhere amidst the swirling motions, the guest of honor, Lady Alen, waited, hidden away upon her elevated perch, watching the tapestry unfold.
The evening was her offering—an unspoken promise of coming into her own.
Lhady felt the flutter of excitement ripple through her chest, her fingers lightly brushing the folds of her violet gown.
Earlier that afternoon, she and Caelum had practiced the steps, laughter mingling with sunlight—but now, standing amidst the grandeur, the weight of tradition wrapped around her like silk.
"Just dance the couple part with whoever you find when the music changes," she had told him, her voice light, tinged with a playful certainty.
He had only smiled, a warm look softening his noble features.
"Don't worry," Caelum had said, his voice low and sure, "I'll always know where to find you."
The orchestra began its first notes—a melody both enchanting and bittersweet.
The ladies glided forward, skirts shimmering under the great chandeliers, half-masks revealing just the tantalizing curve of their lips.
The men moved with measured grace, their full masks cloaking their expressions in mystery.
The dance was a delicate game of fate, of possibility.
When the music shifted—a tender rise and fall, like the first breath before a confession—the room transformed.
A sea of flowing figures searching for their partner, some reaching, some hesitating.
Lhady moved, her heart threading quicksilver through her veins.
Where was Caelum?
She searched, eyes tracing faces, hands briefly brushing against others'.
The scar she knew so well—the faint mark just above his brow—was hidden tonight beneath the mystery of their masks. Only those who had always been by his side, those who were closest to him, would have noticed it.
"I'll be where you need me," his promise whispered in her mind.
Yet now, amidst the tide of dancers, she found herself... adrift.
The practiced steps blurred into uncertainty, her confidence faltering.
Then, through the veil of music and motion, a hand found hers.
Firm, warm—familiar.
A memory stirred, born from countless moments, pressed into the curve of his fingers wrapping around hers.
She inhaled sharply.
Could it be Caelum?
The man said nothing, but there was a surety in the way he led—a quiet authority in his touch and the dignified stance of his body—the same commanding ease that often wrapped around her when Caelum was near.
Without thought, Lhady followed, the music weaving around them like an unseen thread.
Every step, every turn, felt natural, effortless, as though the rhythm itself had been waiting for them.
And he—this stranger, this perhaps-familiar—held her not with desperate clutching, but with gentle certainty, as if saying: You are safe.
A soft smile formed beneath Lhady's mask, a secret even to herself.
"I think..." she whispered, breathless from the twirl, "you're quite good at this."
The man only gave the faintest tilt of his head, as if amused, but said nothing.
His hand at her back was steady and sure.
As the melody soared, a final flourish called for a movement—
—a dip, a bend she didn't recall practicing.
A sudden unease prickled at her, her heart skipping a beat.
She hadn't rehearsed this; she was certain.
The thought flickered, fragile, but before panic could set in, the man's grip adjusted, guiding her without hesitation, steadying her with such ease that her doubt faltered.
She looked up, a question trembling on her lips—
—but the music shifted, sweeping the dancers apart.
The moment was lost, like mist fleeing before the sun.
Their hands slipped apart.
Yet the memory of his touch lingered—warm, steady, hauntingly known.
Lhady blinked, disoriented, heart hammering.
Her mind swirled with questions, but one thing remained—the warmth of his hand, the feeling that, in that moment, she was safe.
And as their hands parted, the lingering warmth of his touch stayed with her.
She didn't know it yet, but her dance partner wasn't Caelum.
It was Silas.
—
Silas hadn't planned to dance with her.
He hadn't even intended to stay long in the ballroom.
In fact, he had every intention of slipping quietly out the door, away from the swirling sea of guests and masked faces.
But something had pulled at him—a strange, unsettling sensation, as though a shadow of danger hung over the manor.
He couldn't place it, but his instincts, honed over years of guarding and protecting, sensed something was amiss.
As he moved toward the door, intent on finding a quieter space, the crowd surged—a flood of bodies that swept him into their midst.
Men and women, all swirling and shifting with the rhythm of the ball, and before he knew it, he was caught in the flow.
The music had shifted, and now he was part of the men's phase—a phase he had no real desire to be in—but he continued moving, his eyes scanning for an exit.
But then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, his gaze landed on a figure in the center of the dance floor.
Even masked, even half-turned in the sea of gowns and glitter, he knew.
The recognition was visceral, like a blade sliding between ribs.
Lhady.
For a second—no, less—he simply watched.
She stood among the dancers, graceful but... unsure.
There was a loneliness in her, a pause in her step that set his heart aching.
She was waiting for someone.
But no one came.
No one noticed.
No one reached for her.
The part of him that was still a soldier—the protector—rose up, fierce and unrelenting.
He couldn't leave her like that.
Not on this night.
Not ever.
His steps toward her were not deliberate at first, but inevitable.
The space between them closed, the din of the ballroom falling away, until there was only her.
Without speaking—because he couldn't, not yet—he extended his hand.
A simple offer.
A silent vow.
And when she placed her hand in his, so willingly, so trustingly, Silas felt something inside him break—and rebuild anew.
The dance took them.
And for a few stolen moments, nothing else mattered.
He was home.
And she was in his arms.
Even if she didn't yet know it was him.
Before he could slip away again, a soft whisper reached him, low and urgent, hidden behind the nearest marble pillar.
"The entity is gone," Corren murmured, his voice almost lost in the hum of the ballroom. "No more danger for now."
Relief brushed across Silas's thoughts, but it did little to settle the unease coiling low in his chest.
He gave the faintest nod, the message received.
With the threat diminished, Silas found his feet moving of their own accord—leading him toward the raised perch where Lady Alen was meant to be.
But when he arrived, the seat was empty; Alen had stepped away, gone to change her slippers, leaving only the ripple of her absence behind.
Silas lingered there for a moment, adrift in the murmuring glow of the ballroom, caught between the memory of a stolen waltz and the lingering shadow of unseen dangers.
Unknowingly, he had already begun his own steps in the masked waltz of fate.