The attack came at midnight.
One moment, fireworks painted the sky. The next, a scream split the night. Shadows moved through the crowd—assassins cloaked in black. Steel flashed, and chaos erupted.
Adrian froze as a dagger arced toward him. But Caelan was there, faster than breath. He drove the assassin back with a roar, sword clashing in the torchlight. The crowd scattered, nobles shrieking, guards rushing.
"Stay behind me!" Caelan barked.
But Adrian, heir of Eloria, could not cower. He drew his own blade—though his hands trembled—and stood shoulder to shoulder with the man he loved. Together they fought, steel singing, until the assassins fell silent on the marble stones.
The cost, however, was suspicion. Whispers spread swiftly: why was the captain of the guard so close to the prince? Why did Adrian's eyes linger on him in a way no noblewoman could inspire?
Meanwhile, Selene found Elara amid the chaos, pulling her into the shadows. "Are you hurt?" she whispered, gripping her hands.
"No," Elara breathed, though her face was pale. "But they say the assassins bore the colors of my house…"
Selene's blood ran cold. If Elara's family was blamed, their love would be destroyed—not by swords, but by politics.
And Dorian, slipping through the fleeing crowd, caught sight of a familiar figure in the distance: a noble he knew well, speaking hurriedly with one of the assassins before vanishing into the dark. His grin faded. Gossip was one thing—but this was treason.