The music drifted through the air—soft, fleeting, blending with the wind and the steady crash of waves. It was as if the sea itself was humming. Cassandra leaned over the balcony, eyes heavy, but she could never be blind to what lay below—every false smile, every hollow toast, every truth dressed in silk. She pressed her face into the crook of her arm, desperate for a moment of peace.
Her fingers worried the chain at her throat, a nervous habit she could never break. A knot tightened in her chest. Through the sheer curtain she glimpsed the ballroom below—guests spinning across marble, voices rising in clipped laughter, goblets clinking as alliances were toasted with forced cheer.
It had only been a month, yet the memories still ached like a fresh wound, every toast and false smile a reminder of how swiftly the world moved to divide what he left behind.
Her father's colleagues clustered in noisy groups, capes embroidered with their crests sweeping the floor, gemstone circlets flashing beneath chandeliers.
Cassandra's sharp eyes traced the gathering like a ledger: the elf envoys who never unclasped their hands in public, the beastkin guards ignored until their claws flashed against a spilled drink, the dwarven merchants who toasted louder than they listened. An orc diplomat stood at the edges of the floor, tusks polished, armor gleaming—not invited to dance but impossible to dismiss, his gaze like iron cutting through the room. The crowd only saw glittering crests and brocade, but Cassandra saw the frictions stitched beneath it all.
Closer to the dais, she caught the truest picture of the night: vassal lords circling her brothers in clusters, voices thick with feigned grief but eyes bright with calculation. They bowed, scraped, pressed goblets into their hands—not out of loyalty, but to stake their claim now that Duke Delmar lay in his grave. They looked less like mourners and more like vultures scenting a fresh feast. Cassandra's stomach twisted; she wondered if her brothers felt it too—or if they had already learned to mistake carrion for courtesy. And if so, what did that make her?
A court jester tumbled into the center of the floor, juggling spheres of flame and illusionary masks that morphed from emperor to rebel to beast in a blink. The nobles laughed, more eager for spectacle than truth, but Cassandra noted how easily magic entertained them—woven into their celebrations as casually as wine and silk.
It had not helped that Lord Merek, flushed with wine, had called some attention her way. "Delmar's jewel," he slurred, raising his cup too high. "Though no one quite knows from which mine she was dug."
As if she were a stain on a great legacy.
Yet even as shame coiled, her mind noted who smirked at the insult, who looked away, and who quickly changed the subject. The gala was a theater, and she was tired of pretending not to see the actors.
Her lips curved in a bitter scoff. She straightened, letting the sea breeze cool her cheeks, the salt air stinging her skin. It helped. A little.
She grew tired of traditions. Father surely was bored of the theatrics, and yet the Emperor demanded it. There was no need for her to be here.
Cassandra quietly opened the balcony door. Only a few servants and guards knew of the gallery. She peered over the edge, making sure there was no one watching her. She slipped off her shoes. Cool stone eased her aching feet. After a quick glance behind, she gathered her gown and slipped through a hidden servant's door.
The corridor was dim, alive with the clatter of dishes and muffled chatter. Her pulse quickened as she crept down the stairway into an old emergency exit. She pushed it open.
Night struck her full in the face—cold wind, brine, and rain. The stairs groaned as she descended. At the bottom, damp sand clung to the bottom of her soles, kelp's sweetness drifting in the breeze.
She stilled, listening: the hush and crash of waves, a gull's startled cry, the drum of her heartbeat. The sea had always been constant—untamed, indifferent, but truer than the people in her father's halls.
She pressed her feet into the sand. Each breath tasted of salt and memory: her father's hand steadying hers as they drew maps in the tide line with driftwood. The ocean will always answer you, he'd said. Now, with him gone, it felt like the only thing left that had not betrayed her.
She glanced back once. The estate loomed above, its golden windows glowing like judgment.
Farther still, beyond the cliffs, the city shimmered faintly against the dark horizon—perhaps a jewel, perhaps a hearthfire, perhaps only the distant blaze of humankind burning away the night.
Her brothers thrived there, trading words like coin. Had they heard Lord Merek's slight, they would have cut it down in an instant. But Cassandra's silence bound her more tightly than any insult could, and so she slipped away before their voices could shield her.
Maybe she didn't have to pretend anymore.
Maybe there was a place somewhere that would not see her as less than she was. A place where she could breathe without eyes watching her every step.
She exhaled, releasing the last thread of duty. She stepped forward, gown dragging heavy through tidewater. She walked until the estate was a beacon on the cliff, a lighthouse keeping her at a distance.
She never had to think about her future. Her father let her do as she pleased. Soon, though, there would be a new Duke. She may not be allowed to live freely as she once did. What future could she possibly have?
Cassandra paused, lifted her skirts, and waded into the rising tide.
At first, the waves soothed her, lapping gently against her calves. She hummed softly, a fragile note against the sea's endless voice. But grief pressed in beneath the lullaby. The sky dimmed; clouds gathered, mirroring the weight in her chest.
The water shifted strangely, curling around her as though answering her grief. She told herself it was only the tide, yet the pull in her chest thrummed in time with the waves. For an instant she swore the water bent toward her, not the wind. The ocean had always felt like it knew her, and tonight it seemed almost intent on proving it.
Anger rose with the water until it seemed both sea and storm bore her pain.
Her chest burned. The waves grew louder, swallowing every sound. Just like the world did.
She couldn't even hear herself. She pressed her ribs as if to hold herself together and screamed into the wind, voice ragged until thunder split the heavens and rain hammered down.
The sea no longer lapped. It struck—bruising her chest, tearing her hair across her face, stinging her skin with rain like needles. The sand dissolved under her feet. The ocean pulled harder, as if intent on claiming her.
Darkness closed in. The gown wrapped her legs like chains. Panic clawed at her as she fought the water filling her lungs.
"Cassandra!"
The voice cut through the storm. She blinked, the moon suddenly sharp between clouds. A faint glow approached—mage-light sweeping along the shore.
"My lady!"
She tried to answer, but seawater choked her. The tide surged to her neck. Then a wave slammed her under. Silence.
She thrashed, lungs burning, the world pressing in like a coffin. She felt herself drifting in nothingness. The storm muted above her. Just as her strength gave way, a hand seized hers and dragged her upward.
"Easy," a voice said against her ear, steady as iron. "I've got you."
She coughed hard, vision blurring. The mage-light hovered above them. Her guard's arm locked across her ribs, keeping her face above the chop. A quick slash of steel freed her gown. She braced herself as he lifted her, but Leoleta bore her weight effortlessly, as though the sea itself had no claim on her while he stood against it. She clung to him, trembling.
With a grunt, he shifted her in his arms and fought the surf, step by step, against the pull of the sea. Rain lashed down, waves battering his body, but his grip never faltered. She felt the steady rhythm of his breath, unbroken even as the storm raged. She tried to pace her own with his, forcing air past her raw throat, as if his steadiness might carry her through.
"Stay with me, my lady," he said, calm as stone.
"Leoleta… I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking.
He did not answer, only drove forward. At last they broke onto sand. Cassandra shuddered, hiding her face as tears blurred with rain. Leoleta carefully set her down, his hands steadying her shoulders as if testing whether she could stand.
Cassandra did her best, pride pushing her upright though her legs trembled beneath the weight of her sodden gown.
He laid her beneath a cloak left on driftwood, careful not to meet her eyes. "Forgive me, my lady," he murmured. "Only for warmth."
She nodded faintly. The heat of his cloak and his nearness seeped through her exhaustion, dragging her eyelids heavy. She wanted to resist, but warmth was a lullaby, and she slipped into sleep before she could stop it.
When she stirred again, he was still there.
"Shall I support you, or escort you at your side?"
"Walk," she whispered.
He inclined his head, as though no other answer existed. They retraced her steps in silence.
When she stumbled, she caught his sleeve, pride warring with exhaustion.
At the stairwell she paused, hand clinging to his cuff. "Sir Leoleta… I may not be able to finish this night as I intended."
"Understood." His voice dropped, meant only for her. "I'll take you the back way. No one will see."
Her knees buckled. Without hesitation, he stepped closer, one arm bracing firmly against her back while the other swept beneath her knees. Cassandra startled, the cold cling of her sodden gown pressing between them, water dripping against his arm. She should have been heavy as stone—yet he bore her as if she weighed nothing at all, his stride steady, her soaked skirts no hindrance.
The warmth of his chest pressed through the chill, and pride gave way to exhaustion. Her head fell against him despite herself, and before the first landing, sleep had already claimed her.
~
Cassandra woke to amber firelight. Damp curls clung to her cheek, a heavy blanket warming her shoulders. Leoleta stood a careful distance away, gaze fixed on the hearth.
"Are you hurt?" His voice was low.
She drew the blanket closer. "No doctor," she rasped. "And I'd like to avoid misunderstandings."
"As you wish." He met her eyes briefly. "Liaerin has drawn a bath."
Steam drifted from the washroom as her handmaid entered with oils and cloths. Relief softened Leoleta's face for the barest instant before he turned toward the door.
"Liaerin will see to you now," he said, bowing slightly. To her, he added, "You're safe. Please rest."
He turned to go.
"Sir Le—" Her voice stopped him.
He waited.
"Thank you." The words scraped from her throat, weighted with both relief and shame. He bowed once and left, and she was left trembling beneath the quiet, unsure if she had been saved or exposed.
was as if the sea itself was humming. Cassandra leaned over the balcony, eyes heavy, but she could never be blind to what lay below—every false smile, ev