Elara
The new gloves were heavy.
Double-stitched lead-thread, lined with cold iron. They reached all the way to my elbows, stiff and unyielding. My father had watched the weavers fit them this morning, his eyes lingering on my hands as if searching for the silver veins I had spent the last six hours hiding beneath a layer of heavy cosmetic paste.
"The Duke of Vane will expect a dance, Elara," my father had said, his voice a sharp blade draped in velvet. "He provides the tidal crystals for our western defenses. Do not let your... unsettled temperament ruin the evening."
Now, standing at the top of the grand staircase, the heat of the ballroom hit me like a physical blow. The scent was overwhelming: thousands of spiced lilies, expensive wine, and the underlying metallic tang of the tidal crystals powering the chandeliers.
I looked down at the swirling mass of masks. It was a sea of gold and copper, a predatory display of wealth while the rest of the continent shivered in the looming Great Winter.
They look like vultures, a voice whispered.
I froze. My hand gripped the marble banister so hard the lead-thread creaked. The voice hadn't come from the hallway. It hadn't come from the air.
It had come from the back of my mind. It was low, raspy, and tasted of salt and shadows.
Alaric? I thought, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Careful, little bird, the voice returned, sounding amused. If you trip down those stairs, your father will be very cross. And I'd hate to lose my only source of entertainment.
"Get out of my head," I hissed under my breath, smoothing my skirts.
"Did you say something, Lady Elara?" my escort, a young captain of the guard with a mask shaped like a fox, asked politely.
"Just practicing my greetings, Captain," I said, forcing a brittle smile.
I descended the stairs, every step feeling like an act of treason. I could feel the spark of Alaric's magic inside me—a cold, pulsing ember. It was reacting to the music. As the violins swelled, the shadow-spark surged, making the shadows of the guests on the wall dance out of sync with their owners.
I ducked into the crowd, trying to blend in, but I was the King's Silence. People parted for me as if I were a ghost.
"Lady Elara."
The Duke of Vane was an older man with a face like a dried apple and eyes that moved too quickly. He wore a mask of solid gold. He didn't wait for my consent; he held out a hand, expecting me to take it for the traditional autumnal waltz.
I looked at his bare hand, then at my leaden gloves.
Don't touch him, Alaric's voice echoed, sharper now, no longer mocking. His frequency is jagged. He'll feel the resonance.
I have to, I thought back, the internal dialogue feeling like a fever dream. If I refuse, my father will suspect I've lost my grip.
I placed my hand in the Duke's.
The moment our palms met—even through the thick lead and iron—I felt a jolt. But it wasn't my siphoning power. It was the shadow-magic.
Through the connection, I didn't just feel the Duke's warmth; I felt his secrets. I felt the greed in his gut, the way he was overcharging the King for the crystals, the way he looked at the younger debutantes with a hunger that made me want to scrub my skin raw.
The music started. We began to spin.
"You are quiet tonight, My Lady," the Duke remarked, his breath smelling of fermented plums. "Is the prisoner proving difficult? I hear the Shadow-Prince is quite the savage."
"He is a man in a cage, Duke," I said, my voice tight. "No more, no less."
Ouch, Alaric whispered in my ear. And here I thought we were becoming friends.
Suddenly, the Duke pulled me closer than was appropriate for a formal dance. "The King says you are the key to the Great Reset. That once you've drained the Prince, Oakhaven will never need to fear the dark again. I hope you remember your friends when you are the most powerful woman in the world."
As he spoke, the shadows in the room began to bleed.
The light from the chandeliers flickered. Not a gentle dimming, but a violent, rhythmic pulsing. The shadows cast by the dancers began to stretch, growing long and jagged, crawling up the gold-plated walls like ink spilled on silk.
Elara, breathe, Alaric commanded. Your heart rate is spiking. You're leaking.
I looked up at the Duke. His golden mask reflected a girl whose eyes were no longer blue. They were swirling with silver smoke.
"Is... is the light failing?" the Duke stammered, looking around in confusion as the temperature in the ballroom dropped twenty degrees.
I ripped my hand away from his. "I... I must excuse myself. The ritual... I am unwell."
I didn't wait for his reply. I turned and ran, my heavy skirts snagging on the heels of other dancers. I could hear the whispers starting. I could feel my father's gaze from the high dais, heavy and suspicious.
I burst through the glass doors onto the balcony, the cold autumn night air hitting me like a slap. I leaned over the stone railing, gasping for breath, my gloved hands shaking.
That was close, Alaric's voice said, sounding breathless himself.
"What is happening to me?" I whispered into the dark. "Why can I feel your thoughts? Why am I seeing the rot inside people?"
Because you aren't just a void anymore, Elara, he replied, his voice soft, almost tender. You're a mirror. And in Oakhaven, no one wants to see what they really are.
I looked out toward the Sunless Tower, rising like a jagged tooth against the moon. Somewhere down there, in the dark and the salt, a monster was holding my hand from miles away.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid of the monster. I was afraid of the girl he was turning me into.