Part 2
The reception was a suffocating display of Vesperan decadence. The Great Hall had been transformed into a forest of crystal and wrought iron, where the scent of roasting meats mingled with the heavy, cloying aroma of hothouse lilies. Hundreds of guests—the elite of the Sovereignty—moved like a slow, shimmering tide, their silks and velvets whispering against the stone floors.
Cassian stood near the buffet, a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand. He had already abandoned Elara near the receiving line, leaving her to the mercy of the dowagers and their sharp, prying questions. He needed distance. That momentary lapse in the Grand Hall—the way his body had betrayed him at a mere brush of silk—gnawed at him.
Weakness, he thought, his jaw tightening. A pawn's reaction.
He felt a heavy hand clap onto his shoulder, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He pivoted, his face instantly smoothing into a cocky, half-lidded grin as he recognized the face.
"Lord Vane! Or should I say, the Groom!"
It was Baron Halloway, a man whose girth was matched only by his lack of personal boundaries. The Baron was already three sheets to the wind, his face flushed a deep, alarming purple.
"Baron," Cassian drawled, his voice dripping with forced boredom. "I see you've found the punch. Or did you bring your own vat?"
The Baron let out a booming laugh, the sound vibrating in Cassian's chest. "Always a wit, this one! Come here, lad, let me get a look at the man who finally got shackled."
The Baron reached out, his thick, meaty fingers catching Cassian just above the waist, intending to pull him into a boisterous side-hug. As his fingers dug into the sensitive meat of Cassian's ribs, a violent, electric jolt shot through Cassian's nervous system.
It wasn't pain. It was a sudden, agonizingly intense tickle that bypassed all his mental defenses.
Cassian's knees buckled slightly. An undignified, high-pitched "Hrk!" escaped his throat, and he performed a frantic, jerky shuffle to the left, nearly upending a tray of caviar-topped crackers.
"O-ho! Lively one, aren't you?" the Baron guffawed, oblivious to the panic in Cassian's eyes.
"Just... the drink, Baron," Cassian wheezed, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple. He adjusted his coat with shaking hands, his face burning a bright, uncharacteristic crimson. "Powerful stuff. Almost knocked me over."
"Heh, I'll say! You look like you've seen a ghost!"
Cassian didn't wait for a reply. He spun on his heel and stalked toward the balcony, his "Golden Bastard" mask cracked and leaking. He needed air. He needed to be away from the hands, the noise, and the suffocating proximity of people.
Elara watched the exchange from across the room. She was currently being lectured by a Duchess on the importance of "Resonance-stable" heirs, but her focus was entirely on the man by the buffet.
She had seen it. The way his body had spasmed. The way his loud, arrogant facade had shattered into something small, frantic, and—strangely—cute.
Interesting, she thought, her "chaotic little mind" clicking into gear. The Golden Son has a very loud nervous system.
She excused herself with a practiced, "cookie-cutter" smile that suggested she was simply overwhelmed by the excitement. She didn't head for the balcony. Instead, she moved toward the shadows of the gallery, her extraordinary sense of smell picking up the faint, bitter scent of Cassian's agitation.
She found him leaning against the stone railing of the terrace, staring out at the rain-slicked gardens. The "Resonance" vents in the earth were glowing a faint, ethereal violet in the dark, casting long, strange shadows across his face.
"The air is much kinder out here, isn't it?" she asked softly.
Cassian didn't turn. "I thought I left you with the vultures, Lady Elara."
"They were beginning to pick at the lace on my sleeves," she said, stepping up beside him. She held her Lumen-Box camera to her eye, not pointing it at him, but at the glowing vents in the garden. "I prefer the company of shadows. They don't demand as much... currency."
Cassian turned his head, his eyes narrowed. He looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time. She looked so fragile, so "shy and hesitant," but her words had a sharp, clinical edge to them.
"Currency," he repeated, his voice dropping into a more serious, cynical tone. "That's all this is, isn't it? My father gets your minerals, your father gets my family's industrial clout, and we get... each other."
"A fair exchange," Elara murmured, still looking through the viewfinder. "Equivalent value. Though I suspect you feel you've overpaid."
"I don't pay for anything, Lark. I just take what I want and leave the bill for someone else." He reached for a cigarette, his fingers still a bit unsteady. He fumbled with the silver lighter, his frustration mounting when the flame refused to catch in the wind.
"Here," Elara said.
Before he could protest, she reached out. She didn't touch the lighter. She touched the back of his hand to steady it.
The contact was light—barely a graze—but to Cassian, whose skin felt like a live wire after the Baron's assault, it was a catastrophe. He flinched, his hand jerking upward, and the lighter flew out of his grip, clattering onto the stone tiles.
He froze, staring at her, his breath coming in ragged hitches. He expected her to laugh. He expected the mockery.
Instead, Elara knelt down and picked up the lighter. She stood back up and held it out to him, her expression one of deep, altruistic concern.
"You are very... reactive today, Lord Cassian," she said, her voice melodic and gentle. "Perhaps the weight of the day is more than you care to admit."
"I'm fine," he snapped, snatching the lighter from her. He felt a sudden, crushing wave of guilt for his tone—a weight that always sat behind his cocky attitude. He looked at her small, pale face and felt like a monster. "I... I just haven't slept. This whole circus... it's a lot of noise for a funeral."
"A funeral?"
"For my freedom," he said, trying to regain his smirk, but it felt lopsided and weak.
"Freedom is a state of mind, not a contract," Elara replied. She stepped closer, her scent—that rain-on-hot-metal smell—filling his lungs. "I don't want to be your jailer, Cassian. I just want to understand the machine."
She reached out, as if to brush a stray hair from his forehead. Cassian's eyes widened. He felt the "crybaby" side of him—the sensitive, panicked core—wanting to bolt.
"Don't," he whispered, his voice cracking.
Elara stopped her hand inches from his face. She saw the "shattered emptiness" in his eyes, the deep-seated insecurity of a man who viewed himself as a pawn. And beneath that, she saw the sheer, physical terror of being touched.
"As you wish," she said, pulling her hand back. She gave him a small, optimistic smile—the one she used for the public—but her eyes remained cold and calculating. "We have a long journey ahead of us. We should probably return before my father sends a search party."
She turned and began to walk back toward the light of the ballroom.
Cassian watched her go, his mind racing. He was smart; he was cunning; he could read people in a snap. But Elara Nightingale was a puzzle he couldn't solve. She was "cookie-cutter" and "innocent," yet she spoke with the cold logic of an engineer.
And more importantly, she had seen him flinch. Twice.
He leaned back against the railing, closing his eyes. He felt the cold rain beginning to spray onto his face. He was twenty-five years old, married to a stranger, and terrified of his own skin.
"Monotonous," he whispered to the dark, the word a bitter lie. "Just another day of fun and entertainment."
The carriage ride to the Vane estate was silent. The Duke of Vane had stayed behind to finalize the transport of the first shipment of Resonance minerals, leaving the newlyweds alone in the plush, velvet-lined interior of the coach.
Cassian sat as far away from Elara as possible, staring out the window at the passing coal-towers. He had a flask of whiskey in his hand, and he was making steady progress through it.
Elara sat with her camera in her lap, her fingers tracing the etched brass of the lens. She wasn't looking at him, but she was listening. She could hear the rhythm of his breathing, the faint clink of the flask against his teeth, and the way he shifted every time the carriage jolted.
"You use that flask as a shield," she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the rumble of the wheels.
Cassian snorted. "It's not a shield, Lark. It's an accelerant. Makes the world move a bit faster."
"Or it numbs the weight," she replied. She turned her head to look at him, her gaze clinical. "You act like everyone's friend, Cassian. You banter, you mock, you play the fool. But you're very lonely, aren't you?"
Cassian's grip tightened on the flask. "I'm the most popular man in Vespera. I don't have time to be lonely."
"Popularity is just a crowded room of strangers," she said. She reached into a small bag at her side and pulled out a small, brightly colored object.
She held it out to him. It was a sweet—a small, sugar-dusted marshmallow, shaped like a strawberry.
Cassian stared at it. It was the most ridiculous, "quirky" thing he had ever seen in this dark, industrial carriage.
"What is that?"
"A peace offering," she said. "My mother used to say that sweetness is the only thing that survives the iron."
Cassian looked from the marshmallow to her face. He saw the "optimistic idealism" there, the desire to find joy in the cracks of their miserable world. For a second, his cocky exterior crumbled. He felt a surge of that intense guilt—the weight of his own cynicism compared to her apparent innocence.
He reached out and took the sweet, his fingers careful not to touch hers.
"Strawberry," he muttered, popping it into his mouth. It was cloyingly sweet, unnaturally soft, and completely out of place.
It was perfect.
"Don't get used to it," he said, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "I'm still a bastard, Elara."
"I know," she whispered, her smile turning a fraction sharper, hidden in the shadows of the carriage. "But every bastard has a soft spot. I'm just looking for yours."
As the carriage pulled into the iron gates of the Vane estate, Cassian didn't realize that his "crybaby" heart had just taken its first, tiny, baby step into a war he wasn't prepared for.