---
The ball was a lively affair, with debutantes twirling and laughing on the dance floor, their silken gowns catching the candlelight like ripples over water. From the grand balcony gallery above—reserved for family and honored guests—watchful eyes observed the scene below with careful scrutiny.
"Ivan, Lin, Qaya, and Zuke" entered the ballroom, each of them catching more than a few glances as they stepped into the glittering space.
"Ah, Sir and Lady Gadir, you look positively breathtaking," one of the older noblewomen gushed, fanning herself as she admired them.
Ivan and Lin exchanged a glance and offered polite smiles.
"I'm glad you think so, even though we were dreadfully late, because Lin wanted to look like the moon" Ivan said, slipping an arm around Lin's waist in a bid to sell the story that they were a couple "My wife took quite some time to get ready," he added, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"You say that like you weren't practically drooling over me while I dressed," Lin shot back smoothly.
Ivan cleared his throat, face flushing a deeper shade of crimson. It was true. He had lingered while she dressed—hidden behind the privacy screen, of course . And with Mahalia now occupying his room, because of cousins fight, he had nowhere else to be.
Leaning closer, he murmured, "Was I really drooling?"
But Lin was already being whisked away by a group of noblewomen, leaving Ivan standing there with Zuke—who was grinning broadly—and a very quiet Qaya.
"I'll be with the other governesses," Qaya said curtly, excusing herself.
Meanwhile, Lin was promptly surrounded by ladies in elaborate veils, each one eager to draw her into their circle.
"Lady Gadir, we've been expecting you at our tea parties, but you never seem to attend," a woman with a green veil said, nudging Lin playfully.
"I apologize," Lin answered with a soft smile, adjusting her gloves. "We only recently arrived, and it has taken time to settle. I hope I haven't missed too much."
"Not at all! Just the juiciest gossip in all of Citë—perhaps in the whole Middle Belt," a woman in a deep crimson veil chimed in, her eyes sparkling mischievously.
"Lady Hamlin! Don't leave me to fend for myself," Lin said with a light laugh, feigning coyness.
"Don't mind Lady Hamlin," Green Veil whispered conspiratorially. "All we ever talk about are..." She trailed off, voice suddenly bashful.
Lin tilted her head, intrigued. "What is it?"
Lady Hamlin leaned closer. "Bedroom exploits," she whispered with relish.
Lin blinked, but quickly schooled her features, a sly smile curving her lips. "Oh, I see. Well, I assure you, I am well acquainted with such things."
"Really?" Green Veil perked up, clearly delighted.
"Of course," Lin said smoothly. "I wasn't born yesterday, and I've been married for four years now. Young enough to still savor the bliss... old enough to be experienced."
The women squealed in delight, leaning in closer.
"Lady Gadir, please tell us more!"
Lin raised her gloved hand to her lips in mock modesty. "Is this really appropriate talk for a ball?"
"It's just us," Lady Hamlin insisted. "What's shared here stays here."
"If you insist." Lin lowered her voice, drawing them in. "You see, my husband—he's an enigma. Outside the bedroom, he's a force of nature, commanding, dignified. But inside..." She gave a wicked smile. "He's so delicate, it's always me who takes the lead."
Gasps and giggles rippled through the group, some women sipping nervously at their drinks while others clutched their pearls.
"Once, I had him whimpering and pleading..." Lin paused for dramatic effect, glancing around at their eager faces. "...on all fours. Sprawled across the bed, utterly at my mercy."
The women practically choked on their drinks, eyes wide with shock and fascination—though Lin was far too amused to stop.
But the ripple of gasps that followed wasn't directed at her story. Lin blinked when she realized all their gazes were fixed on something—or someone—behind her.
"Is something the matter?" she asked, turning to see what had them so distracted.
"It's nothing, my love," Ivan's voice came from just behind her, far too casual for a man whose face was flushed as deep as a ripe plum.
Lin stiffened, spinning around to find Ivan standing there, his expression a mix of amusement and mortification.
"I... I just came to tell you something important," he added, clearly struggling to keep his composure.
"Oh." Lin hastily rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts. "Ladies, I'll be back shortly."
As she walked away with Ivan, she cleared her throat, desperate to dispel the awkward tension.
"What was it you wanted to tell me?" she asked lightly.
Ivan hesitated. "So... What about me says delicate?"
Lin arched a brow. "Oh? Was I wrong to think that?" she said, her tone all innocence, though the teasing glint in her eyes said otherwise. "Even when we kissed, I took the lead, if you recall."
"Well—yes, but you were the one who initiated it."
She looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed. "Rivan—sorry, Lord Gadir, I don't see why you're so offended. It was a casual kiss between two drunk people. Honestly, I expected a little more gratitude."
Ivan's mouth opened, then closed, as if at a loss for words.
"If you'll excuse me, I can't be away for too long," Lin added, making to step around him.
But suddenly, Ivan's hand shot out, curling around her waist and pulling her close.
"How about I follow you there?" he murmured, a playful edge in his voice now.
Lin blinked, caught off guard—but she didn't pull away.
As they returned to the group, one of the ladies exclaimed, "Oh! You're back!"
"Yes, my apologies if I kept her too long. It was an important matter," Ivan said smoothly, though the twinkle in his eyes betrayed him.
"It's no trouble at all," they chimed.
Ivan turned to Lin, giving her a slow, charming smile—and without warning, he leaned in and kissed her.
A soft collective gasp echoed around them, fans fluttering wildly as the women looked on in gleeful shock.
Ivan pulled back, but not before whispering against Lin's ear, his voice low "Casual kiss, was it?"
Lin's cheeks burned crimson, her eyes wide.
"My apologies, ladies," Ivan said, flashing them a grin as he bowed slightly. "I couldn't quite help myself."
And with that, he turned on his heel and sauntered away, leaving Lin breathless—and her audience delighted.
---
"Is that your charge?"
"Wow, that's quite a splendid dress, and her dancing is simply exquisite."
Qaya drowned out the voices of the governesses as they prattled on about the girls in their charge.
She lazily looked down from the gallery. The ballroom was nothing short of magnificent—grand chandeliers illuminated the polished marble floors, their light reflecting off the ornate gold-trimmed walls. Soft music from a live orchestra filled the space, blending with the gentle hum of conversation and the rustle of silk dresses as debutantes twirled under the careful guidance of their partners. But Qaya had little interest in the spectacle. Her mind was elsewhere—on the truth Talmia had revealed to her, on Jaslin's growing resentment, and on what she had discovered about Zachary. It was all too much to process.
"Miss Wright?"
The sharp voice snapped Qaya out of her reverie. She turned to find herself met with concerned gazes.
"I'm sorry," she managed, offering a polite bow of her head.
"It's nothing," one of the governesses replied. Her extravagant attire only seemed to confirm the rumors—an affair with her charge's father, a man very much married.
"We were just talking about Miss Jamon. She's the most gracious young lady. You did well," a petite governess clarified.
"Oh, it's nothing, really. I was just blessed to have such a talented charge. She could have had an ape for a governess and still come out refined."
A brief, awkward silence followed as the other women struggled to interpret her words. Then, one of them finally broke the pause.
"You're so lucky. My charge is a nightmare..."
Once again, Qaya tuned them out—until someone nudged her.
She turned with a patronizing smile. "How may I help you?"
"I would very much like a dance with you," a man answered. He had blond hair and stood only a few inches taller than Qaya. His hot breath reeked of alcohol—certainly not the fine wine served at the ball, but something far stronger.
"I'm flattered, but this ball is for the debutantes. It would be inappropriate for me to join them," she said smoothly.
He rolled his eyes. "Okay, whatever. How about we talk on the balcony instead?"
Qaya sighed. She should have rejected him outright. "Uhm, My Lord, I truly appreciate the offer and applaud how resourceful you are, but I'll have to decline."
His expression darkened. It was clear he wasn't used to rejection. "What's the matter with you? I'm trying to help a little sewer rat like you, and—"
He reached for her arm, but a firm hand stopped him.
"And who's this runt?" The drunk's anger flared.
"Respect the lady's choice, sir, or—"
The voice was Zachary's.
"Or what?" the man sneered. "Who's this nobody? From which house are you? What's your name?"
Zachary clenched his jaw but quickly composed himself. "You would be expelled from this gathering. I may be a nobody, but I work directly under—and am almost like a brother to—Lord Gadir, Lady Jamon's brother-in-law."
The drunk hesitated. He didn't seem to believe Zachary's claim, but he wasn't willing to risk it either. With a disgruntled huff, he released Qaya and stormed off.
Qaya glared after him, muttering a curse under her breath. "I need fresh air," she murmured.
Turning to the governesses, she excused herself, and they nodded in understanding. She made her way to a secluded balcony, away from prying eyes. Just as she was about to close the curtains, she saw Zachary following her.
"What are you doing?" she asked through gritted teeth. "I don't need a bodyguard."
"I know that. I wanted to talk."
She sighed in resignation and let the curtains fall shut behind him.
The night wind was cool and serene, almost lulling her into sleep. She leaned against the railing, letting the silence stretch between them. When she finally turned to Zachary, his eyes were closed, his posture eerily still.
"The nerve of this man," she muttered under her breath.
"I thought you wanted to talk," she said aloud.
"Hm-mmn," he hummed in affirmation, not bothering to move.
Qaya stared at him expectantly, but he remained silent. So, she spoke instead.
"Some men are just asses. He came to me all polite, but the moment I politely declined, he became disrespectful. For goodness' sake, he was trying to get with a sewer rat."
Zachary finally opened his eyes. "It is indisputable that the man was lacking—not only in manners but in everything else a man should have. He only acted that way because his ego was wounded. He saw a serene and beautiful woman and thought to spend time with her. That much is understandable, but everything after that was disgraceful."
Qaya turned to him, momentarily speechless.
"What's up with you?" she asked. "You keep saying things you don't mean."
"What? Oh! Of course, I've never known you to be serene, but that's how you looked sitting with the governesses. He must have thought you were, but we both know you're about as serene as a typhoon."
Qaya's expression darkened, much to Zachary's confusion.
"Porto Jamon sure did a number on you. You're acting so… so—I don't know. It's annoying, and I hate it."
"I hate how it makes me feel," she added, barely above a whisper.
Zachary placed his hands on her shoulders. "Is everything alright? I have no idea what I did wrong, but I apologize. I didn't mean to upset you."
His sincerity calmed her. Qaya suddenly felt foolish. She bowed her head in embarrassment, leaning into him slightly before straightening and resting against the balcony railing once more.
"I'm sorry. I'm just stressed. With everything that's been happening—and then that fiasco with the drunk idiot—I'm sorry for taking it out on you. You don't deserve that."
"I understand," Zachary said, his voice deep and solemn.
"And one more thing, dear governess," he added with a teasing smirk. "The only word I didn't mean was 'serene.' I thought you looked beautiful."
He turned to leave.
"Now, I'll give you time to yourself."
"Thank you," she muttered shakily. But the voice that left her lips sounded foreign even to herself.
She touched her cheeks. They were warm. She was certain they were flushed.
"It's just the alcohol," she reassured herself.
But Qaya hadn't tasted a drop of wine.
---
"That Rivan must be mad," Jaslin muttered as she rushed toward the ladies' room.
That was when she bumped into someone.
"My apologies—" she started, but froze when she saw who it was.
He was a soldier. She recognized him immediately. Though he wasn't wearing full regalia, the emblem on the hilt of his sword confirmed her suspicion. What was he even doing with a weapon at a ball? Someone must have tipped him off about their presence.
Jaslin stiffened, instinctively lowering her head so her veil concealed more of her face.
"It's no problem," he said in an almost rude, dismissive way, but she didn't care. She lowered her head so that her veil would further cover her and turned to leave.
"Thank you," she answered in a voice she subconsciously faked.
"Wait."
Jaslin broke out in a bullet of sweat and cursed herself for using a fake voice. But she continued with it nonetheless.
"What is the matter?"
"You look like someone I know," he said, inching closer as if to check her face.
Jaslin shrunk within herself. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. I do not know you."
"Still, I'd appreciate it if you showed me your face," he persisted.
Jaslin thought about what she could say, but fear wouldn't let her think of anything.
"What manner of disrespect is this?" an elderly woman announced, stepping beside them.
She was wearing a Tortuga Veil—an exquisite veil that covered the head, hands, and feet—worn by matriarchs who were widows and revered in Porto Jamon society.
"How dare you ask a woman you do not know to show her face when her husband is in this very building?" Her voice was shaky, and Jaslin couldn't tell if it was due to old age or anger.
"Who are you?" she asked, inching closer to the soldier.
"My apologies, I meant no disrespect. She looked like—"
"Enough. I have no time for the lot of you. I recognize your face, and I will surely report this." She then turned to Jaslin.
"Lady Gadir, Lord Gadir is looking for you."
"Gadir?" The soldier paled in terror. "It was not my intention to upset Lady Jamon's relatives."
"What is this heathen still doing here? Off with you," the woman dismissed him, and he trudged away.
Jaslin gave a small bow. "Thank you, ma'am."
"There's no need for thank-yous," the woman replied, but her voice no longer sounded elderly—it sounded young and familiar.
"Mahalia?"
There was a short pause at the realization of Jaslin's words, but she continued.
"What? How? When?"
"I was at the balcony when I saw them approaching. I hurriedly borrowed the veil from a matriarch leaving in her carriage. And I'm good at impressions."
"How convenient," Jaslin answered, eyeing her suspiciously.
"Convenient indeed. I'm grateful to the heavens."
"Wait—you said them. You saw them approaching?"
"Yes. There are more soldiers. I've told Rivan, and he's waiting for us at the exit in the East Wing. Hurry—use the servants' trail and escape."
Jaslin nodded and turned to leave.
"Wait."
"What is it?" Jaslin asked in concern.
"I know this sounds selfish to say, but I could have had someone else bail you out from that soldier. But I came myself."
Jaslin scoffed. "Really? That's what this is about? I'm sorry I can't give you a medal right now since I have to flee for my life."
"Jaslin, just listen to me. You haven't been doing much of that."
Jaslin kept quiet.
"Even when I was putting on that charade, I was scared that the soldier would catch our ruse and hold both of us prisoner. But one thing that trumped my fear of getting caught was this veil I wore.
"This veil protected me. It gave me a chance for you to look at me without scowling or being angry. I think I like veils. I know you can't bear to look at me, not while I have this face. I understand." Qaya sounded tired and frustrated. "Don't worry—hurry and leave."
Jaslin stared at Qaya, two veils between them. Deep down, she felt like she had held onto her grudge long enough, and she couldn't help but pity this stranger. But she also knew that was a wrong feeling. Qaya Wright didn't deserve her sympathy. Not now. Not ever. Right?
She walked away, turning to the servants' trail and escaping.
***
"You know, Zuke, I think your talents are wasted with Lord Gadir."
"Really?" Zachary answered, uninterested. He didn't bother hiding his distaste as the woman lewdly ran her hands over him, practically salivating.
He didn't want to indulge her, but he was waiting for someone here and couldn't leave for fear of missing his appointment. And this drunk woman didn't seem like she was leaving anytime soon.
"Wow, your muscles are all tense. You know, I have a very relaxing way to help you…" She gave him a knowing wink, and Zachary visibly cringed.
Then something caught his eye—a hooded figure darting in the shadows, hiding near a balcony.
"If you'll excuse me." He pushed the woman away and didn't bother listening to her whines of protest.
He finally reached the balcony, an unimpressed look on his face.
"Lucius, you're late."
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I met with some… trouble outside."
Zachary rolled his eyes. "Tell me—is it done?"
Lucius flashed a smile at his prince. "The infiltration was successful."
"That's good. Our plan has succeeded halfway. This is no time to relent. Let the others know this."
Zachary stiffened and turned to Lucius. "Someone is coming."
"I sensed that as well. See you soon, Your Highness."
With expert and swift movement, Lucius leapt from the balcony and disappeared just as the curtains were pulled open.
Qaya peered through.
"Zachary, we need to leave—now!"
---
To be continued