The grand ballroom glittered beneath chandeliers that hung like frozen constellations. Gold and velvet draped the walls, music floated lazily through the air, and laughter sparkled like champagne in crystal flutes. But Lysander Grey moved through it all like a shadow, untouched and unmoved, his sharp eyes flickering from guest to guest with disinterest.
Another gala. Another performance.
He had attended too many of these. Too many smiles, too many empty toasts. He was not here for the wine, nor the women, nor the whispers of politics laced in silk. He was here because someone needed to be seen.
Or rather—he needed to be reminded he still existed.
Lysander's gaze swept the ballroom, more from habit than hope, until it landed on a woman in black. Raven-haired. Poised. Her dress clung to her figure like darkness spun into silk, and her face was turned just enough to catch the golden flicker of candlelight. Something in his chest tightened.
That hair. That stillness. That aura.
It reminded him of her. Of the woman responsible for his brother's death.
Martin.
The name rose like a ghost from the graveyard of his memory, dragging a thousand emotions in its wake—grief, guilt, rage. It had been fifteen years, and yet the wound had never truly healed. Martin had been the best of them. The heart. The soul. Taken by a rogue pack of female shifters for reasons that still made no sense.
Lysander had tried to save him. He had failed.
The music blurred into the background. His hand slid into his coat pocket, fingers brushing the edges of an old, faded photograph—two boys laughing in sunlight. One of them gone forever.
A sound cut through the haze.
"No, please don't—"
A woman's voice, small and panicked, somewhere near the edge of the ballroom. It wasn't loud, but Lysander heard it like a shot. His instincts sharpened. His eyes darted toward the source.
Two brutish men were holding a woman between them. She writhed, clearly trying to escape, her eyes wide with fear. The crowd ignored it, too absorbed in the waltz of wine and wealth to care.
But Lysander moved.
He stepped through the crowd, slicing through the laughter like a blade. His boots echoed against the polished floor, and the air shifted with his presence. People stepped aside without realizing why.
When he reached them, the woman's face came into view—delicate, pale, and striking. Her dark eyes locked with his. Something in them pulled at him, like a whisper from the past.
"Let her go," Lysander said, his voice quiet but commanding.
The larger man sneered. "Mind your own damn business, Grey."
So they knew who he was. Good.
"I just made it my business," Lysander replied, stepping forward.
Tension snapped tight. But after a long moment, the men released the woman and backed away. She stumbled, and Lysander caught her before she hit the ground.
She looked up at him, her breath shallow. Her skin was smooth as porcelain, and her eyes held a storm of confusion, fear—and something else. Recognition?
"You're safe now," he said, his voice low.
He studied her again. Her face was a contradiction—fragile and fierce, mysterious and wounded. She was beautiful, yes. But it wasn't that. It was something buried. Something old.
He released her gently. "You're free to go."
She hesitated, then nodded once, turning to vanish into the crowd.
But just before she disappeared, she looked back at him—just once. The glance was brief, but in it, Lysander felt the weight of something larger than coincidence.
He sat on the staircase a few moments later, rubbing the spot between his brows. What the hell had just happened?
"Enjoying the party?"
Cassius Blackwood appeared beside him, impeccably dressed in black and silver, a flute of champagne in hand and amusement in his eyes.
Lysander groaned inwardly. "It's tolerable."
"Tolerable?" Cassius chuckled. "That's practically joy coming from you."
"I'm here for business, not mingling."
"Ah, yes. The brooding shadow at every gathering."
Lysander didn't answer.
Still, Cassius had a point. Lysander wasn't himself tonight. That woman… she had unsettled something.
Cassius leaned closer. "If you need me to dig into her identity, I can."
Lysander didn't respond right away.
"Not yet," he said finally. "But keep your eyes open."
Cassius nodded, his expression sobering. "Understood."
They stepped outside minutes later. The Ashwood night was cold and heavy with fog. The distant hum of arcane engines echoed through the alleyways, and the moon hung low like a watching eye.
"Be careful, Cassius," Lysander said quietly.
Cassius smirked. "Worried about me?"
Lysander turned, disappearing into the mist. "Always."