Page 23 of Fallen Nocturne

I do not know this man. I cannot miss him. Still, my body moves.

One step. Then another.

I swallow. The pull is worse now. Standing this close, I can see the strong line of his jaw, the faint shadow along it and the shape of his mouth beneath the mask. His lips rest in a severe line, but I have already seen how easily amusement softens them. His hands remain upon the armrests, strong and still, the calluses and pale scars more visible from here.

“Why am I here?” I ask. My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.

“Perhaps you already know,” he says softly.

“I don’t know. I was walking. The palace pulled me.” I glance over my shoulder, as though the corridors themselves might offer an answer.

Something shifts in his eyes. Softens, maybe, though it’s hard to tell behind the mask. “Are you sure it’s the palace?”

My breath catches. “What does that mean?”

“It means the palace is only stone,” he says quietly. “Stone remembers, but it does not yearn. If something called you here, it was something within these walls.”

The loneliness in his voice cuts too close to my own.

“What is this place?” I ask, looking around the vast chamber.

“Morsvyenn Castle,” he says. “The heart of a dead empire.”

The name strikes something inside me. I know it. I have studied the histories of fae courts and human kingdoms alike, and I should be able to place it at once. Instead I meet a strange resistance, as if a wall has been built inside my own mind. The harder I reach for the memory, the sharper the pain behind my eyes becomes.

I press my fingers to my temple and look away, suddenly embarrassed. He will think me foolish, someone too ignorant to recognize the name of the place where she stands.

“It is a beautiful throne room,” I say, as though admiration might hide my confusion.

“It is also a dance hall,” he replies.

I look around again and begin to see it. The wide sweep of black marble is meant for turning feet.

He stands, and I realize how tall he is. How broad.

The masked man descends the dais and stops two paces from me. He lifts one hand, as if he’s offering me something invisible. “Dance with me,” he says.

I blink and stare at his palm. “What?”

“Dance with me, Rhianelle Wiolant.” His voice is low, almost coaxing.

I glance around the silent hall. “There’s no music.”

A single harp string answers from the musicians’ gallery. I look up. Music begins to fill the hall. It swells against the pillars and echoes off the vaulted ceiling, turning the dusty abandoned throne room into something alive and beautiful.

More figures appear. Flute and harp players. Their bodies shimmer like reflections disturbed by water. Music pours through the chamber, rich and haunting.

Candles ignite along the walls, one flame after another, until warm gold replaces the cold moonlight. Ghostly courtiers gather beneath the chandeliers in jeweled gowns and embroidered coats. Laughter rises around me. The palace is alive. They are memories held inside the stone, repeating an evening in the palace.

His hand is still extended.

I take it.

His fingers close around mine, and the shock of contact runs through me like a current. His other hand settles at my waist and draws me closer. Then he leads me into the dance.

I let him.

His steps are sure and fluid. He turns me beneath his arm before drawing me back against him with effortless precision. I follow without thinking, as though my body has always known this pattern. He guides me through the spectral crowd while dancers pass through us like mist, their silks brushing my bare arms like cool breath. Yet none of it matters as much as the hand at my waist and the fingers laced through mine.