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The ballroom sparkled with light and magic. Music swelled around Felice like a living thing, wrapping her in warmth, rhythm, and something else—something strange. A sensation in her chest, just beneath her collarbone, had begun to hum.
She stood at the edge of the dance floor, watching couples twirl in elegant circles. Cassian and Liora were already spinning and laughing, his mask tilted askew as he dipped her dramatically to make her laugh.
Felice smiled, then glanced around—
—and froze.
Across the ballroom, half-hidden in shadow behind a velvet column, stood a figure in a dark cloak. Unmoving. Masked. Watching.
Her magic prickled.
But before she could process it, a hand reached gently for hers.
Lysander.
"May I have this dance?" he asked, his voice lower than usual, almost reverent.
The tension in her chest loosened. "You may."
He pulled her into his arms, and the music changed—slower, deeper. Their steps were natural, effortless, like they had always known how to move together. Like they were two halves of a song.
Felice barely noticed the world around them fading. Everything became Lysander. The steady strength of his hands, the way he held her as if she were precious. His scent—earth and winter wind—wrapped around her.
the world seemed to tilt. The music slowed to a tender waltz, and Lysander's hand settled gently at the small of her back.
Felice had danced before. She'd danced with Fredrick. But this was different—Lysander was different.
He held her like she wasn't a burden, like she wasn't something to hide. He didn't flinch at her magic or glance over his shoulder in fear of being seen. He looked at her like she was the only one here.
And that's when it happened.
The pull.
Sudden. Fierce. A spark igniting deep within her chest, where her soul had once felt fractured—broken by rejection.
Her knees nearly gave out. She gasped softly.
Lysander's eyes widened. His steps faltered. The music continued, but they had stopped moving.
Felice clutched his shoulder, trying to steady her breathing. "No," she whispered. "Not again."
Lysander stared at her like he'd just seen the stars shift. "You feel it too."
The bond. The unmistakable, undeniable call of mates.
But this wasn't possible.
Her mate had rejected her.
Fredrick Martin had turned his back on her—called her nothing, left her with scars she still carried.
So how could this be happening?
"I already had a mate," she said quietly, unable to look away from Lysander's gaze.
Lysander's jaw clenched. "And the Moon Goddess gave you to me instead."
Felice swallowed, heart racing. "Why?"
"Because he broke the bond," Lysander said slowly. "And maybe… maybe I was always meant to find you afterward. To love you the way he never could."
Tears welled up in her eyes—anger, confusion, hope—all tangled together.
"I don't know if I can trust this," she admitted. "I don't know if I can trust you."
Lysander gently reached for her hand, his voice a whisper. "Then let me show you. Not as a prince. Not even as your mate. Just as me. I won't take anything from you. I'll only give."
She didn't speak—couldn't.
But she didn't pull away.
And across the ballroom, unseen by all but one, the cloaked figure slipped through the side doors.
Unseen…
Except by Queen Seraphina, who watched with narrowed eyes.
The past was rising.
And the future had just shifted on its axis.
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