[Lior's POV—The Masquerade Party—Continuation]
If there is one universal truth woven through every lifetime—mortal or otherwise—it is this: nothing good has ever followed the phrase, "let us play a game."
The circle of young noble heirs had already formed before I arrived, crystal goblets glinting in jeweled hands, masks concealing faces but doing nothing—absolutely nothing—to hide their intentions.
Intrigue leaks through posture, through the curl of a smile, and through the angle at which someone studies you.
And when I approached, when the sweep of my cloak brushed against the marble floor, their laughter wilted into a brittle hush.
Even with half my face hidden behind the obsidian mask…everyone knew exactly who I was.
"Take a seat," Caelen murmured at my ear, a whisper threaded with warmth he did not bother disguising.
I nodded once and settled into an empty seat at the far edge of the circle. Distance, I hoped, might spare me. Foolish hope.
Lady Elara—composed as a winter lake—lifted her glass. The chandeliers cast emerald reflections in her eyes, a quiet reminder of how frightening elegance could be when wielded by someone truly born to it.
Caelen strode with unhurried confidence to her side and sat beside her, the way a man takes a throne he believes was carved for him alone.
"Well," Elara drawled lightly, swirling burgundy wine in her goblet. "Since the evening grows dull, let us…entertain ourselves."
A murmur of agreement rippled around the circle, soft as fur, sharp as teeth.
"With what, Lady Elara?" a young lord asked, his smile lazy and interested.
She tilted her head, lashes lowering with deliberate grace. "Truth or dare."
A wave of laughter, elegant and cruel, washed across the room. Predictable. Dangerous. The kind of danger young nobles welcomed the way moths welcomed flame—right until they burned.
"Truth is for cowards," someone announced boldly.
"Then we shall be brave tonight," Elara replied, her voice smooth as velvet, concealing a blade.
The game began innocently—at least in appearance.
A dare to recite poetry to a stranger. A truth about a secret admirer. A scandalous whisper. Applause disguised as camaraderie but sharpened by the competitive edge of aristocracy.
Masks made them bold. Wine made them reckless.
And then—
"Lord Caelan," someone purred, turning toward him with a predator's grin. "Truth or dare?"
He didn't so much as blink. "Dare."
Of course he didn't. Courage came too naturally to him, or perhaps recklessness did. Sometimes the two were indistinguishable.
A woman across the circle smiled—a slow, curling thing like smoke, "Kiss the person to your left."
Silence fell like a dropped goblet. Several people leaned forward. Someone gasped. Someone else laughed under their breath.
And I?
I didn't move; I couldn't. Shock rooted me to the velvet seat, pressing me still, breath held between disbelief and a desperate, trembling hope.
I believed—gods, I trusted—that Caelen would refuse, because to his left sat Elara.
My sister.
And he would never kiss her, not to hurt me.
. . .
. . .
Right?
But I was wrong.
Caelen turned with a slow, deliberate grace one only used when they knew the room belonged to them. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—sharp, wicked, and tasting unmistakably like a challenge meant for me alone.
"Do you think I wouldn't dare, my lady?"
Then he pivoted fully toward Elara, lowering his voice into something silky and self-assured, "May I, my lady?"
Elara's answering smile was a polished blade, "I do not mind, my lord."
And like that—too quick, too casual, too cruel—Caelen placed a hand beneath her chin, lifting it with a tenderness he had never used on me, and leaned forward to kiss her.
It wasn't deep; it wasn't passionate, but it was still a kiss.
And in that moment, my eyes widened, and something inside me—some fragile, foolish shard cracked.
Then shattered and caved in completely.
Because watching the man you love kiss someone else—without hesitation, without guilt—hurts like hell. My fingers trembled, my breath thinned, and my body felt suddenly weightless and unbearably heavy all at once.
Then—
CLAP.
CLAP.
Applause erupted like fireworks around a corpse.
"Such daring, my lord!" a lady exclaimed. "And I must say—you and Lady Elara look truly perfect together."
Elara blushed with theatrical grace. Caelen chuckled, tipping his goblet toward her.
"I wager," he said lightly, "there is no one more suited to stand beside me, my lady."
And that…that was the moment everything inside me finally, irrevocably sank.
How foolish I had been—to think I could love a man openly in a world where no man loved another the same way. Where every affection I offered was quiet, hidden, and fragile—while every affection he offered was given freely to someone else.
Then—
"Now…" Elara's gaze sharpened, emerald eyes gleaming with something far too knowing. "It is your turn, my lovely brother."
A hush fell as masks turned toward me. I lifted my eyes to meet hers, and she smirked, sweet as honey, lethal as poison.
"Truth," she offered lightly, "or dare?"
My heart thundered so loud I could feel it in my fingertips.
If I chose truth… she would force me into a corner—make me confess something I'd buried so deep even I feared to look at it.
If I chose dare… she would choose something impossible, something humiliating, something she knew would expose me anyway.
And yet—
"Dare."
The word left my lips before sanity could catch it.
Because I was tired of hiding, because pain had already found me, and because truth was coming whether I invited it or not.
Elara's smile widened, slow and triumphant. She leaned back against the couch, crossing one leg gracefully over the other.
"Very well. Now...did you see that tall man in the black mask?"
I followed her gaze because I know what's coming.
A towering man stood near the glittering columns, dark hair falling over the edges of a sleek black mask. His presence was a blade—cold, dangerous, unmistakably lethal. He stood with his back to us, speaking in low tones to the Crown Prince, Prince Aerith Valerius.
A ripple of unease spread around the room.
Someone whispered, horrified, "Don't tell me that man…"
As though he were a legend wrapped in danger, a nightmare dressed in velvet, and a beast politely contained in a suit.
I swallowed.
Then glanced at Caelen.
He looked… unaffected, untouched, and unbothered that his supposed lover had just been dared to kiss another man.
Not even a flicker of jealousy, not even the courtesy of surprise. My hands curled into fists so tight my knuckles stung.
Elara's voice curled around me like smoke, "I dare you… to kiss that man."
The room gasped—sharp, disbelieving.
"How can a man kiss another man?"
"Oh...it's just a game."
I reached for my goblet, tipped it back, and swallowed the wine in one burning gulp and then I stood.
Slowly and Deliberately. With the kind of calm that comes only when someone has already been broken once that evening.
"I accept."
The word struck the air like a blade, and the room breathed out—soft, horrified, hungry—as though I had stepped willingly into a dragon's mouth.
"Is he truly going to kiss a man?"
"How shameful…"
"He'll freeze once he stands before him."
Their whispers slithered through the ballroom, sharp as needles, cruel as truth. They thought I wouldn't dare, they thought I would crumble, they thought my spine was as fragile as their sense of propriety.
But I had no intention—none—of backing away.
If Caelen could kiss my sister plainly, confidently, casually in front of me…then I would not hesitate to do the same.
Not out of revenge, but because whatever was left inside me refused to break any further.
TAP.
TAP.
TAP.
My footsteps echoed across the polished marble as the ballroom fell silent around me—too silent, like the moment before lightning finds the ground.
The tall man stood ahead, back to me—broad shoulders, posture coiled with danger, black hair brushing the edges of an ink-dark mask. His presence towered over the crowd, a quiet, controlled violence barely kept in check. He conversed with the Crown Prince as though unaware the entire hall was watching us.
I did not know who he was.
But I knew—instinctively—that he was unlike anyone here, different and untouchable. A man whose name probably traveled in whispers with more fear than reverence.
Still, my heart beat a steady, reckless rhythm and I approached until I stood close enough to touch him.
"Excuse me, My Lord," I said softly.
The man turned, black hair shifted, silver eyes met mine.
Cold.
Predatory.
Eyes belonging to someone who had never feared anything—not war, not death, not consequence. His gaze was a winter storm, and for a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.
The ballroom collectively leaned in.
I didn't give myself time to think, I rose to my toes—fisted his collar—yanked him toward me—and kissed him.
Not a timid brush, not a testing press, but a kiss meant to steal breath, to silence thought, to burn.
A kiss that pulled the air from both of us.
His stance faltered—just for a fraction of a second—as though no one alive had ever dared touch him, let alone seize him. His fingers twitched, instinctively reaching as if to grasp me, but freezing midway, caught between shock and violence.
The ballroom gasped—an explosion of scandal.
A lady shrieked, a lord choked on his wine.
Someone whispered, terrified, "He kissed him for real—does he wish to die?"
But I held nothing back, not the anger, not the ache, not the heartbreak and not even the fire that had been caged inside me all night.
His silver eyes widened behind the mask, startled and wild—as if a beast had been kissed by a flame. I felt him stiffen in my grip, not pulling away, not responding—but stunned, frozen in a silence that felt more dangerous than a drawn sword.
The world narrowed to breath, heat, and the soft echo of my own defiance.
And when I finally pulled away. Lifting my chin as if daring the entire court to look me in the eye— The masked man simply stared at me, silent, unreadable, a storm trapped behind silver.
The ballroom had descended into breathless chaos, and somewhere behind me—someone whispered, trembling:
"Gods… what has he done?"
Our gazes held. Blue meeting silver. Fire meeting ice. Two storms clashing in the stillness between heartbeats.
And then—too suddenly—I felt myself falter.
My breath shivered, heat crawled up my neck and my cheeks flushed despite my best efforts to hold firm.
I tore my gaze away, pulse hammering painfully, and turned to leave—to escape before humiliation could root deeper.
But—
YANK.
An arm—iron-strong and mercilessly sure—hooked around my waist and pulled me back.
My breath caught. I collided against the solid breadth of his chest, and his grip tightened, possessive in a way that was not gentle, not hesitant, not courteous.
It was claiming.
The ballroom froze around us.
His voice slid down my spine—low, husky, cold, and edged with a danger that did not need to be spoken twice:
"You…" He leaned closer, breath brushing my ear. "…do you understand what you've just done?"
I struggled instinctively, fingers pushing against his wrist—but it didn't move. Not an inch. He held me effortlessly, as though I weighed nothing.
The realization sent a tremor through me.
"I… I apologize, my lord," I stammered, my voice cracking despite my attempt at poise. "We were only playing a game."
The man's grip did not loosen. His silver eyes drifted past me—toward the circle of noble heirs who were now staring at us in horrified fascination.
His lips curled into a dark, knowing smirk.
"A game," he echoed softly. Then he bent his head, voice dropping so low only I could hear it:
"Little boy… you have no idea. You didn't join a game." His fingers flexed around my waist, subtle, final. "…you trapped yourself in a cage."
A shiver ran straight through me and before I could speak, he released me—just as abruptly as he had taken hold of me.
I stumbled back a step. and bowed—shaking, breath uneven—and then I ran.
Out of the circle.
Out of the ballroom.
Out of the chaos.
I thought that was the end of it, a foolish dare, a reckless kiss and a moment of defiance swallowed by the night.
But I was wrong.
So very wrong.
Because that kiss—that single, reckless spark—was the moment I locked myself inside the cage he spoke of, and nothing… not even I…could undo it now.