The chandeliers glowed like suspended constellations, pouring golden light onto every polished surface of the ballroom. Lady Taryn had spared nothing for tonight’s event. Silks draped the high arching windows, the marble floors glead like still water, and the scent of fresh peonies wafted from every intricately carved vase. It was a ball ant to exude grace, refinent, and quiet opulence, and it succeeded effortlessly.
Lady Taryn stood at the top of the curved staircase with her daughter at her side. Avarine looked ethereal in pale rose silk, the fabric catching each flicker of candlelight as though lit from within. Together, they watched as finely dressed guests trickled into the vast ballroom. Lords in embroidered coats, and ladies adorned in gemstones that glittered like drops of fire across their necks and wrists.
Ragnar and Circe joined the flow of guests, drawing more than a few curious glances as they stepped into the already crowded hall through the large double doors.
Circe’s hand remained delicately tucked into the crook of Ragnar’s arm, and though her nerves fluttered faintly, she found herself smiling every ti Ragnar looked at her. This was the second ti she had ever attended a ball at his side, but it was the first ti she ever felt the strange and startling feeling of belonging here, with him as they walked side by side.
Soon, the ballroom was filled with finely dressed guests. The music from the string quartet filled the air but along with it was the light chatter from the guests and the soft clink of wine glasses, all the sounds sohow blending into a single elegant harmony.
Lady Taryn and Avarine began their rounds. With effortless grace, they glided from guest to guest, offering warm greetings and carefully asured pleasantries befitting their status.
Eventually, their path led them to where Ragnar stood, his arm still interlocked with Circe’s in that affectionate way that made Circe’s cheeks warm. Lady Taryn greeted Ragnar first with a courteous dip of her head before turning her attention to Circe.
"My dear," she said with a soft smile, "I don’t believe you’ve t my daughter properly. Avarine, this is Princess Circe."
Avarine curtsied with flawless form, her silk skirts brushing against her ankles as she bent.
She gave Circe a serene smile, the kind of smile that made people instantly fond of her. But when her gaze slid to Ragnar, the expression brightened into sothing warr, as though she were greeting a long-lost friend rather than a prince she now only saw occasionally at societal events.
There was a glimr in her eyes. But then her gaze lowered to the way Ragnar and Circe’s arms remained linked, the subtle closeness between them impossible to ignore. The change in Avarine’s expression was minuscule.
It was barely a flicker, the faintest shadow passing over her features and for one tiny heartbeat, her smile faltered. It righted itself an instant later, returning to its perfectly composed sweetness, so flawless that no one seed to notice that anything had shifted at all.
After wishing them an enjoyable evening, Lady Taryn and Avarine drifted onward, leaving Ragnar and Circe to themselves once more. Circe kept her smile in place, her fingers gently tightening around Ragnar’s arm.
The ti she spent as a mber of her father’s council had taught her how to pick out the slightest shift in a person’s expression but before she could dwell on the odd flicker she had seen on Avarine’s face, the string quartet shifted to a livelier lody.
Ragnar’s hand slipped confidently to her waist.
"Dance with ," he murmured.
Circe giggled softly, unable to help herself as he began leading her toward the dance floor. Couples were already linking hands, fitting palms to waists, aligning steps for the opening beats of a graceful waltz. The mont her hand t his, the world seed to fall into a whirl of motion.
Circe held Ragnar’s gaze as he guided her, their steps fluid, turning and swaying with the music. And in that mont, she couldn’t help rembering Lady Maelis’ ball and the cold tension that had lingered between them back then.
She had never imagined that a ti would co when she would let him hold her like this, dance with him and feel an overwhelming surge of happiness.
Circe smiled at the thought, at how far they had co without even realizing it.
When the dance finally ca to an end, Ragnar led her off the floor. But before they could slip away toward a quieter corner, two finely dressed n approached with eager expressions.
"Your Highness," one said. "A word, if we may."
At first, they didn’t even glance in Circe’s direction or even acknowledged that she was standing there. When they finally did, it was with a quiet expectation that she would remove herself. They intended to converse with Ragnar but with the way they tossed odd glances at her, it was clear that they wanted to do it without her present.
Circe felt Ragnar bristle beside her at the sa mont she recognized the dismissal in their glances. Normally she might have taken offense, but tonight the glow in her chest was too strong to tarnish.
The night was going too well, she was too content, too full of warmth and the lingering thrill of dancing in his arms. It was a mont that felt too perfect to be ruined by the rudeness of two strangers.
It was then she spotted Mina and Elara standing a few feet away, already looking in her direction. Their smiles were pleased and welcoming in that sincere way that made Circe’s heart prickle with tenderness.
Just as Ragnar’s posture stiffened, clearly ready to tell the two n precisely what he thought of their behavior, Circe laid her hand gently over his. He looked down at her imdiately, the pinched look on his face softening into one of curiosity.
She gave him a smile that was gentle, and reassuring. For a brief mont, a hint of affection flickered in her expression.
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