Chapter 4: A Dance of Blades and Silk
The scent of beeswax and roasted meat hung heavy in the feast hall, a cloying blanket over the sharper currents of ambition and animosity. I stood at the periphery, my midnight blue gown feeling less like silk and more like a suit of light armor. Amelia had woven tiny silver stars through my hair, a celestial map against the black. “For protection,” she’d whispered, her fingers trembling slightly. She saw the battlefield I was walking into.
The hall was a canyon of noise and light. Chandeliers, dripping with a thousand candles, threw shifting, grandiose shadows over the laughing, drinking nobility. The high table loomed on a dais, the King a benign, slightly faded sun at its center. To his right sat Theon, radiant and holding court, a golden prince in a nest of admirers. To the King’s left was Alaric.
He was a study in stillness. He hadn’t changed for the feast, still wearing a dark, severe doublet of charcoal grey, his only ornament a single silver pin at his collar. While others gesticulated with goblets, he listened, his eyes tracking the room with the languid patience of a resting predator. He hadn’t looked at me once.
My own table was a nest of whispers. Elara sat directly across from me, Theon’s blue favour now artfully woven into the intricate braids of her pale hair. A trophy. She caught my eye over the rim of her wine cup, her smile a perfect, lifeless curve. “Isolde, you look… somber. The blue is a bit severe, don’t you think? It drains the color from your face.” Her voice was honey poured over ground glass.
“Better drained than painted, Elara,” I replied, taking a slow sip of water. “Some colors are not meant to be worn by everyone.”
Her smile tightened. A small victory, brittle and meaningless.
The music began, a lively, cascading tune for the first dance. It was tradition for the heir to open the floor. Theon rose, and a hush, expectant and cruel, fell over our corner of the hall. All eyes swung between him and me, the discarded favorite. He made a show of considering the sea of eager faces.
Then he walked, not toward Elara, but straight to me.
The whispers died. A path cleared. He stopped before my chair, his presence casting a shadow that blocked the candlelight. He extended a hand, not in request, but in command. His smile was dazzling, for the crowd. His eyes were chips of ice. “Lady Isolde. For old times.”
It wasn’t a question. Refusal was an insult to the crown, a public repudiation I couldn’t afford. I placed my hand in his. His fingers closed like a vice, cool and unyielding. He pulled me to my feet, too forcefully, and led me onto the polished floor.
The music swelled. We began to move, a waltz that felt like a duel. His arm around my waist was a cage of iron disguised as gallantry. He held me too close, the scent of him—spiced wine and arrogance—invading my senses.
“You play a dangerous game, Izzy,” he murmured into my ear, his lips nearly brushing my skin. The familiar nickname, once an endearment, now felt like a violation.
“I don’t play games, Your Highness,” I said, my voice tight as I matched his steps, my body rigid against his guidance.
He spun me, the world a blur of light and staring faces. “Turning your back on me. Smiling at him. Do you think I am blind?” His grip on my hand tightened, pain lancing through my fingers.
“I think you see only what you wish to see.” I forced my gaze over his shoulder, finding Alaric. He was watching us now, his expression carved from granite. He was not drinking. He was just… watching.
"You think you’re playing some game, don’t you? Flirting with that look, that smile—like I don’t see it. Like I don’t know exactly what you’re trying to do." His voice was a slow, deliberate cut, each word a blade against the air between them. "You want me jealous? It won't work. I feel nothing towards you, but disdain. I gave my favor to Elara hoping you'd understand but now you are trying to make me look foolish, and I am no fool." The danger wasn’t hidden. It was right there, sharp and unmistakable in his eyes. How had I not seen the predator before me before it was too late.
The music was reaching its crescendo. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird. I felt the ghost creeping in from my last life. The feel of his hands wrenching my hair, the cold seep of blood on stone. His words were not just a prince scourned; they were an echo of a past life’s ending.
As the final notes poised to strike, a shadow fell across us.
Theon looked up, irritation flashing across his perfect features. Alaric stood beside us, having moved with a silent, predatory grace I hadn’t noticed. He didn’t bow. He simply extended a hand toward me, his gaze locked on Theon’s.
“You’ve had your dance, Nephew,” Alaric said. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the music like a knife through silk. “The Lady Isolde is promised to the next. My dance.”
Theon’s eyes flicked up, his usual composure fraying at the edges—just a flicker, but enough to betray the tension coiled beneath his calm. Every time Alaric called Theon "nephew" he had that same look. The two being so close in age, one might think they'd been raised more like brothers then anything. However, the older they got, the more Alaric matured and settled into his status by his brother, the king's, side. Alaric stayed childish and brash, using his prince title as a weapon whenever possible. The difference was night and day. Beside me, Alaric stood, his presence a slow, creeping shadow, one I’d only just begun to sense. He didn’t kneel. Didn’t even pause.
I stumbled half a step, my balance lost. Alaric’s hand, broad and warm and surprisingly steady, caught my elbow, righting me. He didn’t pull me close as Theon had. He simply took my other hand, placed his other respectfully on my back, and waited. After a frozen second, the musicians launched into a new tune, slower, more somber.
Theon stalked away, the crowd parting before his fury.
We began to move. Alaric’s lead was firm, assured, but there was a space between us—a respectful, chilling distance. He said nothing. He just guided me through the steps, his grey eyes fixed on a point somewhere over my shoulder. The electricity I’d imagined was absent. He was just… fulfilling an obligation. A cold drop of disappointment pierced the adrenaline.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, my voice barely audible above the music.
His eyes flicked down to mine, then away. “Do not thank me. I did not intervene for your comfort.” His voice was flat. “He was causing a scene. It was… unseemly.”
The words were a slap. So that was all it was. Damage control. Not protection. Certainly not desire. I looked past his shoulder, towards the high table. Elara was whispering intently to a cluster of ladies, her eyes glowing with malicious delight. Theon was draining a goblet, his gaze burning into the side of my face.
“Regardless,” I persisted, a stubborn fire igniting in my gut. “You provided an exit from a… difficult situation.”
He executed a perfect turn, his body moving with a soldier’s efficiency. “You placed yourself in that situation,” he stated, finally looking at me directly. His gaze was analytical, cold. “You engage in provocations you do not have the power to sustain. It is a poor strategy.”
Anger, hot and defensive, rose in me. “Is that what you think this is? A strategy game? My life is not one of your military campaigns, Lord Alaric.”
“Everything at court is a campaign,” he said, his voice lowering even further, for my ears only. “And in this one, you have just made yourself the primary target of the crown prince. A prince, I might add, who is not known for his forgiving nature.” He spun me out, then drew me back in. For a fraction of a second, the distance closed. I felt the solid warmth of his chest, saw the flecks of silver in his stormy eyes, the faint, weary lines at their corners. “He will not forget this.”
“I am counting on it,” I whispered back, the defiance leaving my voice, replaced by a stark and weary truth.
His step faltered, the first break in his impeccable rhythm. He studied my face, his own a mask of conflicted calculation. The music was winding down. “Why?” The single word was loaded, heavier than any accusation.
I had no answer he would believe. I have already died for loving Theon once, for believing in him and the possibility of a happy life. That dream died out long before I did. But that would sound crazy, so instead, I said, “Because I would rather be an adversary than a joke.”
The final note sounded. He released me immediately, the warmth of his hands leaving mine, which suddenly felt very cold. He gave a look that I couldn't decipher. Pity? Respect? apprehension? He dropped into a curt, formal bow. “Then you have your wish, my lady.”
He turned and walked away, not back to the high table, but towards one of the arched doorways leading out to the gardens. He moved like a man escaping a prison.
I was left standing alone in the center of the floor. The applause was polite, scattered. Whispers rushed in to fill the space Alaric had vacated. I saw Theon rising, his eyes tracking Alaric’s exit before fixing on me with renewed, chilling purpose. I saw Elara’s sweet, poisonous smile. Hopefully after tonight Alaric would not hate me for my words and Theon's retaliation would be minimal. After all, I was going to pave the way for his true desire, Lady Elara.