Chapter 1

The ballroom glittersunder the glow of a thousand candles. The warm light reflects off the polished marble floors and gilded columns that line the perimeter. I pause in the arched doorway, taking in the sight. It has been so long since I attended a ball. Not since before...

A lump forms in my throat as I force the memories down. Tonight isn't for dwelling on the past. No, tonight is about celebrating another year. Another birthday.

I take a deep breath to steady myself. The ballroom is filled with light and laughter, but all I can think about is how different this birthday will be from the one I spent with Jasce.

Stop.

Don't think about him.

I force myself to focus on the ballroom, to take in the ladies in their finest cotehardies and the lords in embroidered surcoats.

Grandfather would never approve of such lavishness, but Asha does. I glance to my left, spotting my older sister as she talks to Commander Titanus.

The candlelight dances across his chiseled features, accentuating the strong lines of his jaw and the scar that slashes his left cheek. His blond hair is pulled back, revealing the sharp planes of his face.

Despite the finery of the ball, Commander Titanus wears his uniform, the dark fabric stretched tight across his broad shoulders. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword, ever ready to protect my sister.

Everyone says Asha and I look alike, and it's true, to an extent. We're both short and petite, with the same reddish-brown hair, and our eyes are the same deep shade of blue, like the ocean under a stormy sky. But there's a fierceness in Asha's gaze that I've never seen in my own reflection. Her eyes hold a determined glint, a spark of rebellion that seems to reflect everything she has ever done.

She has picked up where Grandfather left off, commanding his army and our people with an authoritative power that none dare to question. Though, she is a woman, the soldiers respect and obey her orders without hesitation. They even call her the Iron Lady.

Even though I don't always agree with her ruthless tactics and her thirst to become chieftain, just like our grandfather, I love what she has done for our house. How she has cared for the weak and vulnerable among us.

I look over at her, taking in the same colored cotehardie she always wears. Black for mourning. Black for the son she buried four months ago. My young nephew died from the sweating sickness, and Asha hasn't been the same since.

I move closer to the edges of the ballroom, where the torchlight catches off the deep cobalt fabric draped across my body. The gown is beautiful enough to make others overlook the veil covering my face, hiding scars that tell tales I'd rather forget.

Emerin, who is only two summers younger than me, stands next to me, her cotehardie a cascade of copper that complements her hair. Unlike most of the people attending the ball, who wear gold masks, she chose silver.

Candlelight shimmers in Emerin's silver and blue eyes as she leans closer to me and speaks in a low voice. "Rora, when will you dance? You can't celebrate your twentieth birthday on the sidelines."

"I'm content here with you. Besides…" I glance down at my feet hidden beneath layers of fabric, "…I fear I might trample someone's toes."

"You're too graceful for that." She nudges me with her elbow. "What about that gentleman over there?" A playful smile twitches at her mouth as she tilts her head toward a man in a dark green surcoat, his mask a mixture of silver and black.

I follow her gaze as he laughs loudly at something his companion says.

"He seems a bit boisterous," I say as I picture myself tripping over my feet as I try to match his energetic movements.

Emerin shrugs. "You never know unless you try."

"Perhaps later," I say, even though I have no real intention of dancing.

I lapse into silence as I focus on the lute player who plucks out a haunting melody. The mournful notes wrap around me and draw me into bittersweet memories of the man I cannot forget. I picture Jasce's face. The fire in his eyes, the curve of his smile.

Emerin's voice tugs me back to the present. "Annora."

I give her hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm all right," I say and mean it.

She knows all too well how easily my thoughts drift toward shadowed waters. It's hard to not let them wander to Jasce. It's been nearly twelve months since I last saw him, yet his brown eyes, black hair, and bronzed skin are locked into my memory.

Asha said it was all a dream, and she didn't believe me when I told her about being soul linked with Lyra, and how I have crimson magic now. It simmers under my skin like molten metal, ready to scald anyone who dares to touch me. Sometimes the magic surges when my emotions run high, and I must slip away to calm the storm inside me.

At night, when I'm alone in my bedchamber, I sometimes undress and stare at my birthmarks. The one on my shoulder belongs to Lyra, but the mark on my hip is solely mine. It rests there, dormant and lifeless, unable to grant me even a flicker of silver magic.

Mother still won't tell me anything. Not that she talks to any of us much these days.

I stifle a sigh as a servant offers Emerin and me goblets filled with mulled wine from a silver tray.

"Happy birthday." Emerin smiles, then drinks from her goblet.

"Thank you," I say as I lift my goblet, the metal cool against my fingers.

I take a sip and allow the spices to mingle on my tongue, a mixture of cinnamon, cloves, and orange peel.

It was Lyra's birthmark still etched into my skin that first made me think it wasn't a dream. That my time with Jasce had been real. And as the days passed and the memories stayed so vivid, I knew.

Emerin shifts next to me and stands on her tiptoes, as if to get a better look at the couples.

"Go on," I urge her with a smile. "You've been eyeing the floor all night."

Emerin hesitates for a moment, then, with a nod, she steps into the whirl of dancers. I watch her go, my heart swelling with a sister's pride. She dances as if she's part of the melody.

After a few minutes of watching her, I move to the set of double doors and step onto the veranda bathed in moonlight. The smooth stone presses into my arms as I lean over the balustrade.

Below me, the gardens sprawl out in meticulously trimmed hedges and flower beds. A light breeze rustles through the leaves and brings the faint scent of jasmine.

I breathe deep, appreciating the open air after the crowded warmth of the ballroom. The music from within filters out to me, muted and distant. Overhead, the moon hangs full and bright amidst a spray of stars. I close my eyes and focus on nothing but the gentle wind.

Soft footsteps break through my reverie. I turn as a man approaches from my left, a man in a bronzed mask that catches the moonlight and throws it back at the night sky.

Something about him is achingly familiar. Perhaps it's the breadth of his shoulders or the self-assured way he walks, each step smooth and confident. As he draws nearer, the nagging sense of familiarity grows stronger.

He stops beside me at the balustrade. "Beautiful night."

Jasce?

I know his voice, but that is impossible. This is Bakva, the capital of House of Silver.

Jasce wouldn't dare come here.

If he were caught, Asha wouldn't hesitate to have him publicly executed. Especially now that his father, Jerrod, is dead, and Jasce is the chieftain of the Hematite tribe—a position Asha covets just like Grandfather did.

You just want to see Jasce.

That's why this man sounds like him.

"Indeed," I manage after what feels like an eternity but is only seconds. "The stars are particularly bright."

"They pale in comparison," he says, his words hanging in the air like an unfinished thought, or a compliment not quite given.

I turn to look at him. "To what?"

"To you," he says, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the night air.

"Do we know each other?" I ask because there is a part of me that desperately wants him to say yes, that he is Jasce.

He tilts his head, as if considering how to answer or whether to answer at all. "In another life, perhaps." There's a touch of amusement in his tone that makes me think he enjoys this game of veiled truths and half-seen faces.

"I'm Annora," I say, then immediately wonder why I give him my name.

"A beautiful name." He doesn't offer his own but instead reaches out and allows his knuckles to graze my arm. "For a beautiful woman."

"You're bold for someone who hides behind a mask," I observe.

He laughs then, a rich sound that fills the space between us, and for a moment, it drowns out everything else—the music from inside, even the wind through the trees.

"We all wear masks," he says. "Some are just more obvious than others."

He turns toward me fully now, our arms almost touching along the balustrade. I think about leaning in closer, of allowing his arm to brush mine, then I rebuke myself for the folly.

Still, I inch closer, my gaze fixating on the mask that obscures his features. It's ornate and expertly crafted to cover everything but his mouth. Even his eyes remain hidden behind the reflective surface.

"Why are you wearing such a thorough disguise?" I ask.

"A man must protect himself, even in celebration."

"You speak as if you're in danger," I say, trying to match his playfulness.

"Perhaps I am." There's an edge to his tone that suggests he's not entirely jesting.

"From whom?" My curiosity piques further. "The masked dancers within?"

He leans closer to me. "From enchanting strangers who ask too many questions."

I can't help but laugh. There's something about this man, his wit, the ease with which he carries himself that captivates me.

"You're quite adept at avoiding questions."

"And you're quite persistent in asking them," he says, his voice warm and teasing.

"Can you blame me?" I press on. "A man of mystery appears on my birthday, speaking in riddles and half-truths."

"A birthday? Then perhaps a gift is in order."

"A gift?" My long, unbound hair brushes against my shoulders as I shake my head at him. "But you don't even know me."

He reaches into his cloak and pulls out a necklace with a seashell pendant.

My fingers tremble as I take it, the cool metal pooling in my palm. I run my thumb over the seashell's smooth surface, taking in every whorl and curve of the conch shell.

"How did you...?" My voice trails off.

He couldn't possibly know of my love for seashells. Only my family knows. Well…and Jasce.

It's really him!

My pulse thrums in my ears as I think about throwing myself into his arms. "This is impossible," I whisper, not wanting anyone else to hear me. "You are—"

"—delighted to see you." He smirks, as if he finds amusement in his words, then he wags his hand at me. "And remember, impossible is a word used by those lacking a keen imagination."

My mouth parts as I jerk my eyes over his mask, wanting to rip it away, to see his ruggedly handsome face.

The applause inside the ballroom crescendos, like a wave crashing against the cliffs. I look up as Asha steps onto the veranda and glances between me and Jasce. Even though I know she won't recognize him behind his disguise, panic rises in my throat as I imagine guards swarming us, their swords drawn.

Her focus slides to Jasce, and for a split second, her eyes narrow before she schools her features into practiced neutrality. "Who might this be?"

Instinctively, I step between them. "Just someone who appreciates the night as much as I do," I say, hoping my voice doesn't betray the thundering of my heart.

Asha studies me for a moment before she speaks. "I see," she says, and I fear she sees too much.

"Forgive me," Jasce says before Asha can delve deeper. "I didn't mean to intrude on family time. I'll take my leave."

He bows to Asha, then to me. Asha's eyes follow him as he retreats into the shadows of the garden.

"What did he want with you?" she asks when we're alone.

Every part of me wants to trail him, to ask him a thousand questions, to grab him, to kiss him.

Instead, I remain near the balustrade and clutch the seashell pendant against my chest. "To give me a present."

Asha takes my arm and leads me back into the ballroom, where the din of conversation and music swallows us.

Determination shines in her eyes as she guides me through clusters of masked nobles, her presence parting them like a ship cleaving through water. I catch snippets of gossip and laughter as we pass, though, their words are lost in the swell of sound.

Thankfully, she steers us to a quiet corner where the music is a gentle lull instead of an overwhelming tide.

Commander Titanus moves to stand near us and keeps his attention locked on the crowd, scanning for any hint of danger. Over the past summer, I have grown accustomed to seeing my sister constantly shadowed by her vigilant guard.

Sometimes I wonder if there is more between them. After all, it's been summers since Asha's husband died.

I look at her—really look—and see the protector, who would lay down her life without hesitation to save mine. She's not like our mother, who spends more time alone in her bedchamber than she does with her daughters. Or like our father, who disappeared one morning summers ago without a word of farewell.

They both deserted us as easily as slipping off old boots. But not Asha. She would never desert me. She's too loyal for that, her code of honor binding her as tightly as the laces of her gown.

I remain near Asha for the remainder of the ball, though my mind often wanders to Jasce and the gift he brought me. I open my palm, staring down at the seashell pendant nestled in my hand.

Asha notices and follows my gaze down to the necklace. "It's lovely." Before I can reply, she reaches for the delicate chain. "Here, let me."

I sweep my hair over one shoulder so she can clasp the necklace around my neck. She clicks the chain together, securing it with a resounding snap.

My hand goes to my throat, fingertips grazing over the smooth seashell pendant.

Jasce remembered.

The realization washes over me like a wave. He not only remembered my love of seashells, but he came all the way to Bakva to gift me this exquisite necklace on my birthday.

"It suits you." Asha steps back to look at me and smiles. "Happy Birthday, Rora."

"Thank you," I say, hoping she understands I'm thanking her for more than just the kind words about my appearance. I'm thanking her for always trying to shield me from the cruelties of this world.

I reach up again, grazing my fingers over the seashell, then the hematite stone dangling from my other necklace. Sometimes I wonder why I still wear hematite when I don't know how to conjure my silver magic, and I don't want to use Lyra's. Not that I know how to summon her magic. Ever since I used it on Jerrod, it has stayed mostly silent.

Maybe I wear hematite to remind myself that we're all from the same tribe, even if our houses are divided. Asha only sees silver. Jerrod only saw crimson. But I see a reflection of both.

As the ball ends and people leave, I remain near Asha, watching as the crowd thins. I catch glimpses of knowing smiles and whispered words as the guests take their leave, no doubt gossiping about the events of the evening. Servants dip their heads respectfully as they hold doors open, while guards stand at attention.

"Rora," Asha says, drawing my attention to her. "Let's go to the parlor."