Blood on the dance floor

The ballroom was as lively as ever, filled with music, laughter, and the ceaseless murmur of political maneuvering disguised as polite conversation. Rowan had spent most of the evening dodging both suitors and his father's unsubtle matchmaking efforts.

Just as he managed to steal a moment of peace, a smooth voice cut through the noise.

#

Pristina Aranor had spent the better part of the evening maneuvering through the endless web of noble chatter, dodging dull conversation and forced pleasantries with a well-practiced smile.

The ballroom was a gilded cage, its occupants peacocks draped in their finest silks, whispering of power and alliances with every exchanged glance.

And yet, amidst all the extravagance, her gaze was drawn to the farthest corner of the room—where Rowan Solmara stood, half in shadow, looking as though he wished he were anywhere else.

Interesting.

The Fourth Prince was an enigma to many. He attended royal functions when required, exchanged pleasantries when expected, but never lingered in social circles. He was distant, cool, and undeniably handsome—a fact most women in the room were very aware of, given the way they stole glances his way.

Pristina, however, had never seen him up close.

And she was never one to ignore intrigue.

With effortless grace, she made her way toward him, picking up a glass of wine from a passing servant. The moment she neared, Rowan's eyes flickered toward her—a gaze sharp and assessing, but lacking the usual interest men carried when they noticed her.

A challenge, then.

She smirked, tilting her head slightly. "I don't think I've ever seen the infamous Fourth Prince of Solmara looking quite so trapped before."

Rowan arched a brow. "And I don't think I've ever seen you at all."

Pristina chuckled, unfazed. "A tragedy, truly. Pristina Aranor."

His gaze lingered, scanning her with a mixture of mild curiosity and restraint. "Aranor…" He swirled his wine absentmindedly. "From Caerth?"

She hummed in confirmation. "It seems my reputation doesn't precede me after all."

Rowan took a sip of his drink. "Should it?"

Pristina laughed, genuinely amused. "You wound me, Your Highness. I was under the impression I was quite memorable."

His lips quirked at that, a near-smile—but not quite. "I'll be sure to remember you now."

Their conversation continued, spanning minutes that melted away effortlessly. Pristina found herself intrigued by him—not just by his striking looks, but by his sharp mind and the way he measured his words.

And then, with a playfully dramatic sigh, she extended her hand. "I do believe we've talked enough, Your Highness. Care for a dance?"

Rowan hesitated. His gaze flickered, and for the briefest moment, she saw reluctance.

"Ah," she mused, tilting her head. "Let me guess—you're worried your father will think this means you're finally settling down?"

He exhaled through his nose, bemused but not confirming it.

She leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper. "Well, I suppose you could refuse… but then you'd be stuck here, and the ladies would keep coming."

That earned her a glance, sharp and assessing.

And then, finally, Rowan smirked—a rare sight. "So I should use you to keep them away?"

Pristina's grin widened. "Obviously. I need to stake my claim on my property, after all."

Rowan exhaled a quiet chuckle and took her hand, leading her toward the dance floor.

And as they moved to the music, as whispers spread across the ballroom—this being the first time in years Rowan had danced with someone outside his family—Pristina noticed something odd.

Every now and then, Rowan glanced away.

And every time he did, his gaze sought out the same person.

Pristina followed his line of sight, and there, standing amongst a small group of noblewomen, was Julian Voss.

Pristina wasn't sure what to make of it.

Still, she chose not to comment. Instead, she tightened her grip slightly in his and smiled. "You keep getting distracted, Your Highness. Am I really that boring?"

Rowan blinked and returned his focus to her, clearing his throat. "Not at all."

"Good," she murmured, twirling gracefully under his arm.

###

The ballroom was a familiar battlefield, and Gareth played the game well. He had spent the night indulging in casual flirtations, exchanging sly remarks with noblewomen eager for his attention. None of them, of course, held any real significance to him.

Gareth was a man with plans—marriage was inevitable, but he wouldn't settle for just anyone. He intended to secure a match that would surpass even his elder brothers' alliances. A wife whose influence and power would make him an undeniable force in Solmara.

But that didn't mean he couldn't have entertainment along the way.

His gaze flickered across the ballroom, landing on a familiar figure. Pristina Aranor.

A woman of striking beauty and undeniable charm, she had caught his eye long ago. He had approached her before, offering the position of a concubine—a generous proposal, considering her lack of high-ranking lineage. She had refused, of course. More than once.

That only made her more interesting.

Gareth had been watching her throughout the evening, waiting for an opportunity to reestablish his presence. Perhaps tonight, she would see reason.

But then, just as he made his move to approach, she turned—her attention landing elsewhere.

He stilled.

Across the ballroom, Rowan stood at a quiet corner, clearly attempting to escape notice.

Yet Pristina walked straight toward him.

Gareth's smirk faded. He remained still, watching as his brother—the ever-brooding, ever-disinterested fourth prince—actually responded to her advances.

And then, as the conversation unfolded, Gareth saw something he had never expected.

Rowan accepted her hand.

The music swelled, and they stepped onto the dance floor.

Gareth's grip on his wine glass tightened slightly, but then a slow, amused grin returned to his lips.

Oh, this was interesting.

His oh-so-unapproachable brother, who dismissed suitors without thought, who showed nothing but disdain for court politics, was now waltzing with Pristina as if he were any other prince fulfilling his duties.

So Rowan could play the game when he wanted to.

Fine. Gareth would make sure to remind him of his place.

With that thought, he straightened and stepped forward, ready to approach once the dance was over.

As the music faded and the final step of the dance was taken, Rowan released Pristina's hand with a polite nod. She responded with a soft, knowing smile—a silent acknowledgment that she had enjoyed the dance far more than just as a means to ward off other suitors.

Before either of them could retreat, a voice cut through the air.

"Well, well. If I didn't see it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it."

"Quite the performance," Gareth drawled, ensuring his voice was loud enough to draw attention. "I almost thought my dear brother had finally learned how to enjoy himself."

Rowan barely spared him a glance. "Gareth."

That indifference. That complete disregard. Gareth's smirk tightened.

"And Lady Pristina," he continued smoothly, turning his attention to her, "it's always a pleasure to see you."

Pristina didn't react beyond a polite nod. "Prince Gareth."

He chuckled. "So formal. A shame—you used to have such a sharp tongue."

Rowan exhaled. "If you're here to waste my time, find someone else."

Gareth feigned surprise. "Waste your time? Brother, you wound me. Can't a man simply want to talk?" His gaze flicked over the watching nobles. "Or perhaps you'd rather return to brooding in some dark corner."

Rowan's jaw tightened. "Some of us prefer not to waste our nights on meaningless indulgences."

Gareth laughed. "Meaningless? Come now, Rowan, we all have our ways of passing time." He took a step closer, voice lowering just enough to be personal yet still loud enough for the nearby nobles to hear. "Or is that why you avoid court life? To distract yourself?"

Rowan's fingers twitched. "Gareth."

Gareth's smirk widened. "You act as though running from reality will change anything. That avoiding court, avoiding life, will somehow—" he tilted his head mockingly, "bring her back?"

Rowan went still.

Pristina stiffened. "Prince Gareth, perhaps we should—"

Gareth ignored her, watching Rowan's expression with satisfaction. He could see the crack forming, the barely restrained fury behind his brother's composed mask.

"Or is that the real problem? At least I, for all my so-called recklessness, have yet to cause a scandal. Unlike you. And the funny part? You weren't even capable of keeping them alive."