Dance of Intentions
Anticipation ran like a river in the shop. The rich fabrics, shimmering brighter than the sun, glistened like water under the warm glow of lanterns, while scents of perfume and ink permeated the air with sweet trepidation.
The Ethereal Masquerade, the grandest ball of the year, was just two days away, and the capital had seen all members of nobility flooding in from every part of the kingdom.
Ronan had never been busier.
The very corners of the boutique bore every imaginable kind of client—velvet gowns being hemmed, gemstone buttons polished to perfection, and masked ensembles wrapped gingerly in tissue paper and ribbons.
But amongst all this hustle, there was this one client who appeared with uncanny regularity.
Caelan of House Marrowen.
Day after day that week, Caelan had come, at times as early as dawn and at times just a few minutes before closing, with some new request or excuse to be made, none of which had really seemed quite urgent enough to have warranted such frequency of visits.
"I forgot to ask for matching gloves," Caelan said, his hands gently laid upon the counter, effortlessly smiling in that princely way. "I trust you will help me choose the right ones, Ronan?"
"The ribbon isn't quite the shade I had in mind,'' he said the next evening, though it looked exactly the same. ''Can we try another? I'll need your eye for it, of course.''
"I was thinking of maybe adding a little embroidery to the inner lining. Something understated... perhaps of a raven?" he leaned closer to Ronan as they looked over a swatch book. "A little secret only I would know about."
"Caelan once praised me on my ability to keep late hours. When he made this statement, the last traces of daylight vanished from the world, leaving nothing before me but the gentle glow of candles and determined shadows.
Even when he seemed to be rushing in before closing time, he took the time to consider whether I was free tomorrow and suggested going for a quiet evening walk." Ronan smiled politely and declined.
But even as he turned away, Caelan's gaze lingered on his back like a soothing pressure he was helpless to shed.
Ronan had mixed feelings after each of Caelan's visits. There was attraction—undeniably so; Caelan was charming, elegant, and attentive, with a soft laugh lingering sweetness in Ronan's ears long after he left.
But something was... off. Not wrong; not threatening—just... out of sync.
Whatever it was, Ronan could not put it into words. Wearing a coat almost big but not quite! Hearing a tune that lacks an off note.
He tried to shrug it off. Surely, he thought, he had imagined it.
But every night when he returned to the modest rented house he now called home with Isaac, he would lie wide awake staring at the ceiling, with a curious restlessness in his heart.
Then Caelan should arrive yet again on the night preceding the deadly Masquerade.
Ronan had hardly turned the sign when the familiar door chime jingled.
"Okay then, you're late," he teased before looking up—only to find Caelan, a slender envelope in ivory between his fingers, expression far too serious for the occasion.
"I've been thinking about this for days," Caelan said, "and I know it is sudden, but I do not want to dance with anyone else."
Ronan blinked.
"I want you to go to the Ethereal Masquerade with me," Caelan said, taking a step closer, "as my guest—someone I hope to know better."
Silence stretched in the air between them like a drawn thread.
He could hear the scratching sound of a quill in the back, an amused customer outside, and the faint ticking of the store clock.
He wasn't sure why he hesitated.
Everything about this moment felt like something from a dream: a nobleman asking him— absolutely no one—to one enchanted night full of lights and masks and music.
But that odd feeling crept back. The aching morbidness beneath his ribs.
But still...
"Alright," Ronan finally said- his voice somehow quieter than he expected. "I'll go with you."
Caelan's incandescent smile was the first spark of the flame.
Then he walked away, and the door closed behind him, while Ronan slowly let out his breath.
Something still didn't feel right within him.
Shadows Beneath the Mask
On the day of the Ethereal Masquerade, the word shimmered with magic throughout Eldoria. The entire city felt suspended, awaiting this impending occasion-like the stars themselves were holding their breath.
Above the shop in a small room, Ronan stood by the cracked mirror adjusting his sleeves of his worn tunic. The fabric was neat but had grown old-the drape felt totally wrong for an occasion as grand as this.
Behind him, Isaac hovered with curiosity glowing in his eyes. The fingers of the hand at his side twitched-as though he were itching to open a door to a place he had never been allowed to enter.
Eventually, Ronan turned away from the mirror to face Isaac.
"You aren't going with me," he firmly stated with a protective tone.
"There still may be some people looking for you out there. It's too risky."
Isaac was steady staring into Ronan's eyes, his arms crossed with his lips set in an obstinate line.
"Ronan, I have been hiding in shadows long enough. For once, I just want to see what the world looks like in lights."
Ronan blinked, taken aback by the words. There was no anger in Isaac's voice; only hope. And something softer, more fragile: a wish to belong.
"Isaac...," he tried, rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to reason with him.
"You said we have a home now. That I am safe." Isaac stepped closer, voice low and undeterred. "Let me believe that tonight."
That trust alone was what broke Ronan. The very trust he had worked hard to gain. He gazed at Isaac for quite a time before sighing as his heart cracked open, just a little more.
"Okay," he finally spoke, grief-stricken and moved. "But if we do this, we'll do it right."
The afternoon was spent pooling what little Ronan had made in tips for the week. The clinking coins held purpose-modest, but sufficient. To get something special.
When Seraphine had seen them poring over the pouch of coins behind the counter, she asked no questions. Rather, she raised one eyebrow and said, "Follow me."
Into the backroom she took them, where garments of another life hung like sleeping memories. Rich fabric, neatly tailored jackets, and silks of muted golds and midnight hues.
Ronan stood aghast. "This is for nobility."
"It was," Seraphine said and winked. "But tonight, I think you two could pass for royalty."
She even allowed them to choose a few delicate jewels-ornate pins and simple cufflinks-for less than a third of their value. As she handed the silver star-shaped clasp to Isaac, she said, smiling, "You should look like you belong there."
By the time the evening came, they both were undergoing vast changes.
Isaac donned a deep emerald jacket that captured the light as dew rests on the leaves; his dark curls pinned back with the silver star. He looked far from the frightened boy Ronan first met; tonight, he looked like one who could step among the dreams.
The midnight-blue fitted coat and raven-feathered half-mask had almost made Ronan feel like a stranger to himself. He felt something soften within when, with a glint of giddy excitement, Isaac had glanced at him. Perhaps the night might not go so bad after all.
They had made it to the Ethereal Masquerade just as the floating lanterns began their ascension. Light danced on the marble floor, the chandelier stalled above lazily rotating, casting rainbows across the ensemble of masked strangers.
An orchestra filled the air-violins, flutes, and soft drums knitted together something ancient and elegant.
At the far end of the ballroom, Caelan stood in a fitted navy and starlight coat. His silver-tipped mask accentuated his sharp cheekbones and his self-assured stance.
His eyes lit up when he first laid eyes on Ronan. Then...they shifted.
"You brought someone," Caelan said as they neared, his voice polite but strained.
"This is Isaac," Ronan said nonchalantly, giving the boy's shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Caelan forced a smile. "Of course. Nice to meet you."
But Ronan never missed his flicker of surprise or Caelan's jaw tightening. Clearly, he did not expect to share Ronan's attention like that tonight.
Throughout the night, Caelan had tried persistently to pull Ronan away, toward the gardens, toward the quieter corners, toward anything, really, that did not involve Isaac. But Ronan had refused time after time.
"I don't want to leave him alone," he said once, gentle yet firm.
Caelan's smile became thin. "You don't trust the wards? This whole place is wrapped in protective spells. He'll be fine."
"It's not about that," Ronan said simply. "It's about him."
At that, exasperation finally boiled over.
They stood by a crystal fountain, close to the edge of the ballroom, where the trickling of water sounded gentle like whispers.
"I had imagined this night would be different," Caelan muttered. "Just the two of us. I thought there was...something here."
"There is," Ronan admitted. "But I never said this was a date."
Caelan's eyes flashed. "No, you didn't. But it felt like you wanted it to be."
Ronan hesitated. There had been something: an attraction, a flicker of interest. But it was waning now, like a candle in a storm.
Caelan stepped closer with a softened voice. "I want to see where this goes. I want to know you, Ronan. Not just for a dance. For real."
For one moment, Ronan almost believed him.
But then his gaze drifted, unwittingly, to the opposite end of the ballroom, where Isaac stood under a shower of silver ribbons. He laughed, head thrown back slightly and light caught in his curls like fireflies.
And something very strange happened to Ronan's heart.
It did not ache. It did not flutter.
It settled.
He did not quite know what his heart was trying to say to him just yet.
But slowly, he was beginning to listen.
The Uneasy Masquerade
Ronan stood in a veritable sea of velvet masks and chandeliers cascading from a great height, with music swelling around him like a living organism. Everywhere he turned, the world shimmered—a fleeting gilding over candlelight and laughter, magic rolling in the air like silk. What a sight it was: fountains sprinkled with starlight, gliding dancers that seemed the very color of dreams, chandeliers raining droplets of crystal light down unto the ballroom floor of Eldoria's Grand Hall.
He should be enchanted.
Yet all he felt was a tightening knot in his chest.
On Caelan's right, Ronan's partner leaned in, charmingly enough to fool anyone else. He walked in navy and silver, every line of his silhouette an exercise of calculated elegance. His smooth charm rang with fluid confidence. He laughed at all the right times, said all the right things, and was, in all, magnetic.
Too magnetic.
Scrupulously proper on paper—an insult to Ronan's gut that twisted itself dark by the moment.
Caelan's eyes flicked toward Isaac again. Subtle. Brief. Ronan caught it—every glance lined with some sharpness, with some measuring quality. An instant of irritation when Isaac smiled. Not curiosity in the lingering look. Control.
It wasn't jealousy.
It was possessiveness, clad in silk and wine.
Ronan sipped from his glass and let his gaze drift about the room. There stood Isaac near the ballroom's edge, watching the dancers with the wonder of wide-open eyes, his mask slightly adrift, his curls tousled by the wayward gusts of winds kicked up by passing guests. He was out of place—but only in a manner sufficiently like stars being out of place on a painted sky.
"He seems overwhelmed," Caelan murmured beside him, nodding toward Isaac.
Ronan did not answer.
"Come into earshot," Caelan leaned toward him deeply, his voice lowering. "We could get away for a while—a quieter balcony, just you and me."
Ronan smiled, his expression barely drifting into the positive. "Maybe later."
"Come on," Caelan insisted, hand pressed against his arm. "You owe yourself some peace tonight. I've been dying to be with you for weeks!"
That word—owed—whipped through Ronan like a crack of a whip.
His heartbeats quickened not for excitement but for an urgent warning.
Why does he keep pulling me aside? Why does he act like I belong to him? Why does he look at Isaac like that?
The room felt too hot. The music too loud. The beauty too brittle.
"I just need a minute," said Ronan, stepping away.
He turned toward where Isaac had been lounging.
Gone.
Empty.
"Isaac?" His voice failed to rise above the music.
Ronan flitted around the room—ribbons and masks and laughter swirling together. But no trace of him.
The blade of panic cut through his chest.
He took a step forward, and then Caelan was blocking his path.
"He's fine," Caelan said softly. "The building is shielded with magic. No one can get in or out without being seen. Just breathe, Ronan."
Ronan remained unmoved.
"He's probably just exploring," Caelan added. "You don't need to go chasing after him."
But Ronan's instincts were screaming.
"No," he articulated, sharper than intended. "Something's not right."
Caelan's polished facade faltered. "Don't overreact."
"You don't know his past," Ronan snapped, wrenching his arm free. "I do."
And with that, he entered through a mass of guests, pushing past silk gowns and feathered masks, his mind forced to push aside all distractions through a single word:
Isaac.
Studying the events of the night, he wasn't sure where fear ended and fury began; all he understood was that Caelan had not been the one needing him.
The Mask Slips
Ronan's pulse pounded in his ears as he skirted the outer edges of the ballroom. His every instinct was sharp with alertness.
He paid barely any attention to the dancing couples or to the musicians settled in the gallery. His gaze cut through the finery, scanning every face—each mask.
Caelan quickly joined him, frustration colored his voice. "Where are you going?"
"Isaac left," Ronan said without slowing.
Caelan cut in front of him. "He's not a kid, Ronan. He's probably getting something to eat or getting some air."
Ronan tried to move past him.
Caelan grabbed his arm again, a low-voiced, pointed, almost angry-spoken: "Do not ruin the night. We were finally getting somewhere. Do not throw that away over some kid."
And then the mask slipped.
What lay beneath was not anger. It was something colder. Possessive. Entitled.
Ronan stared at him in shock for half a second, then pulled his arm away as though it had been burned.
"You don't get to talk about him like that," he said, with his voice trembling with restrained rage. "You don't know him."
Ronan didn't answer. He pushed past Caelan and stormed out of the ballroom, ignoring all the stares and murmurs. He followed the path of laughter and soft music into a quieter corridor, feeling his heart race harder than the music behind him.
He eventually found a side room—one of the private lounges scattered about the manor—where a few of Caelan's friends were gathering, sipping enchanted wine and laughing lazily.
And there was Isaac.
He was not in any danger; nor was he distressed.
He sat with them, somewhat stiff, but smiling—politely responding to the conversation. A drink had been offered to him, a silken shawl thrown around his shoulders as if he belonged. They were not ridiculing him. They were not being unkind. They just took him for Caelan's guest… and received him as such.
And Ronan stood there, in the doorway, watching.
An odd calm descended upon him, with a tint of something bitter.
Isaac was fine.
But Caelan… Caelan was not.
Back in the ballroom, the last words of Caelan were still echoing in his mind.
"Don't ruin this over some kid."
It wasn't what he said -- it was how he said it. The tone. The entitlement. The way the charm cracked just for a second in revealing the rot beneath.
And then Ronan understood.
Caelan put on the same mask as so many other nobles with polished shoes and prettier lies Ronan had met before. They knew how to smile while treating others as property. Like ornaments for their story.
Caelan had tried to be different.
In the end, he was just another Royal.
Unlike... him.
Ronan didn't know to whom the memory belonged. A phantom residing in his mind. An entity without a face.
Yet every time it was brushed against, he felt the same things -
Security. Trust. Unconditional love.
Things he had not known for years. Things he didn't even know he missed until now.
He shut his eyes.
He wanted to remember - just a glimpse. A name. A voice. A smile.
But there was only mist.
And silence.
He once again opened his eyes and looked at Isaac-laughing now, beaming visibily:
No, Ronan was not in love with him. That was not what this was about.
But watching Isaac reminded him of a truth he could not unsee:
Some people make you feel like you have to earn your place.
And some people make you feel like you've always belonged.
Caelan never was the one.
Not for lack of worth.
But, because Ronan had, long ago, known someone who was.
Even if he couldn't recall who that might be...
His heart never forgot.