Chapter 75: The Twilight Before The Crown(10)
The dance slowed, then stilled.
Their hands lingered in the air a moment longer, fingers unwilling to part.
But the music had ended, or maybe it hadn’t, and they simply weren’t listening anymore.
The night had gone quiet between them, the kind of silence that feels less like an absence and more like a held breath.
Vaelira gently pulled back, her eyes searching Lucien’s face.
She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to.
There was a softness in her gaze now, something newly awakened and at peace.
The stiffness she wore like armor had slipped off somewhere between his awkward sidesteps and her playful jabs.
And now, what remained was simply her.
Lucien gave her a faint, crooked smile.
“You cold?” he asked.
She nodded, then exhaled.
“I didn’t feel it until now.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, offering his arm.
“Let’s get back inside before the wind turns us into balcony statues.”
Vaelira smirked, looping her arm through his.
“Wouldn’t be the worst fate. At least I’d get to step on your foot for eternity.”
“Truly, a nightmare etched in stone,” Lucien sighed.
Their laughter, light and unguarded, trailed behind them as they stepped through the gilded archway back into the ballroom.
Warmth rushed over them like a blanket, thick and perfumed, full of candlelight, conversation, and the golden haze of celebration.
It was a stark contrast from the quiet chill of the moon-drenched balcony, and for a moment, Vaelira blinked in the shift, her senses adjusting.
Lucien walked slower now, letting her lean against him.
She hadn’t realized how comfortable she’d become with the closeness until her head settled on his shoulder like it had always belonged there.
No one stared.
No one whispered.
And for once, she didn’t care if they did.
Inside, the party had softened.
The feverish tempo of the evening had dulled into a gentler afterglow.
Most of the couples had retreated to their seats along the edges of the ballroom, sipping drinks, nursing sore feet, or simply watching the night wind down.
A handful of nobles still mingled, their laughter more tired than boisterous now.
And yet…
One couple remained at the center of the marble floor, beneath the massive glass dome that crowned the ceiling, a flawless arch that revealed the stars and moon above in crystalline clarity.
They danced alone.
The rest of the room had surrendered the floor to them, forming a loose, respectful circle at a distance, as though witnessing something sacred.
They moved with a grace that didn’t belong to this world.
Every step was fluid, effortless, like water poured from a chalice, like two celestial beings remembering their shared orbit.
Her dress, the color of pale flame, swirled around her like wind-born silk.
His hand was firm at her waist, his gaze locked on hers with unwavering intensity.
But it wasn’t a performance.
It didn’t feel like one.
It was quiet.
Private.
And yet impossibly magnetic.
Vaelira felt her breath hitch.
“They’re… beautiful.”
Lucien didn’t answer.
Something didn't feel right.
Something wasn't right.
She turned her head and followed his gaze.
He was looking at the couple.
But not with awe.
Not with admiration.
His expression was unreadable at first, but only for a moment.
Then it shifted, like frost creeping across glass.
His jaw clenched.
His shoulders stiffened.
And his eyes, so recently full of warmth and tired amusement, were now something else entirely.
Cold.
Sharp.
Empty.
No, not empty.
Hostile.
It was a kind of cold she hadn’t seen in him before.
The kind of cold that held memory and warning.
His gaze didn’t just observe the dancing couple, it pinned them, dissected them, judged them with a silence louder than any outburst.
Vaelira froze.
“Lucien?” she whispered.
He didn’t hear her.
Or maybe he did, but couldn’t respond.
His entire being had gone still, stone-like in a way that had nothing to do with the cold outside and everything to do with whatever recognition had gripped him now.
The beautiful couple twirled again, bathed in moonlight that poured down like liquid silver through the dome above.
The woman’s laughter rang softly, pure, melodic, serene.
And Lucien’s hands, at his sides, curled into fists.
Vaelira stared at him, heart climbing into her throat.
“Lucien… do you know them?”
His lips barely parted.
But his voice, when it came, was hollow.
Low.
“I’ve seen him before.”
She swallowed.
“Who is he?”
Lucien’s gaze didn’t waver.
The light in his eyes was gone, replaced by something deeper.
Darker.
***
That smile.
Lucien’s breath caught in his throat the moment he saw the man's face in full.
It was subtle, nothing extravagant, just a half-smirk, crooked and smug, as the man turned his partner in a gentle spin.
The moonlight caught the edge of his jawline, the way his hair shifted, the way his shoulders rolled with the ease of someone who knew he belonged in the center of the world.
But Lucien knew that face.
He would never forget it.
His knees locked in place.
His stomach churned, not with nausea, but with something ancient and violent.
His eyes didn't blink, didn't shift, didn't dare look away.
It was him.
Leonardo.
The Stalker.
The bastard who broke into their apartment.
The bastard who made his sister scream.
The bastard who dragged their lives into a waking nightmare and smiled as if her pain was a gift to him.
Lucien’s vision blurred for a moment, not from tears, but from the sheer heat of his hatred.
Him.
Here.
Now.
Dancing like some blessed protagonist under divine moonlight, adored and untouched, a picture of serenity and grace.
He should be dead.
Lucien had made sure of it.
His body should be shattered on a sidewalk.
His lungs should be filled with blood and dust and the consequences of his obsession.
There was no way he should be standing there, alive and smiling, basking in moonlight like he belonged to the heavens.
Lucien’s jaw clenched, so tight it felt like his teeth would crack.
His molars ground together with a force that made his temples throb.
If he clenched any harder, his gums would bleed.
His nails dug deep into his palms, carving crescents into flesh.
Blood was a second away from beading.
The world faded.
The music, the voices, the warmth of the ballroom, all of it bled into static.
Lucien was no longer in the grand hall.
Not really.
He was back on Earth.
Back in that dimly-lit apartment.
Back on that broken floor where he had seen his sister’s eyes wide with panic, her voice rising in a scream that still echoed in the back of his skull every time he closed his eyes.
The chaos.
The blood.
The scuffle.
That fall.
That endless, goddamn fall.
Seven floors.
Wind screaming.
Hands grappling.
The white-hot stab in his side.
The pain.
The fear.
The fucking smile on that psycho’s face, like he’d won.
And even after that, after all of it, Lucien had pulled his shattered body up, had dragged himself over broken bones, and punched that man’s face one last time, daring to drag him into death.
Only for fate to drag them both here.
To this world.
This sick, beautiful world with its glittering towers and magical skies and rigged fates.
Where Lucien clawed and bled and suffered just to survive.
Just to find some meaning.
Just to protect someone.
And here was Leonardo, reborn, rewired, rewritten into something admired and adored.
The “hero” of this stage.
His soul throbbed with rage.
No, rage wasn’t the right word.
This was hate.
The kind that hollowed you out.
The kind that burned like magma, that turned bone to iron and blood to fire.
The kind that couldn’t be taught or learned, it was earned through trauma, carved into your soul like a brand.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to grab a chair and crash it across that bastard’s spine.
He wanted to rip the smirk off his face, tear it away until the smile bled.
But he didn’t move.
He stood, statuesque, expression neutral to everyone except the one who looked closely.
Because this wasn’t the time.
Not yet.
He had worked too hard.
Fought too much.
Survived too long to throw it all away now.
Hasty actions would get him killed.
Or worse, get Vaelira hurt.
Or Balt.
Or the others who’d stood by him.
He couldn’t afford to make a single wrong move.
Not when the stakes had finally shown their face.
He inhaled through his nose, slow and quiet.
Let him dance.
Let him smile.
Let him bathe in the light of their admiration.
Lucien’s eyes darkened, a quiet fire flickering behind them.
Because it ends here.
He would learn fear.
He would learn pain.
And he would never again draw a breath without wondering if Lucien Crowley was waiting in the shadow behind it.
The dance continued, graceful and enchanting to the others.
But in Lucien’s mind, the floor was already soaked in blood.
And this, the music, the light, the laughter, was the calm before a storm so wrathful it would split the sky.
Lucien’s fists slowly relaxed.
His eyes never did.
