Ebonmere Manor, the Night of The Eclipse
4 years ago
The air hung heavy with the scent of perfume and portent.
Chandeliers wept the golden glow of firelight across the marbled floors of House Ebonmere, the warm glow caught in the masks and glass goblets of the gathered elite. Laughter rippled like poisoned wine through the grand ballroom, and music soared from the orchestra loft—a haunting waltz—but neither it nor the idled laughter could drown the hush of anticipation that pulsed beneath the elegance. The Blood Moon had risen, after all. And such an omen could not be ignored.
Lenore stood just beyond the ballroom archway, her mask a thing of gold and shadow, her very expression unreadable beneath its delicate filigree. Silk the color of crimson clung to her frame like a second skin, a stark contrast to the stormy black of her House's banners that draped the column around her. Whispers followed her like candle smoke, curling in corners, soft and dangerous.
"That's the Ebonmere girl," they murmured.
"Born under the red moon, wasn't she?"
"Marked by the old magic, they say."
Her hazel blue eyes scanned the room, but not for approval. She had learned at an early age that noble gazes could slice cleaner than any blade. No, tonight she searched for something else—for someone. And perhaps, for a feeling she could not name. Dread, maybe. Or longing? Or the quiet certainty that something was about to change.
The masque glittered under candlelight. Faces danced behind velvet and feathers, secrets dressed in silk and expensive fabrics. Somewhere near the dais, three lycan princes laughed—but not too loudly. Always watched, always weighed. Even their mirth had teeth.
The wind outside stirred, though the windows were shut. Lenore turned her head toward the sensation. It wasn't the chill that pricked her skin—it was something older. Something buried in her blood. Something awake.
She could feel it—the pulse of destiny, the thin thread of fate thrumming through the air like the string of a violin pulled too tight. She clutched her gloved hands tighter around her fan, a nervous tic she couldn't quite smother.
Across the room, she caught a pair of dark eyes watching her from behind a gold half-mask—Rowan Theralis. A nobleman of poise and promise. Her almost-something. A lover to be. He didn't smile.
Neither did she.
Above them all, the great chandelier flickered once—a gust of unseen wind rattling the lit crystals. The music, however, did not pause. The lycan dancers did not falter. But every wolf in the room stilled, for the briefest of heartbeats, as if they too had heard the silent warning carried in the blood-red night.
Lenore tilted up her chin. And stepped into the dance.