The masquerade was nothing like Chris had expected.
He had imagined glittering halls, spoiled nobles dripping with gold, and long-winded speeches that made his brain want to leak out of his ears. Instead, the Moonlight Pavilion shimmered with enchantments, suspended above a glistening lake and encircled by ghostly willows that swayed in rhythm with the music.
The floor was translucent crystal, moonlight pooling beneath their feet like liquid silver. Floating lanterns lit the air above, glowing with soft spells that mimicked stars. Every guest wore a mask, some plain, others wildly elaborate. And every step Chris took felt… unreal.
"I feel underdressed," he muttered, tugging at the collar of his borrowed doublet. It was deep blue, trimmed in silver, with a moon-shaped clasp at the throat. His mask was simple—carved wood with silver paint, a crescent carved into the cheek.
"You look fine," Damian said, standing beside him. "Annoying, but fine."
Chris snorted. "You clean up alright yourself, Shadow Boy."
Damian's outfit was sleeker, more form-fitting, his coat a deep charcoal grey threaded with shadowy patterns that flickered when he moved. His mask was half-black, half-white, shaped like a fox's face. Fitting, considering how often he lied.
"Remind me why we're here?" Chris asked, eyes scanning the crowd.
"Because Countess Rina is harboring fugitives and might have information on the Umbraxis agent who's been tailing us." Damian spoke without moving his lips, voice low. "Also, you desperately needed a bath."
Chris rolled his eyes but didn't argue. After the blood, grime, and bruises of the Tempest Cliffs, the soft music and the scent of honeysuckle were a welcome change.
"I still don't see how dancing is part of the mission," Chris said, watching a couple twirl past in glittering fashion.
Damian arched a brow. "It's a masquerade. You can't exactly blend in if you're lurking in a corner scowling like a brooding gargoyle."
"I don't scowl."
"You absolutely do."
Chris scowled. Damian smirked.
Before he could retort, a ripple of applause moved through the crowd. At the center of the pavilion, a new tune began—slow, romantic, haunting.
Damian stepped forward and held out a gloved hand. "Dance with me."
Chris blinked. "What?"
"We need to stay in the crowd, and I don't want to draw attention. And you do owe me after that thing at the cliffs."
"You mean when you turned into a murder tornado?"
"I saved your life."
Chris muttered something about "dramatic flair," but took the hand anyway.
Damian led him into the center of the floor, their boots clicking softly against the enchanted crystal. The spell-music pulsed around them, low and rhythmic, and Chris realized—too late—he didn't actually know how to waltz.
"I'm going to step on your foot," he warned.
"You already do that metaphorically every day."
"Shut up."
But Damian was patient, guiding him with surprising gentleness. His hands were steady—one at Chris's waist, the other clasping his hand—and his movements were smooth, practiced. Chris was taller by a couple inches, broader in the shoulders, but somehow… Damian made him feel light.
"Okay, okay," Chris grunted, trying to follow the rhythm. "Not bad for a criminal."
"Not bad for a walking disaster."
They circled the floor slowly, weaving between other dancers. The magic above them shimmered with each step, casting patterns of moonlight and mist. Somewhere in the crowd, someone laughed. Somewhere, someone cried. But here—just here—it was quiet.
Chris dared a glance at Damian's face. The mask covered half of it, but the exposed part showed a soft curve of a smile—not his usual smirk, but something else. Almost… peaceful.
"You're not bad at this," Chris admitted. "I mean, the whole... being around people thing."
"I was raised in a court before I was raised in shadows," Damian said. "I've danced before."
Chris nodded. "Still. You didn't stab anyone the first hour. Proud of you."
Damian let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "Small victories."
They moved in silence for a while, just the music between them.
Chris felt something shift.
Not the wind. Not the magic. Something inside him.
A memory flashed—Damian standing over him, cloak swirling, blades dripping, eyes blazing with fury when the bounty hunter had taken him. The moment Damian had reached out—not with anger, but with fear. Real fear. And when he had lifted Chris out of the mud, murmuring, "You idiot. Don't ever do that again."
Chris had felt… something. Something that had bloomed through the pain and the dirt. Something that curled now, slow and aching, in the space between their hands.
"You ever think about stopping?" Chris asked suddenly.
Damian tilted his head. "Stopping what?"
"All of it. Running. Fighting. Looking over your shoulder every second."
Damian didn't answer at first. The music swelled.
"I used to," he said quietly. "But it's hard to imagine peace when your hands are stained."
Chris looked at him. Really looked. At the scar near his temple. The tired line of his mouth. The weight he always carried like a second cloak.
"I don't care about that," Chris said. "The stains. Whatever you did… I'm still standing here."
Damian's fingers tightened slightly at his waist. "You should care."
"Well, I don't," Chris muttered. "You're a pain in the ass, but you're my pain in the ass."
A beat of silence. Damian's breath hitched.
"That's… the stupidest confession I've ever heard."
"Wasn't a confession!" Chris said quickly. "Just an observation."
"I see." Damian was smiling. "Would you like to make any more… observations?"
Chris wanted to punch him and kiss him at the same time.
But then the music shifted again, slower still. The other dancers had slowed to a near halt, the spell-music dimming like a candle about to go out.
Around them, the floating lanterns formed a spiral in the sky.
"Final dance," someone whispered.
Chris and Damian stood still in the center.
Neither moved.
Neither let go.
"You know this is stupid, right?" Chris asked. "We've got bounty hunters, assassins, and a world-ending prophecy."
Damian nodded. "And?"
"And I'm dancing with the guy I'm supposed to either kill or run from."
Damian's gaze softened. "Then run with me."
Chris hesitated.
Then stepped forward. Just enough that their foreheads touched.
"I hate you," he whispered.
"I know."
"And I think I'm—"
"—Don't say it."
Chris laughed softly. "Coward."
"I know," Damian murmured again. "But I'll still be here. After the music ends."
And when it did, they didn't let go.
End of Chapter 11.