The ballroom was a blur of gold leaf and shifting silks, but for Verona, the world had narrowed down to the unsettlingly steady rhythm of Prince Herschel's lead. He danced with a terrifying, liquid precision. It wasn't like Elric, whose movements felt like a harnessed storm, full of raw heat and protective strength. Herschel was more like the tide, inevitable, cool, and masking depths that could drown you before you even realized your feet had left the sand.
Verona kept her gaze fixed somewhere near the Prince's shoulder, trying to ignore the way the court watched them.
"You seem preoccupied, Lady Verona," Herschel murmured. "Is the air too heavy for you? Or is it merely the company?"
Verona forced her chin upward, meeting his gaze with a practiced neutrality she'd spent years perfecting in the cold shadows of the Vernhardt estate. "Neither, Your Highness. I was merely reflecting on... the unexpected."
