Amidst the swirling dance floor, Dastan and Noori moved with a closeness that made onlookers uneasy. Their eyes locked, bodies nearly brushing, and the unspoken communication between them left the crowd puzzled. Weren't they supposed to despise each other? Especially Dastan—he had every reason to hate her. After all, she was no ordinary criminal; she was a murderer.
Noori waited, breath held, sensing the struggle warring behind his gaze. Finally, he spoke, defensive yet strained. "I don't understand what you're talking about."
She twirled away, breaking the physical connection for a moment, only to loop back into a back hug, her warmth pressing against him.
"I can see it on your face," she murmured, her breath grazing his cheek. The simple contact brought a strange calm, coaxing a long exhale from him. His eyes closed instinctively, finding solace in her nearness. But Noori, ever perceptive, let go deliberately, coaxing him to lower his guard.
As her grip slipped, uncertainty clouded Dastan. His throat bobbed nervously, Adam's apple betraying the turmoil within him. Then, as if driven by impulse, he seized her hand, holding it as though he feared letting her go.
Before she could react, he pulled her closer, close enough that her breath hitched, her chest tightening. The sudden proximity sent a spark through him, every nerve alive to her presence.
"I… I am cold," he whispered, his voice tremulous as his fingers brushed her cheek. The touch was tentative, careful, as though even the gentlest pressure might shatter the fragile moment. Around them, the ballroom radiated heat, yet his own heart was chilled with tension.
"Just… a moment," he murmured, eyes searching hers, seeking permission, seeking understanding. In that fragile instant, the simple connection of skin against skin became a lifeline, a silent plea for reassurance.
Noori froze, processing the intensity of his gaze and the warmth of his touch. The sensation ignited a rush she hadn't anticipated, heat blooming through her veins, her cheeks flushing as if caught in a fever.
The intensity became too much. She stepped back, breaking free, breaths sharp and uneven. Her heart pounded as she scrambled to regain composure, the closeness leaving her disoriented and shaken.
Dastan watched, chest tight, as she retreated. A pang of loss clawed at him, her absence a hollow ache in the space she left behind. He followed her with his gaze as she moved toward the king's seat. With a curt apology, she excused herself and hurried from the hall, steps heavy, leaving him standing amidst the swirl of dancers and murmuring guests, stranded in the silence of what had just passed.
As Dastan swiftly turned and followed Noori, the sudden change in their demeanor caught the attention of the onlookers, leaving them curious about the shift in atmosphere surrounding the two.
"Stop!" Dastan's voice rang from behind her, urgent and sharp. Noori's steps, usually deliberate and fast, came to a sudden halt—not at his command, but at the unexpected arrival of Bishop, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, followed closely by another familiar face. Both men bowed deeply upon seeing Noori, a mark of deep respect, before straightening to address her.
"You may rise," she said, her voice calm but edged with curiosity. "What brings you here, Sir Luke? You seem remarkably well since we last met," she added, acknowledging the first man.
Luke responded with measured politeness, attributing his well-being to her capable leadership. He explained that he had been sent by the Emperor to check on Solyria's welfare and to convey his regards. Noori, satisfied with his words, signaled that he could enjoy the city while she excused herself from the banquet.
"As you wish, Your Highness," Luke replied, bowing again. Before Noori could leave, however, Luke's voice cut through with sudden urgency, pulling her attention back.
"Your Highness! Duke Flinthas has returned to the capital!" His tone rose just enough to catch Dastan's ears. The name sparked vague recognition, though he couldn't place it fully.
Noori's reaction was immediate. She stiffened, her eyes wide, and her breath caught. "But he was not expected back until next year!"
"Yes, but the siege ended sooner than anticipated, and he returned victorious," Luke explained, clarifying the unexpected turn.
Noori's voice trembled slightly. "Did Father tell him about this?" She feared the consequences if Duke Flint discovered the truth of her marriage.
"Yes, Your Highness. The Duke was informed. He wished to visit Solyria to see you, but the Emperor intervened," Luke reported. Noori rubbed her temples, weighed down by worry.
"Is there anything else to report?" she asked, her tone heavy. Luke shook his head. "Very well, you are dismissed," she said, allowing him to leave. Bishop stayed by her side, silent and steadfast.
"Your Highness, I heard about the carriage incident. Are you alright?" Bishop asked. Noori nodded briefly. "Take care of Sir Luke for now. We will discuss this further once the festivities conclude," she instructed, letting out a slow breath before moving on.
Bishop followed Luke out and noticed Dastan standing nearby in the hallway. He offered a small bow and a brief greeting before continuing on. Dastan, uninterested in drawing attention from the Nurian soldiers, followed Noori as she led him out of the hallway and into an open space, where the untamed beauty of the area resembled a neglected garden.
Bishop, following Luke, noticed Dastan lingering in the hallway. He offered the prince a slight bow, a quiet acknowledgment, and passed by without further notice. Dastan remained unconcerned with catching the attention of the Nurian soldiers, his gaze fixed instead on Noori as she made her way out of the hallway into an open space that resembled a wild, untended garden—nature reclaiming itself in scattered blooms and tangled greenery.
Suddenly, Noori's frustration erupted in a sharp, guttural roar, startling nearby birds into flight. She fell to her knees, head bowed, fingers digging into the grass as her breath came in harsh, ragged gasps.
"Every time I have to ruin it! Every single time!" she spat through clenched teeth, her words carrying raw anger and despair. "And of all people… it has to be him!" She repeated the lament as though casting blame into the night itself.
Dastan observed silently, noting the stark shift in her demeanor. Only moments ago, she had moved with controlled composure; now she was unrestrained, consumed by fury and sorrow. Despite his curiosity, his concern for her well-being took precedence.
He stepped closer, moonlight catching in his silver hair, highlighting him in the darkness. "I see you're having a hard time," he said quietly, his voice calm yet attentive. Noori did not flinch at his presence, remaining on her knees until she gathered her scattered thoughts. Slowly, she collapsed fully onto the grass, staring at the night sky, inhaling long, heavy breaths as if trying to expel the weight of her emotions.
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, until she finally turned her gaze toward him. "Sometimes having a heart can be a problem, don't you think?" she asked softly, her tone edged with confusion. "If you have one, you always seem to give it to the wrong person." Her words hung in the air, catching Dastan off guard.
He remained still, unsure how to respond, feeling the weight of her vulnerability press against him.
"It's exhausting… I'm tired," she continued, voice low, almost broken. "And the worst part? The one you give it to… shatters it into a million pieces. And even then, you keep giving it back to them." Her dark eyes glistened in the moonlight, filled with hurt and quiet fury. "A pathetic exchange masquerading as love."
Dastan felt a pang in his chest, the raw honesty of her words leaving him momentarily speechless. He did not move closer, did not speak, but he remained there—silent, steady, and unwavering—as though offering her the simple reassurance of presence in the midst of her storm.