Morning light slipped through the curtains in ribbons of gold and dust, and Navira blinked against it, disoriented for a moment by the unfamiliar ceiling. Then the voices drifted up from downstairs—Nami's bright and rapid, punctuated by the clink of a spoon against ceramic, and a lower voice that answered in dry, lazy syllables.
Reyen.
She lay still, listening to the shape of words she couldn't quite catch, and tried to place the feeling settling in her chest. Not dread. Something closer to anticipation, which was worse.
The guest room smelled of lavender and old wood. Her clothes from last night were draped over the armchair, wrinkled. She'd slept in one of Nami's t-shirts, soft and faded, and for a long moment she considered staying here, letting the voices blur into background noise, pretending the world hadn't rearranged itself in the past twelve hours.
But Nami's laugh rose—bright and insistent—and then came the words she caught clearly: "—costume, obviously. She'll love it."
Costume.
Navira swung her legs over the side of the bed and rubbed her face. Her hair was a disaster, a wild tangle of curls she'd have to wrestle into submission. She found her reflection in the vanity mirror and made a face at herself.
Downstairs, Nami was saying something about masks. Feathers, maybe. Velvet. The words came in excited bursts, and Nic's responses were low and amused, the way he always sounded when Nami got carried away with a project. And Reyen—she strained to hear him—said something that made Nami gasp and laugh at the same time.
Curiosity won. It always did.
She padded to the door, barefoot, the floorboards cool and smooth. The hallway was empty, morning light pooling at the end where the stairs opened into the foyer. She could see the chandelier from here, crystal droplets catching the sun and scattering it across the walls. The house smelled like coffee and something warm—pastries, maybe—and her stomach made a sound that decided things.
She ran her fingers through her hair once, twice, gave up, and started down the stairs.
The voices sharpened as she descended. Nami was saying, "—three days is not enough time, but I refuse to miss it."
"You have three days," Nic said, calm and reasonable. "You'll manage."
"I'll manage because I have to. This is the first masquerade in five years, and I am not staying home."
Navira reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner into the kitchen.
The room opened wide and warm, flooded with morning light from the garden windows. A vase of dried eucalyptus sat on the island, next to a basket of croissants that smelled like butter and honey. Nami stood at the counter, a cup of coffee in one hand, gesturing emphatically with the other. Nic leaned against the far counter, arms crossed, watching her with the quiet amusement of a man who had long ago accepted that his wife's enthusiasm was a force of nature.
And Reyen sat at the kitchen table, one leg crossed over the other, a cup of something dark cradled in his hands. He looked up when she entered, and his eyes found hers instantly, like he'd known she was coming before she appeared.
Navira's hand went to her hair before she could stop it. She made herself drop it.
"Omg, thank god you're awake," Nami said, spinning around. Her face lit up, and she crossed the kitchen in three quick steps, grabbing Navira's arm and pulling her toward the table. "I have been dying to tell you, and I couldn't wait anymore. There's a masquerade ball at the town centre in three days, and we are going."
Navira blinked. "We?"
"Yes, we. You, me, Sierra—everyone. It's a whole thing. They do it every few years, and it's always gorgeous. Masks, dresses, dancing, the whole fairy-tale experience." Nami's eyes were bright, her grip on Navira's arm insistent. "You're coming."
She said it like it wasn't a question.
Navira opened her mouth to protest, but Nami was already talking again.
"I already have a dress, but I need accessories. And you need a dress. We're going shopping today. I won't take no for an answer."
Nic lifted his coffee in a small toast. "Resistance is futile. I learned that years ago."
Nami threw him a look that was equal parts affection and warning.
Navira felt the corner of her mouth twitch. "I don't have a costume."
"Obviously. That's why we're shopping." Nami released her arm and grabbed her phone from the counter. "I'll text Sierra. She'll lose her mind."
Navira finally let herself look at Reyen. He hadn't looked away. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way he held her gaze—a stillness, a patience—that made her feel like she'd walked into the middle of a conversation she hadn't been invited to.
"Morning," she said. It came out quieter than she meant.
"Morning." His voice was low, rough at the edges, like he hadn't slept. "Sleep well?"
The question was simple. The way he asked it wasn't. There was a weight beneath the words, an awareness of everything that had happened last night—Michael, the hallway, the way her voice had cracked when she'd told Nami the story. He knew. She could see it in the careful neutrality of his face, the way he didn't push.
"Well enough," she said. "You?"
A pause. His thumb traced the rim of his cup. "Not really."
Nami was typing furiously, oblivious. Nic watched the exchange with the quiet attention of someone who missed nothing.
"Sierra's in," Nami announced, looking up. "She says she's been waiting for an excuse to buy a new dress. Also, she wants to know if Adrian's coming."
Nic made a noncommittal sound. "I'll ask him."
"Ask him. Tell him Sierra asked." Nami grinned. "That'll get him here."
Navira slid into the chair across from Reyen, putting the table between them. Up close, she could see the shadow under his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw. He looked like someone who'd spent the night thinking instead of sleeping.
She wondered what he'd been thinking about.
She wondered if she wanted to know.
A croissant appeared in front of her—Nic had slid the basket across the counter without a word—and she murmured thanks, breaking off a piece. The butter melted on her tongue, warm and rich, and she realized she was hungrier than she'd thought.
"So this ball," she said, between bites. "What's the occasion?"
Nami slid into the seat beside her, phone still in hand. "There's no occasion. That's the best part. The town just decides to throw one every few years, and everyone shows up. Masks, gowns, live music—it's like stepping into a different century."
"It's a tradition," Nic said. "Dates back to the founding families. They used to hold them at the Voss Estate, back when the ballroom was still in use."
"Wait." Navira turned to look at him. "The Voss Estate—your family's estate? The old one on the hill?"
Something flickered across Nic's face. Quick. Almost invisible. "The same."
"I've never been inside."
"It's been closed for decades." His voice was even. "The ballroom hasn't been used since before we were born. But the tradition lived on in the town centre."
Navira felt the shift in the air—a subtle tightening, a current that ran between Nic and Reyen. They exchanged a look she couldn't read.
"Anyway," Nami said, breaking the silence with practiced ease, "the point is, you're coming. We're going to find you a dress that makes you feel like a queen, and you're going to forget about everything else for one night."
Navira's chest tightened. The kindness in Nami's voice, the way she said everything else like she knew exactly what Navira needed to forget—it was too much and not enough at the same time.
"Okay," she said, and her voice came out steadier than she expected. "I'm in."
Nami clapped her hands together. "Yes. Okay. We leave in an hour. Eat your croissant."
Navira ate her croissant. The butter was rich, the pastry flaky, and across the table, Reyen watched her with those dark, unreadable eyes, saying nothing at all.
The afternoon light was different at the Voss Estate—filtered through old oaks that lined the drive, dappled and green, like sunlight passing through water. Navira stood at the edge of the gravel, Nami beside her, and stared up at the house that had haunted the edges of town legend for as long as she could remember.
It was beautiful in the way old things were beautiful—weathered and patient, holding secrets the way stone holds cold. The wraparound porch sagged in places, but the bones were good. Tall windows, dark with age, reflected the trees. The front door was arched, painted a faded blue that might once have been grand.
"Nic wanted to show you something," Nami said. Her voice was carefully casual. "Before we go shopping."
Navira looked at her. "The ballroom?"
"Maybe." Nami smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Come on."
They walked up the steps together, and Nami pulled a key from her coat pocket—old iron, black with tarnish—and fit it into the lock. The door swung inward with a sound like a held breath released.
Inside, the air was cool and still, thick with dust and the ghost of something floral. A grand staircase curved upward into shadow. A chandelier hung in the foyer, shrouded in white sheets. The floors were marble, veined with gray, scuffed by generations of feet.
And there, standing at the foot of the stairs, was Reyen.
He'd changed into a dark coat, his hair pushed back from his face. He looked like he belonged here, in this half-ruined house, among the dust and the faded grandeur.
"You came," he said. Not to Nami. To her.
"Nic asked." Navira's voice sounded small in the hollow space. "Something about the ballroom."
Reyen's mouth curved, just barely. "He's already upstairs. Waiting."
Nami touched Navira's arm, a brief squeeze. "I'll wait here. Take your time."
Navira wanted to protest, but the words didn't come. Instead, she found herself walking toward the stairs, Reyen falling into step beside her, close enough that she caught the scent of him—clean soap and something darker, like woodsmoke.
The staircase groaned under their weight. The banister was smooth with age, worn by a century of hands.
"Why do I feel like I'm being led into a trap?" she said, keeping her voice light.
"No trap." His voice was low, near her shoulder. "Just a room. And a question."
She stopped on the landing, turned to face him. He was closer than she'd expected. She could see the individual lashes framing his eyes, the faint scar at his temple.
"What question?"
He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he said, "Do you trust me?"
She should have said no. She barely knew him. He was arrogant, guarded, full of sharp edges and silences. He reminded her of someone who'd hurt him, and she reminded him of someone who'd hurt him, and none of that added up to trust.
But she looked at him—at the tension in his jaw, the way his hands hung still at his sides, the way he was watching her like her answer mattered—and she said, "I don't know yet."
Something shifted in his face. A crack, barely visible. He nodded once.
"Fair enough."
He turned and continued up the stairs, and she followed, because not knowing was worse than knowing, and because something in this old house was calling to her, something that hummed beneath the dust and the silence, waiting to be found.
At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched east and west. Nic stood by an open door at the far end, his silhouette framed by pale light.
"In here," he said.
Navira walked toward him, past peeling wallpaper and closed doors, and when she stepped through the doorway, she stopped breathing.
The ballroom was vast. The ceiling arched high above, painted with a fresco of clouds and stars, faded but still visible. Crystal chandeliers hung in rows, their prisms catching the afternoon light and scattering it across the floor. The walls were paneled in dark wood, carved with ivy and vines, and at the far end, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the overgrown gardens.
It was a ruin. The paint was cracked, the chandeliers dull with dust, the floor scuffed and warped. But beneath the decay, it was magnificent.
"They used to hold the balls here," Nic said, his voice quiet. "Our family. The founding families. Everyone in costume, masks, music. Dancing until dawn."
Navira stepped forward, her footsteps echoing. She could almost hear it—the swell of a waltz, the rustle of silk, the murmur of voices beneath the chandeliers.
"Why did it stop?" she asked.
Behind her, Reyen said, "Because the people who started it are gone. And the ones who stayed—" He paused. "—didn't want to remember."
She turned. He was standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, his face half in shadow.
Nic said, "I wanted you to see it. Before the town ball. So you'd know what it used to be."
Navira looked back at the room, at the light falling through the tall windows, at the ghosts of dancers she would never meet. Something stirred in her chest—a longing she couldn't name, a thread connecting her to this place she'd never been.
"Thank you," she said. "For showing me."
Nic inclined his head. Then he slipped out of the room, leaving her alone with Reyen and the dust and the light.
She felt him move before she heard him—a shift in the air, the creak of a floorboard. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could see his reflection in the window glass beside hers.
"Three days," he said, his voice low. "At the ball."
She didn't turn. "What about it?"
"Save me a dance."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't quite a demand. It was something in between—a line drawn in the sand, waiting to see if she'd step across it.
She turned her head, just enough to meet his eyes in the glass.
"We'll see."
His reflection smiled. Slow. Dangerous. "That's not a no."
She let the silence stretch, let the dust settle around them, let the old ballroom hold its breath.
"No," she said, finally. "It's not."
Reyen's smile deepened, but he said nothing. The silence stretched, comfortable and heavy, filled with the dust-drenched light and the ghost of a waltz that hadn't been played in decades. Navira held his gaze in the glass until she felt the weight of it settle somewhere in her chest—a thread pulled taut, neither of them willing to cut it.
"Coming down," she said, finally, and turned before he could reply.
She walked past him, close enough that her sleeve brushed his coat. The contact was brief, accidental, but she felt the fabric catch for half a second, and she didn't slow down.
His footsteps followed. Measured. Unhurried. The floorboards groaned in the same rhythm as before, but the air behind her was different now—charged in a way that made her shoulders straighten.
Nami was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, phone in hand, scrolling with one thumb. She looked up as Navira descended, and her expression shifted—from casual to knowing in the space of a blink.
"Well?" Nami asked, tucking her phone away. "What do you think?"
Navira paused on the last step. "It's beautiful. Even ruined. It feels like—" She searched for the word. "—like it's still waiting for something."
Nami's eyes flickered to something over Navira's shoulder. Reyen had reached the landing above, but he hadn't come down yet. He stood at the top, half in shadow, watching.
Nami's smile was soft. "It is."
She looped her arm through Navira's and pulled her toward the foyer, away from the staircase, toward the front door where the afternoon light pooled on the dusty marble. "We have an hour before we need to leave for shopping. Coffee first?"
Navira let herself be led. "Always."
The door groaned open, and the cool air rushed in, carrying the smell of damp earth and oak leaves. Nic was already outside, leaning against the porch railing, his phone pressed to his ear. He glanced up as they emerged, said something low and ended the call.
"We're good," he said, pocketing the phone. "Nami's been stress-ordering decorations. I was confirming the delivery window."
Nami rolled her eyes. "I do not stress-order. I plan ahead."
Nic's mouth twitched. "You ordered three different centerpiece arrangements. For one ball."
"Because I haven't decided which one yet."
Navira laughed, surprised at the sound. It felt rusty, like she hadn't used it in a while. Nami grinned at her, and for a moment, the world felt simple again—just three people on a porch in the afternoon sun.
Then Reyen stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him, and the air shifted. Nic's eyes moved to him, a silent question exchanged in a glance. Reyen gave a small nod. Navira pretended not to notice.
They walked back to the main house in a loose group, the gravel crunching underfoot. The Voss Estate—the one that was lived-in, not the ruin on the hill—rose ahead of them, warm lights already flickering in the kitchen windows. Homey. Alive.
Nami unlocked the back door, and they filed inside. The kitchen smelled of coffee and the lingering warmth of the morning's pastries. Navira sank into a chair at the table, suddenly aware of how tired she was—not physically, but the kind of tired that came from holding too many thoughts at once.
Nami poured her a cup without asking. Black, the way she'd learned Navira liked it. She set it in front of her and sat down across the table, cradling her own mug.
"You know," Nami said, her voice deliberately casual, "you don't have to go home tonight."
Navira wrapped her hands around the mug. The heat seeped into her palms. "I was going to stay at my place."
"I know. But I'm asking you to stay here. Just tonight. We can shop tomorrow, and you won't have to walk into an empty apartment at midnight."
The words hit harder than Navira expected. Empty apartment. She'd lived there for two years, and it had never felt like empty before. But now, with Michael's name hanging in the air between every silence, she could feel the emptiness waiting for her—the bed she'd slept in alone, the kitchen where she'd eaten toast for dinner because cooking for one felt pointless.
She exhaled. "Okay. But tomorrow I go home. I need to get the details about Grace from Nash."
Nami nodded, accepting the condition. "Tomorrow morning. I'll drive you myself."
Navira's shoulders loosened. "Thank you."
Reyen had drifted to the counter, refilling his cup. He didn't look at her, but she felt his attention anyway—a gravity she couldn't quite name. Nic moved past him, reaching for the kettle, and the two of them fell into a low conversation about something that didn't include her.
"Let's go to the lounge," Nami said, standing. "I need to show you the mask options I've been obsessing over."
Navira grabbed her coffee and followed. The lounge was down the hall, a wide room with deep sofas, a stone fireplace, and shelves lined with books that looked like they'd been read more than once. A fire was already burning, low and orange, casting shadows across the ceiling.
Nic and Reyen drifted in behind them. Nic settled into an armchair near the fire, pulling out his phone again. Reyen took the end of the sofa opposite Navira, stretching his legs out, crossing his ankles. He looked comfortable. At home. Like he'd been sitting in this room for centuries.
Maybe he had.
Nami pulled out her phone and started scrolling through photos, launching into a detailed analysis of mask styles—feathers versus lace, full-face versus half, gold versus silver. Navira listened, nodded, offered opinions, but her mind kept drifting to the ballroom. The fresco. The chandeliers. The way Reyen's reflection had held hers in the glass.
A knock sounded at the front door.
Sharp. Three quick raps.
Navira's head lifted. The sound cut through the warmth of the room like a blade. Nami paused mid-sentence, frowning. "Are we expecting anyone?" she asked, looking at Nic.
Nic set down his phone. "No."
The knock came again. More insistent this time.
Navira was already on her feet. "I'll get it."
She was halfway to the foyer before she could think about why. Something in her chest had tightened, a wire pulled too thin. The house was quiet behind her—no one had followed. Just her feet on the wooden floor, the sound of her own breath, the weight of the doorknob in her hand.
She turned it. Pulled the door open.
Michael stood on the porch.
The evening light caught his face—familiar in a way that hurt, softer than she remembered, or maybe that was the guilt. His hair was disheveled, his jacket rumpled, and his eyes were red-rimmed, like he hadn't slept. He opened his mouth.
"I tried to call you—"
Navira's hand moved before her brain caught up. The door slammed shut with a sound that echoed through the foyer. She stood there, palm flat against the wood, heart hammering, and watched the paint grain blur as her vision went unfocused.
She stayed like that for three full breaths. Then she turned, walked back to the lounge, and picked up her phone.
Nami was watching her with wide eyes. Nic had risen from his chair. Reyen was still seated, but his posture had changed—alert, coiled, his eyes fixed on her face.
"Who was it?" Nami asked, her voice careful.
Navira didn't answer. She was already scrolling through her contacts, pressing the call button, lifting the phone to her ear.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
"Nash." Her voice came out flat. Level. "Who told Michael where I was staying?"
There was a pause on the other end. She could hear the faint rustle of movement, the sound of a door closing. "What?"
"I'm at Nami's. Michael just showed up at her door. Who told him?"
A longer pause. When Nash spoke again, his voice was lower. "I didn't. I swear. I haven't talked to him since you broke up."
"Then who?" She was pacing now, the phone pressed hard against her ear, her free hand gripping the back of a chair. "He knew exactly where to find me."
"Maybe Bella? Or—" Nash stopped. She heard him exhale, long and slow. "I don't know. But I'll find out. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I slammed the door in his face."
"Good." There was a thread of approval in his voice. "You want me to come over?"
"No. I'll handle it. But I need you to get me Grace's details tomorrow morning. I'm coming home then."
"Done. Text me when you're on your way."
"Thanks, Nash."
"Always. Be careful."
The call ended. Navira lowered the phone, stared at the dark screen for a moment, then set it down on the table.
Nami's voice was soft. "Is he still out there?"
Navira looked toward the hallway. The front door was still closed. She couldn't hear anything—no footsteps retreating, no engine starting. Just the crackle of the fire and her own uneven breathing.
"I don't know," she said. "I didn't check."
Nic stood. "I'll look."
He moved past her with quiet efficiency, his footsteps barely audible. A moment later, she heard the front door open, then close again. He returned, his expression neutral.
"He's gone. Walked down the drive."
Navira let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her hands were trembling—she noticed them now, the fine tremble in her fingers. She pressed them flat against her thighs.
Reyen rose from the sofa. He didn't say anything. He walked to the sideboard, poured a glass of amber liquid—whiskey, maybe—and carried it to her. He held it out.
"Drink."
She looked at the glass. Then at him. His face was unreadable, but his jaw was tight, a muscle ticking near the hinge.
She took the glass. The whiskey burned going down, but it settled in her chest like a warm weight. She coughed once, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and handed the glass back to him. Their fingers brushed. His were cold.
"Thanks," she said.
A knock on the front door.
Navira froze. Everyone in the room went still.
Reyen set the glass down, his eyes darkening. "I'll handle it this time."
He was out of the room before anyone could argue, his footsteps swift and deliberate down the hallway. Navira heard the door open, and then a voice—a woman's voice—light and apologetic.
"Oh, sorry—I think I might have the wrong house? I'm looking for Nami Voss?"
The tension in the room broke like a held breath released. Navira sagged against the chair.
Nami was already moving toward the door, calling out, "Sierra? What are you doing here?"
From the foyer, Sierra's voice came closer. "I finished early and thought I'd surprise you before shopping. Did I interrupt something? The guy at the door looked like he was going to murder someone."
Nami laughed, a little strained. "Long story. Come in."
Sierra appeared in the doorway, bundled in a cardigan, her cheeks pink from the cold. She took one look at Navira's face and her smile faded. "Okay. What happened?"
Navira shook her head. "I'll tell you while we shop. I need to get out of this house for an hour."
Nami grabbed her keys. "Done. Let's go."
Reyen stepped back into the room, his expression smoothed into careful neutrality. His eyes found Navira's. He said nothing, but something passed between them—an acknowledgment, maybe, or a promise she wasn't ready to name.
She looked away first.
The front door opened, letting in the cold air, and Navira stepped out into the evening, the sky painted in shades of violet and orange, the trees dark against the horizon. Behind her, the house stood silent, its windows glowing like patient eyes, holding the secrets she hadn't yet learned to ask about.