TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 30 (RAW)

Chapter 30 - Masks

A man without ambition is dead. A man with ambition but no love is dead.

- Pearl Bailey.

Seraphina felt Hughes’s hesitation ripple through the clasp of his gloved hand, so she flashed him a reassuring smile before whisking him into a daring promenade. Skirts fanned around them like petals caught in a playful breeze; each spin left Hughes half a heartbeat behind, his shoes skimming the polished marble a shade too late. The musicians quickened the tempo, a lilting waltz cascading into a dizzying whirl of triplets, and the hall’s lights scattered across Seraphina’s golden hair.

She sensed Hughess’s rhythm falter again, one misplaced step, then another. Rather than let the stumble bloom into embarrassment, Seraphina drew him close, pivoted, and subtly claimed the lead. Her posture shifted, light yet commanding, guiding his feet with a gentle pressure of fingertips and a confident sweep of her hips. 

Hughes blinked, cheeks flushing crimson, but he surrendered to her effortless control. Together they traced elegant figure‑eights across the floor as Seraphina took the male parts of the dance flawlessly; every turn became smoother, every dip, and flourish more assured.

As the final chord shimmered into silence, Seraphina executed a flourishing twirl that sent her partner spiraling like a dervish. She released Hughes at precisely the right moment, allowing him a dignified half‑bow while she sank into a deep curtsey. Applause erupted—an enthusiastic thunder at the lively and elegant display. 

Many hopeful dance partners stepped forward, eager to claim the next dance, but Seraphina raised a slender hand and laughed softly. 

“My friends, I fear the dance was quite a bit more vigorous than I thought it would be,” she said, voice warm yet resolute. With practiced grace, she slipped past the disappointed cluster, collected a flute of chilled wine from a passing servant, and turned back to Hughes.

He stood at the edge of the crowd, still catching his breath. “I—I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I must have embarrassed you.”

Seraphina’s emerald eyes sparkled above the rim of her glass. “Nonsense. Everything has its place and role.” She tipped the flute toward him in salute. “You followed admirably once you let me lead. It suited you.”

It was deeply satisfying for Seraphina to watch hero worship and admiration blossom in the boy’s eyes. Gracefully, she covered her mouth as she sipped her drink—a refined gesture that was customary for fine ladies of this land. From the corner of her eye, she caught two distinct gazes fixed upon her: those of Este Lize and the Crown Prince. Desire flickered openly in the Prince's expression, almost embarrassingly transparent, as if he were about to salivate at the sight of her. Este Lize, however, looked distinctly shocked, a reaction Seraphina found also thoroughly pleasing. 

It would serve the hussy well to realize that true worth extended beyond mere magical prowess—there was simply no substitute for impeccable breeding and social grace. Indeed, Seraphina mused confidently, hers would be an exceptionally challenging act to follow.

She took another thoughtful sip of the wine. Though somewhat too fruity and sweet for her sophisticated palate, it was unquestionably excellent in quality. Lost in the spectacle of other dancers swirling elegantly across the ballroom floor, Seraphina soon realized she had consumed a considerable amount yet felt no in the slightest bit tipsy. Eloise and Gravens, moving in perfect harmony, appeared positively dazzling, eliciting a pang of envy in her heart. And she, regrettably, was saddled with Hughes.

"That's your sixth glass, Sera," Hughes observed nervously, clasping his hands together in front of him.

"Oh, is it?" she replied lightly, draining her glass and signaling for another. "I must say, it goes down delightfully well—not particularly strong, yet very flavorful."

"If you say so…"

"Seraphina, darling! There you are!" Desdemona's radiant voice cut through, her long, dark-brown hair cascading in elaborate curls around her shoulders. Trailing behind her was a strikingly beautiful young man, his delicate features nearly feminine in their loveliness. His hair matched Desdemona's shade exactly, complemented by soulful black eyes framed by luxuriantly long lashes and lips soft enough to appear perpetually on the verge of a pout. Such looks were wasted on a man, Seraphina thought to herself.

Desdemona clinked her glass playfully against Seraphina’s, her cheeks flushed with merriment and fine drink. Seraphina inwardly smirked; Desdemona was so predictable, always eager to flaunt her latest acquisition.

The de Savant girl sniffed lightly, arching her eyebrow with a teasing expression. "Oh, I see you're sampling the family vintage! How do you find it?"

"Wonderful," Seraphina replied with practiced graciousness. "It's youthful yet rich and remarkably full-bodied." She offered an indulgent smile. "But, dear, you absolutely must introduce me to your charming companion."

Desdemona rested a casual, possessive hand on Drevan’s shoulder. "Seraphina, this is Drevan. Drevan, meet Seraphina de Sariens."

The beautiful young man bowed deeply, sweeping an elegant gesture before speaking. "Drevan de Selais, milady. Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner."

"Charmed," Seraphina murmured, extending her hand gracefully.

"The honor is entirely mine," Drevan responded gallantly, kissing the air just above her offered hand.

"Desdemona has always had exquisite taste… in art," Seraphina remarked playfully, her eyes lingering appreciatively. "You've certainly done well for yourself, my dear."

"Oh, calling him a work of art might be slightly excessive," Desdemona laughed, her curls bouncing merrily. "Still, he isn't bad for a country lad."

Seraphina raised an intrigued eyebrow. "A country lad?"

"Indeed," Drevan replied modestly. "My father's lands lie quite far from the capital and are primarily renowned for pottery—nothing particularly glamorous. We simply excel at turning dirt into beauty."

"Don’t be fooled by his humility," Desdemona interjected brightly. "Selaisian pottery is sought after everywhere, and Drevan himself has crafted several remarkable masterpieces at his tender age. He is very skilled with his hands."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Seraphina agreed smoothly, exchanging amused glances with Desdemona as they both shared a knowing laugh.

Meanwhile, Hughes stood quietly to the side, clearly desperate yet unable to join the conversation as those above his social station discussed matters entirely beyond his grasp.

Hughes cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot before venturing into the conversation. "You know, I once tried my hand at pottery back home," he blurted, his voice overly bright with forced cheer. "Ended up with something that looked rather like a squashed pumpkin, I'm afraid."

Drevan raised one perfectly arched brow, his full lips quirking with mild amusement. "A squashed pumpkin, you say? Perhaps you were better off leaving such delicate artistry to others. I hope you did not at least try to eat it!"

Hughes’s cheeks burned bright red, embarrassment flooding his expression. He opened his mouth to reply but could only manage a sheepish stammer.

Seraphina swiftly interceded, placing a gentle hand on Hughes's arm. "Oh, but Drevan, even the greatest artisans must start somewhere," she said lightly, her voice as soothing as silk. "Why, I believe my first embroidery attempt resembled little more than a nest of tangled threads."

“Just a little ribbing. My first work at the age of four did, as your ‘companion’ has so amusingly said, also ended up much like a squashed pumpkin. Squashed pumpkin, I do so love the turns of phrases that commoners have.” Drevan laughed softly, eyes glittering with renewed charm as he inclined his head toward her. "I am sure, Lady Seraphina, you could transform even the humblest stitches into the height of fashion."

Turning his gaze toward Desdemona, he flashed a smile equally dazzling. "And Lady Desdemona, I can only imagine the artistry of your first efforts—no doubt refined from the very start."

Desdemona laughed musically, tapping Drevan playfully on the arm with her fan. "You flatter me excessively, Drevan. But don't think I've failed to notice your eyes straying. You should save such sweet words only for me."

Drevan shrugged elegantly, unabashed. "I merely appreciate beauty wherever I find it—much like Selaisian pottery, each piece unique, yet each captivating in its own way."

Seraphina glanced toward Hughes, offering an encouraging wink. "Indeed," she agreed graciously, "for true appreciation lies in the eye of the beholder, does it not?"

“Precisely so,” Drevan affirmed, leaning slightly toward Seraphina, his voice lowered into a whisper that carried easily across their small circle. “But I must confess, Lady Seraphina, there is a distinct pleasure in discovering hidden beauty—perhaps even more than admiring that which is plainly displayed.”

His gaze lingered meaningfully on her face before drifting smoothly to Desdemona, whose lips twitched upward with amusement.

“How very poetic and racy,” Desdemona teased, gently brushing Drevan's sleeve. “Careful, Drevan, or you'll have us all convinced you're far more philosopher than artisan. Or simply just a philanderer!”

Drevan chuckled easily, turning his dazzling smile fully upon her. “And you, Lady Desdemona, are both a piece of art, an artist, and, I dare say it, an entire school of philosophy.”

Seraphina hid her laughter by covering her mouth and taking another elegant sip of wine. Drevan certainly knew how to charm; yet, his manner bordered dangerously close to impropriety—something she suspected Desdemona found delightfully enticing. She herself was mildly intrigued but felt a faint caution tugging at the edge of her curiosity.

Nearby, Hughes shifted uneasily, clearly feeling out of depth amidst the sophisticated repartee. To soothe his discomfort, Seraphina touched his arm lightly.

“Hughes, dear, would you be so kind as to fetch me another glass?” she requested softly, her emerald eyes warm with reassurance. “Something perhaps a bit less sweet this time.”

“Of course,” Hughes replied quickly, visibly relieved to have a task that justified his absence. He bowed awkwardly before slipping away toward the refreshment tables, nearly colliding with a passing servant carrying a tray of canapés.

“An earnest fellow,” Drevan remarked mildly, eyes following Hughes’s retreating form with mild amusement. “Though perhaps a touch overwhelmed in such vaunted company?”

“Simplicity and earnestness are undervalued, I find,” Seraphina countered gracefully, her voice gently reproachful, even as her lips curled into a playful smile. “There is a sincerity in them that polished charm can often conceal.”

Drevan's expression shifted subtly, genuine appreciation replacing practiced flirtation. “As you say, my lady. I will inscribe such words in my next piece… and into my heart.”

It was really too much. Seraphina took a moment to find her center, reminding herself that she was dealing with hormonal adolescents. Beautiful adolescents, but adolescents nonetheless.

Desdemona tapped Drevan's shoulder lightly with her fan, feigning exaggerated offense. “Do mind yourself, Drevan. Or I shall begin to suspect your attention wanders too easily.”

“Never, Lady Desdemona,” he assured quickly, turning to her with mock gravity, his dark eyes sparkling. “To wander implies aimlessness, while I assure you every glance is quite deliberate and premeditated.”

Seraphina laughed softly, taking another sip from her flute. Drevan, for his age, was skilled indeed at flattery and swift thinking on his feet. Still, despite his obvious charms, she found herself more amused than genuinely captivated. Seraphina found him undeniable like a piece of art, a piece of art that was to be admired from a distance and not touched. Yet there was undeniable enjoyment in watching him play with Desdemona, weaving compliments with practiced ease.

She was startled from her observations by Hughes's return, the young man holding a glass filled with a pale, golden liquid.

“I hope this suits your taste better,” he offered, presenting the flute as though offering a rare treasure.

Seraphina accepted it graciously, sipping delicately. The crisp dryness of this selection was infinitely more pleasing. Unfortunately, like her last previous vintage, decidedly lacking in kick. “Perfectly chosen, Hughes. Thank you.”

He flushed slightly with pleasure, glancing shyly at Drevan. “Perhaps I should fetch something for you as well, Master Drevan, and you, Lady Desdemona?”

Drevan raised a dismissive hand, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Most kind, but unnecessary. I fear I’ve indulged enough this evening,” he effused before turning to Hughes. “And apologies to you, my fine fellow, if I have caused you any offence. Another drink might loosen my tongue beyond what propriety allows, and I might make a blunder from which I may never recover.”

Desdemona tilted her head teasingly, smiling into her glass. “But, is that even possible, Drevan? I think you may have stuck your foot in it already.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted with mock solemnity, “for even the most graceful dance can stumble if steps become careless.”

Seraphina raised her glass in agreement. 

Hughes quietly smiled beside her, looking content to watch the dance of words rather than stumble through another.

***

It took every ounce of Xuzu of the Bloody Tower’s self-control to maintain the mask of bland ordinariness he had so carefully cultivated. Never before had he experienced such a tumultuous storm of emotion, not once in all his sixteen harsh years of existence. Humiliation had always been a close companion, an endless poison he had been forced to ingest alongside the countless lethal concoctions administered to him and his fellow apprentices.

Yet never had Xuzu felt this overwhelming urge to strike someone down, this burning frustration at being unable to openly showcase his true skill and power before such an insufferable, effete fop as Drevan. This pampered noble would not have survived even a single, grueling hour within the merciless confines of the Bloody Tower. Of that, Xuzu was certain—no, he corrected himself silently, not Xuzu. He was Hughes now. He must embody Hughes completely.

Even as polite conversation passed between him and the southern peacock, Hughes quietly tallied the number of times he could have effortlessly killed him. Fifty-nine methods had presented themselves clearly, though only three of those would have permitted a safe escape from the grand ballroom afterward. Again and again, Hughes envisioned vivid scenarios of humiliation and death for Drevan de Selais, or at the very least breaking those arrogant hands that had dared to caress Seraphina—tearing apart those insolent lips that presumed too much. Beneath Hughes's calm façade, his blood roiled with suppressed fury.

To steady himself, Hughes silently recited a mantra of the Bloody Tower. He did not dare whisper it aloud, of course, but within the chambers of his mind, he clung to it fiercely. As he did so, he reflexively practiced relaxing and flexing every muscle of his body one by one. A mastery of control.

He reminded himself of his true heritage: he was a giftling prince, shaped and tempered by the cruelty of the Tower yet never truly broken. He was a knife honed to perfection, a potential usurper chosen by destiny itself should the Emperor ever betray the Mandate of Heaven.

Once, Hughes had scoffed at the very idea of love, dismissing it as fanciful poetry woven by wandering minstrels and shallow court musicians. Yet, from the very moment the Asura, Seraphina, had shattered the Bloody Tower's agents when they had stormed her Meridian manor, his heart had belonged to her. Ever since she had thrown him through that window, glass shattering like crystalline tears, Hughes had fallen utterly and irrevocably in love.

In that moment of freefall, as time stretched infinitely between sky and stone, he had glimpsed beauty beyond mortal comprehension and reached an epiphany that pierced him to the soul. Hughes finally understood why mortals worshipped storms and the fire mountains: for the awe-inspiring beauty and terror embodied in such forces of nature.

Soon after, it felt as though even the Ancestor Gods themselves had plucked at his string of fate, guiding him inexorably toward Seraphina. The Tower elders had commanded him to watch and observe the world of Seraphina de Sariens, daughter of the Oracle Beast, knowing his mixed heritage would allow him to infiltrate where pure-blooded agents would fail. To Hughes, these orders felt like divine decree, a command from Heaven itself.

Despite the relentless indoctrination, the ceaseless attempts to mold him into a mere pawn and weapon of the Tower, Hughes had always kept a part of himself hidden and free, never truly loyal to the Tsusdaenglou, the Bloody Tower. But now, for the first time, he found himself willing to devote every fiber of his being to another. Only the bitter dread of rejection restrained him from revealing his true identity.

Pretending to drink from his crystal glass, the Shadow Prince Xuzu, son of the Emperor Erdian, knew, deep in his heart, that he could never hope to capture the heart of Lady Seraphina de Sariens. But perhaps—just perhaps, if the fates were merciful—Hughes might stand a chance.