The ballroom shimmered with golden light, music flowing from the strings of the violins. Laughter echoed from every corner, nobles twirling in perfect rhythm like pieces on a board.
Willow had nearly forgotten how to breathe in crowds, the weight of his long golden hair tugged oddly in a high ponytail, the borrowed heels clicking far too elegantly across the polished floor. He kept his head low, eyes half-lidded, practicing the poise Felicia drilled into him. Blend in. Smile. Watch. Dance.
But the man had forced him into it.
His voice was smooth, warm, yet somewhat dead. "May I have this dance?"
Willow kept his head down as they twirled, and letting out the breath caught in his throat.
He wasn't very tall but lean, dressed in black. Willow didn't dare look up; he just looked at his hand.
Their hands met, his laced gloves against the man's leather grip, and they moved together into the center of the floor.
All eyes stopped as the crowd watched them.
The world blurred.
The music became their heartbeat.
Step. Turn. Step.
He was a graceful dancer, surprisingly gentle. Not stiff. Not commanding. His hand on Willow's back felt safe, not possessive. Willow had danced before, of course. As a noble. But this- this was… familiar.
"You seem familiar," The man said.
Willow flinched and forced a coy smile. "Pfft! Trust me, no one here knows me, I'm a ghost." He chuckled.
"Mysterious, as I am. I like that."
They twirled again.
"You're a good dancer."
"I love to dance; it's actually the one thing me and my friend do all the time." Willow was feeling increasingly comfortable.
"No way same here!" He said excitedly.
His voice-
They twirled into a dip; the man stared into Willow's eyes as he tried his best to avoid his.
"You have beautiful eyes," he murmured. "Red's my favorite color…"
"My friend once said the same thing," Willow said before thinking.
The man blinked.
A pause.
Pure hesitation.
Then- "Beautiful like pure rubies drenched in fresh blood."
A good memory flashed in Willow's mind.
Willow looked up at him, really looked.
And his chest tightened.
Light blue eyes with flakes of gold. Long dirty blond hair. Scruffy face. A shadowed smile that couldn't hide the pain underneath.
Rhen? How!
His heart stuttered.
No, no, no- It can't be him, can it? How? Doesn't he not recognize me?
Rationality left him.
The hand on his waist, the voice that made his ribs flutter, the quiet comfort; it was all him. Embarrassment surged up his face.
I'm in a dress!
"I-excuse me," Willow blurted, pulling away. "I need to- "
He turned and bolted, nearly stumbling in the heels, lifting the skirts to escape.
Behind him, he heard the man sigh. Rhenvar. Not chasing.
"Huh," he muttered. "Weird girl, wait, maybe I'm weird?"
Willow didn't stop running until he was out of the ballroom, and into the gardens outside.
****
Palace Gardens.
What was that?
What did I just do?
Why did I run?
Willow stepped away walking deeper into the gardens; the music still echoing faintly in his ears.
His hands trembled. Not from fear. Not from anger.
From recognition.
Why did he feel so-
He shoved the thought away.
That man, his partner, that smile behind a face full of pain. The rhythm of his steps. The scent of wine and blood that lingered under the fine suit.
Rhenvar. It was Rhen.
I danced with Rhen in a dress!
Even he could feel the blush.
Willow's jaw clenched at his feelings, the flicker of heat starting to shimmer at his fingertips. He pushed through his feelings as he walked, shoes silent on the polished stone as he stepped deeper into the cold night air.
The garden outside was lit with silver moonlight, but Willow's blood was too hot to feel it.
"Why…?" He whispered, gripping the dress. "Why did he not notice my voice, the way I danced? Me…"
Was Felicia's makeup that good?
He wanted to believe he'd moved past this. That he'd buried the feelings when he stood in the shadows… the day after Sylvia said she was going to marry him, then watching him spar with his sister. That he'd put to rest the part of himself that ached every time Rhenvar smiled at his sister and at him.
She had chosen him. Sylvia. His twin. His anchor.
She had arranged the marriage, to the man he loved.
She had told Rhenvar she loved him; Willow forced himself to bury his feelings, until Aucteros dug them up.
But she never loved him. Not like I had. And she knew it.
Willow frowned.
She'd done it for me. To protect me. Because she had known. She had always known. I was walking to my death.
Willow closed his eyes, flames blooming behind his eyelids. He wanted to scream. To run back in there. To grab Rhenvar and hold him and-
No, you're selfish.
Your sister DIED.
Willow's body tensed.
These feelings hurt. It hurts so much. Why does it hurt? Why is it so painful?
I deserve it.
All the pain.
The burning.
It's my fault. Everything is my fault.
Flames burst from his skin. His eyes met a statue. Then he hurled a fireball, shattering it to pieces.
But another sound split the night. Not music. Not laughter.
Growling.
Willow looked up. The shadows at the edge of the palace grounds were moving. He felt them before he saw them, demonic beasts. Crawling low like predators, dozens of them approached with more lingering. Hundreds of eyes glowed with unnatural light in the dark.
They were meant to strike the ballroom.
Oh right, the massacre.
No time to think. No time to feel. My flames will exterminate them.
He thought logically, as his sister had.
Push it away.
His eyes burned.
Burn it down. Everything.
Willow exhaled once. His fire answered.
It's my fault.
He stepped forward, flames spilling from his feet, hands, and shoulders. His silhouette wreathed in burning light as he raised both arms and the night ignited like a burning sun.
A wall of fire roared across the garden, engulfing the first wave of beasts. He moved through the blaze like a storm; his magic was no tool but an extension of his rage. Not at the monsters.
At himself.
For loving someone he couldn't have.
For letting her take him.
For desperately searching for a selfish solution.
For surviving when she didn't.
He danced through the battlefield the same way he had in the ballroom, graceful, precise, and burning. And his fire answered truthfully.
By the time the last beast that came was ash, Willow stood alone in a scorched field. The garden statues had melted. The path cracked under the heat of his steps.
He knelt, panting, staring at his hands.
"She died," he whispered. "And I… still can't stop thinking about him."
The flames dimmed, but they did not go out.
Not yet. Not the flames in his heart.
Then- in the distance.
Growling.