Page 110 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
He slips away before she can protest, melting into the crowd as smoothly as smoke through an open door.
Selene watches him go, then turns back to the ball. She lifts a glass of wine from a passing tray, taking a slow sip.
The night is still young.
Dorian appears at her side, effortlessly cutting through the crowd. His mask is sharp-edged and silver, like the sliver of a crescent moon against the dark sweep of his suit. He inclines his head, offering his hand.
“Dance with me.”
Selene smiles.
Dorian leads her onto the floor as the music slows, pulling her into position. His palm is warm against hers, the other resting just below her shoulder blade, guiding her effortlessly through the first few steps.
“You’re magnificent,” he murmurs, his breath brushing the shell of her ear.
Selene swallows. “So are you.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
Selene takes her hand from his shoulder and glides it against his chin. “There is more than one way to bemagnificent,my darling.”
Dorian’s throat bobs, but his gaze remains steady. Watching her. Seeing her.
They move through the steps with effortless grace, their bodies a seamless rhythm, like waves meeting the shore. Around them, masked faces blur and swirl, laughter and music weaving through the grand hall. The candlelight turns Dorian’s hair to something molten.
He leans in slightly, just enough that only she can hear him. “Do you think we’ve fooled everyone?”
Selene exhales a quiet laugh. “Fooled them?”
“Do you think they believe how madly in love we are?” His voice is low, teasing, but there is something beneath it, something she can’t quite name.
Her pulse jumps.
She is about to answer when—
The trumpets sound.
A sharp, bright blast that cuts through the music like a blade, silencing conversation, turning every masked face toward the grand entrance.
The air shifts. The weight of the room tilts.
The King has arrived.
Selene stiffens. Dorian’s grip on her waist tightens, just slightly, just enough that she feels it.
King Alden II of Haverland steps inside the ballroom.
He is dressed in deep crimson, a striking contrast to the rich gold embroidery that lines his doublet and the mask of lacquered black that hides half his face. Even masked, there is no mistaking him. He carries himself with the unshakable ease of someone who has never needed to question his authority.
A ripple moves through the crowd—surprise, awe, wariness. No one expected him to attend. Invitations to royalty were often more a formality than an actual expectation, and yet, here he is, stepping into Ebonrose Hall, his dark eyes sweeping across the ballroom.
Selene curtsies. Dorian bows.
“Your Majesty,” Dorian says smoothly.
Alden smiles, sharp but not unkind. “Lord Nightbloom. Lady Nightbloom.”
His gaze lingers on Selene, and when she straightens, there is a glint of recognition in his expression.
