Sorin allowed himself to be led, Vestian fluttering off his shoulder to circle above them. Tytus navigated them through the bustling streets of Cestead with the ease of someone who had lived there all his life. The streets were alive with merchants hawking their wares, children darting between the legs of shoppers and the steady hum of conversations filling the air.

  As they ventured deeper into the city, the cobblestone streets grew cleaner, and the buildings took on a more refined appearance. Ornate carvings adorned the lintels of doors, windows were lined with polished brass, and lanterns hung from wrought-iron hooks, casting a warm glow even in the midday sun. Finally, Tytus stopped in front of a shop that radiated opulence.

  The store’s exterior was crafted from polished mahogany, its large windows revealing elegant displays of suits, coats, and accessories carefully arranged on mannequins. Above the door, a gilded sign read "The Gentleman’s Wardrobe" in flowing script. A crimson awning shaded the entrance, and the brass door handle gleamed like it was polished daily. Two potted topiaries flanked the door, their leaves trimmed into perfect spheres.

  Tytus gestured grandly. “Welcome to The Gentleman’s Wardrobe, where even battle-lusting heathens like you can become something presentable.”

  Sorin gave him a flat look but followed him inside. The interior of the shop was a stark contrast to the bustling streets outside—quiet, refined, and brimming with luxury. Soft music played from an unseen source, and the faint scent of sandalwood hung in the air.

  Rich, dark wood paneled the walls, lined with shelves showcasing neatly folded shirts, stacks of trousers, and rows of silk ties arranged by color. Racks of tailored jackets and coats stood like sentinels, each one looking like it cost more than Sorin had spent on food in his entire life. A long counter with a marble top ran along one side, behind which a tailor stood, dressed impeccably in a waistcoat and bowtie.

  The floor was covered in a plush burgundy carpet, and ornate brass fixtures held up full-length mirrors that gleamed with not a smudge in sight. A chandelier hung in the center of the room, its crystals refracting light in a subtle display of opulence. Near the back, fitting rooms were curtained with heavy velvet drapes, their edges trimmed in gold tassels.

  “See?” Tytus said, clapping Sorin on the back. “This place is perfect. They’ll have you looking like a proper gentleman in no time.”

  Sorin glanced around, feeling slightly out of place amidst the grandeur. “Tytus, I think just stepping in here cost me half my pride.”

  Tytus grinned. “Relax. If you’re going to impress Celeste, you’re going to have to leave your pride at the door anyway. Women take everything from you, and yet you’ll be happy to make the sacrifice, you’ll see.” He strode confidently to the counter, leaving Sorin to trail behind him.

  The tailor, an older man with a pencil-thin mustache, inclined his head in greeting. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I assist you today?”

  Tytus gestured at Sorin. “This guy here needs to look like he belongs at a ball held by the City Overlord himself. Think you can help?”

  The tailor’s sharp eyes swept over Sorin, taking in every detail of his disheveled appearance and Vestian resting on Sorin’s shoulder. “I believe we can manage,” he said with a slight smirk. “Follow me, young man. Perhaps something blue to match your bird.”

  Vestian squawked in indignation at being called a bird and Sorin patted the familiar to calm him down. The last thing Sorin needed was Vestian attacking some poor shopkeeper. Sorin sighed and followed the tailor, resigning himself to whatever Tytus had gotten him into.

  The tailor led Sorin to a raised platform surrounded by three full-length mirrors. “Please, stand here,” the man said, gesturing with a practiced hand. Sorin stepped onto the platform, feeling uncomfortably exposed as the tailor circled him like a predator sizing up its prey.

  Tytus, leaning casually against a nearby rack of jackets, grinned. “Don’t worry, Sorin. He’s just deciding how to make you look less like you.”

  Sorin frowned and looked at Tytus. “Did you mean to finish that sentence? Like, make me look less like I spend all my time on the dusty training grounds?”

  “Nope, I mean what I said,” Tytus replied with an evil smile.

  “Ouch. Harsh,” Sorin said. Tytus shrugged at the teasing insult while continuing to smile.

  The tailor hummed thoughtfully, ignoring Tytus’s commentary. “Something classic, yet bold,” he murmured, running his fingers along the fabric of a nearby jacket. “You need to command attention without looking ostentatious. And, of course, you’ll need something suitable for dancing.”

  Sorin raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like someone who dances?”

  Tytus snorted. “Not yet, but during tonight, you might have to.”

  With a snap of his fingers, the tailor called over an assistant, a younger man dressed almost as impeccably as his superior. Together, they began pulling garments from the racks—jackets of rich midnight blue, trousers of charcoal gray, and shirts of crisp white.

  After what felt like an eternity of draping fabrics over him and muttering incomprehensible fashion jargon, the tailor clapped his hands. “We’ll begin with the basics,” he said, handing Sorin a white dress shirt. “Change into this.”

  Sorin stepped behind one of the velvet-curtained fitting rooms, feeling a little ridiculous as he shrugged into the shirt. The fabric was soft, far finer than anything he’d ever worn. When he emerged, the tailor nodded approvingly and passed him a pair of tailored charcoal trousers.

  Piece by piece, the outfit came together. The midnight blue jacket fit him like a second skin, its lapels subtly trimmed with black satin. The charcoal trousers were perfectly cut, emphasizing his lean, athletic frame. A silver cravat added a touch of elegance, its color matching the faint pinstriping on the jacket. Finally, the tailor handed him a pair of polished black boots.

  Sorin stepped back onto the platform as the tailor fussed with the jacket’s collar and cuffs. When he finally turned to the mirrors, Sorin barely recognized himself. The rugged, battle-worn Acolyte staring back at him had been transformed into someone who could walk into the City Overlord’s ball and turn heads.

  Tytus let out a low whistle. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Celeste won’t know what hit her.”

  Vestian let out a squawk of approval. Sorin adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, feeling a little out of his element but undeniably impressed. “I look… respectable.”

  The tailor smiled, clearly pleased with his work. “Respectable is an understatement. You look like an upper-level aristocrat of the city. I only make and serve the best.”

  Sorin rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his face. “Thanks, Tytus. This might actually work.”

  Tytus clapped him on the back. “Might? Sorin, you’re going to steal the show.”

  Sorin paid the man and tipped him generously for his help on such a short basis. Sorin was not hurting for money, as Zane had provided him plenty each month. Sorin, not being one for buying things or owning much, had just hoarded it away for a time when he actually needed it. This was the first purchase he actually made in the city that was food or beverage.

  The tailor, though professional, allowed a small, pleased smile to slip through as he accepted the payment. “Worth every silver, young man. You’ll be the envy of the ball.”

  Tytus leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Come on, Sorin. We’ve got to get back before all the mirrors in the dorms are claimed.”

  Together, they stepped outside onto the lively streets of Cestead. Sorin, once outside, used spirit to store the garment bag in his spatial ring that had been given to him by Wuthum so many months ago. He had hardly used the item due to his lack of belongings aside to store his swords at night, some clothes, and some food that was primarily snacks for Vestian when he got peckish. When Vestian got peckish, he began to embody the word by pecking at Sorin or anyone nearby.

  As the bag disappeared from Sorin’s hands, Tytus frowned and blinked a few times. He looked left then right, searching for the bag and to see if his eyes deceived him. He opened his mouth to ask Sorin the question of the bag’s disappearance when he noticed something on Sorin’s hand. It was an unassuming ring that Sorin had always worn and Tytus had never put any thought into. His eyes widened as he reached a conclusion.

  “Sorin? Is that what I think it is on your finger?” Tytus asked.

  Sorin smiled and put a finger to his lips in a hushing gesture. “Yes, but don’t scream it from the rooftops.”

  Tytus shook his head. “You are full of surprises and mystery. I cannot even comprehend how you managed to get one. You must have some background to possess such an expensive and rare item. A background greater than being the disciple of Zane Warbringer.”

  “I will tell you and everyone else one day, Tytus. Right now, I cannot afford to and must keep my secrets to myself,” Sorin replied.

  “I certainly hope so. I’m downright curious. We are friends and brothers either way. I can speak for all of us when I say we will keep whatever secrets you have and will have your back. You killed for us and we would do the same for you,” Tytus proclaimed.

  “I will keep that in mind. I will tell you one day. It's just not safe yet for me to tell you,” Sorin explained.

  Sorin did feel comfortable with his friends, and the thought of telling them who he truly was had crossed his mind, but it seemed like an unnecessary risk to him and them. Sorin’s mind flashed back to meeting his father, Vesperos. Vesperos had told Sorin that secrets were a delicate matter. A secret many people knew was not a secret and therefore lost its power and value. However, a secret held by many and kept by all who knew was far more potent than a secret held by one person or a few.

  This was a teaching from Vesperos himself, therefore it could not be incorrect. Sorin shared his secret with Wuthum and Zane Warbringer, and it turned out positively. Telling his friends could be the same. However, Sorin still could not bring himself to tell them. He was not ready yet.

  —

  The duo went back to the Warbringer Academy. The campus was alive with energy as if the entire student body was preparing for a grand battle instead of a ball. The dorms were chaotic, the noise of laughter, shouting, and the occasional bickering echoing through the halls.

  “By the Gods,” Sorin muttered, dodging a shirt flung across the corridor. “It’s like a warzone in here.”

  Tytus laughed. “If this is what the men’s dorm looks like, imagine the girls’ dorm. I bet it’s even worse.”

  They reached their respective rooms, and Tytus clapped Sorin on the shoulder. “See you downstairs, my friend. Don’t keep us waiting too long. You’ve got a lady to impress.”

  Sorin shook his head, chuckling as he entered his room. He unfolded his outfit, carefully dressing piece by piece. The smooth fabric felt strange against his skin, so different from the rough academy uniform he was accustomed to. He adjusted his cravat in the mirror, straightened his jacket, and took a deep breath.

  “Wish me luck, Vestian,” Sorin said to the familiar. The familiar squawked from the bedpost. “I know you want to go, but I don’t know if you will be allowed. Sorry buddy, but you need to stay here.”

  Vestian squawked again indignantly but stayed where he was as Sorin left. When he descended to the common room, his friends were already waiting for him, their outfits a mix of personality and style.

  Torrid was clad in a surprisingly well-fitted black suit with dark green accents, though the hulking man looked almost uncomfortable. He had clearly needed help getting everything in place, his tie slightly askew, but it only added to his rugged charm. “Torrid hate this,” he grumbled.

  Diego was an elegant figure in a deep crimson suit that shimmered faintly, almost like embers. His long black hair was tied back with a silver clasp shaped like a scythe. He exuded an air of quiet intensity, the outfit perfectly suited to his grim demeanor.

  Tytus, ever the charmer, wore a vibrant navy blue suit with gold embroidery that danced along the lapels and cuffs. His auburn hair was styled effortlessly, and he carried himself with the confidence of someone who knew he’d turn heads the moment he walked in.

  And then there was Jackson. He had chosen a charcoal-gray suit with subtle silver pinstripes, a cheeky grin plastered on his face as he adjusted a silver brooch in the shape of a fox on his lapel. “Well, well,” he said, spreading his arms as Sorin approached. “Look who cleaned up nice. I almost didn’t recognize you, Sorin.”

  Sorin smirked. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Jackson. That brooch is a nice touch.”

  Jackson winked. “Foxes know how to stand out.”

  Sorin looked at each of them and let out a small laugh. “And when to hide. We’re quite the sight, aren’t we?”

  Tytus grinned, tossing an arm around Sorin’s shoulder. “And we’re going to make an impression. Now, let’s get moving before all the pretty ladies are taken.”

  The group shared a round of laughter, their camaraderie evident as they headed out together, ready to take on the night ahead.

  As the group arrived at the entrance of the Warbringer Academy, they were surprised to see a line of elegant carriages drawn by sleek, well-groomed horses. A teacher stood near the gates, clipboard in hand, overseeing the operation. She was dressed in formal robes embroidered with the Warbringer crest, her stern demeanor softened slightly by the festive occasion.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” she said briskly. “The Academy has arranged for carriages to take students to and from the City Overlord’s Castle. Only to and from, mind you—no detours, no galivanting about town. The ball is your destination and nothing else.”

  Tytus leaned over to Sorin, grinning. “So much for my plans to take the scenic route.”

  Jackson, ever the joker, piped up. “You mean your plan to charm every noblewoman in Cestead?”

  The teacher shot them both a warning look, prompting a sheepish silence. She waved her hand, and a footman stepped forward to open the door of the nearest carriage.

  Inside, the carriage was opulent, lined with plush velvet seats and gilded trim. Sorin and his friends climbed in, settling into the comfortable confines as the horses began to trot. The clatter of hooves on cobblestone filled the air, mingling with the distant sounds of the city preparing for the night’s festivities.

  The ride was smooth, the streets of Cestead bustling with activity. Lamps cast golden light across the stone streets, and from the window, Sorin caught glimpses of citizens dressed in their finest attire, making their way to various celebrations.

  “So,” Tytus said, lounging back with his usual charm. “What’s the plan for the night? Impress Celeste, win a few dances, maybe snag a drink or two?”

  Jackson grinned. “I’d settle for surviving the evening without tripping over my own feet. Dancing isn’t exactly my forte.”

  Diego, ever serious, chimed in. “This isn’t just about fun. The ball is a political stage. We need to be mindful of what we say and do.”

  Torrid scratched his head. “Torrid not dance. Torrid eat food.”

  The group burst into laughter.

  When the carriage arrived at the City Overlord’s Castle, the sight that greeted them left them momentarily speechless. The courtyard had been transformed into a breathtaking spectacle.

  Dozens of ornate lanterns hung from the trees, casting a warm, inviting glow across the stone pathways. Garlands of crimson and gold ribbons draped elegantly from branches, swaying gently in the evening breeze. Flower arrangements in dark hues of violet and crimson lined the walkways, their fragrances mingling in the air.

  A massive archway adorned with the crest of the City Overlord stood at the entrance to the castle proper, flanked by banners representing each of the academies. Above, intricate magical projections danced in the sky—shimmering sigils and swirling patterns of light that seemed to tell a story of unity and power.

  “By the Gods,” Sorin murmured, stepping out of the carriage.

  “Torrid impressed,” Torrid said, his usually blunt tone carrying a note of awe.

  Tytus whistled low, his eyes scanning the decorations. “This is… a lot. Even by noble standards.”

  Diego nodded. “It’s more than a ball. It’s a statement. A show of the city’s wealth and power.”

  Jackson smirked. “I’d say it’s a bit excessive, but who am I kidding? I love it. Just like back home, not that I was a big social butterfly.”

  The group paused to take it all in before joining the steady stream of guests making their way toward the castle doors. Tonight would be a night to remember.

  The grand doors of the City Overlord’s castle swung open, revealing the main hall that had been transformed into a breathtaking ballroom. The vast space was illuminated by countless crystal chandeliers, each one shimmering with magical light that cascaded across the polished marble floors in a dance of rainbows. The vaulted ceiling stretched high above, painted with intricate frescoes of mythical battles and celestial triumphs, now enhanced by enchanted projections that added subtle motion to the artwork.

  Massive columns lined the room, wrapped in garlands of gold and silver ivy, their bases adorned with bouquets of dark roses and lilies. The air was filled with the soft hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the faint strains of an orchestra playing a hauntingly beautiful melody from a raised dais at the far end of the hall.

  The crowd itself was a masterpiece of elegance and splendor. A sea of dazzling dresses and tailored suits filled the space, creating a riot of colors and textures. Dresses of flowing silk and velvet shimmered in shades of emerald green, sapphire blue, and ruby red, some adorned with glittering jewels and intricate embroidery. The men wore sharp suits and formal robes, their outfits equally diverse, ranging from classic blacks and whites to bold tones of burgundy and midnight blue.

  Sorin, though impressed by the spectacle, found himself scanning the room, searching for one person amidst the kaleidoscope of beauty and power. His gaze swept across the sea of color until it landed on her, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade away.

  Celeste.

  She stood on the far side of the room near the balcony, commanding attention with her effortless grace. Her gown was a deep, shimmering violet, the color of twilight, and it hugged her figure in all the right places before cascading into a train of sheer, star-speckled fabric that trailed behind her like a constellation come to life. The bodice was intricately detailed with black lace, swirling like shadows around her neckline and shoulders.

  Her raven-black hair was swept into an elegant updo, soft curls framing her face and accentuating the sharpness of her jawline. A small tiara of black diamonds rested atop her head, catching the light with every subtle movement. Her makeup was flawless, with smoky eyes that seemed to pierce through the very soul and lips painted a bold, enticing red.

  She was, in Sorin’s eyes, the embodiment of visual perfection. Every other guest in the room, no matter how stunning, faded into irrelevance in her presence.

  Tytus, noticing Sorin’s gaze and the sudden stillness in his step, smirked and nudged him. “There she is, mate. The one and only. You’d better not waste this chance.”

  Jackson leaned in, grinning. “Yeah, try not to trip over your own feet when you get over there. She might be too busy shining to notice.”

  Diego shook his head, his expression amused. “Go to her, Sorin. Before someone else does.”

  Torrid, ever blunt, simply said, “Go now. Talk good.”

  Sorin swallowed, his nerves briefly threatening to take over, but he steeled himself. He adjusted his jacket, took a deep breath, and began to make his way through the crowd, his heart pounding louder with every step.

  Sorin maneuvered through the vibrant throng of guests, his gaze unwavering and fixed on Celeste. Her radiant smile as their eyes met sent a surge of confidence through him, but she remained rooted where she stood, engaged in conversation with a cluster of elegantly dressed young women.

  He was almost halfway across the ballroom when the crowd parted slightly, allowing him a clearer path. Just as he quickened his pace, a hard shoulder slammed into him, causing him to stumble. His foot caught on the edge of the marble floor, and he had to steady himself quickly to avoid toppling over.

  “Watch where you’re going,” a familiar voice sneered.

  Sorin turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as they met the cold, calculating gaze of Aric Eversteel. Aric stood with his usual arrogance, his silver hair gleaming under the chandelier light. His dark attire, embroidered with the sigils of Moros, added to the oppressive weight of his presence.

  “You should take your own advice, Eversteel,” Sorin snapped, straightening his jacket.

  Aric took a deliberate step closer, his lip curling into a disdainful smirk. “I didn’t think a stray mutt like you would even make it to a place like this. Then again, mongrels often sniff around for scraps where they don’t belong.”

  Sorin’s fists clenched, his knuckles whitening. “Careful with your words, Aric. You might choke on them later.”

  The tension between them crackled, drawing the attention of those nearby. Conversations began to hush as curious eyes turned toward the two rivals. The space around them subtly cleared, leaving Sorin and Aric locked in a standoff.

  Aric chuckled darkly, his voice dripping with condescension. “Do you really think you can match me in the next stage of the competition? I’ve seen what you’re capable of, Sorin. It’s... laughable. You and your band of misfits won’t last a second in the duels.”

  “Funny,” Sorin shot back, his tone icy. “Because I don’t recall being bested by you the last time we fought.”

  Aric’s smirk faltered for a split second, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes. “That wasn’t a true fight, Sorin. That was a precursor of what was to come. When it’s just you and me, no distractions, no teams, you’ll learn what it means to face inevitable doom. It’s your fate to lose.”

  Sorin stepped closer, their faces inches apart. “You talk too much, Eversteel. Maybe next time, I’ll just cut out your tongue and spare everyone the headache.”

  Aric’s hand twitched toward his side as though longing for the hilt of a weapon. Before he could act, the shifting of armored boots caught both of their attention. Several Enforcers stationed around the room, had noticed the rising tension and were making their way toward the two.

  Aric’s smirk returned, but his voice lowered to a dangerous murmur. “Not here, not now. But soon, Sorin. Very soon. I’ll enjoy breaking you in front of everyone.”

  Sorin mirrored his tone, his words sharp as daggers. “You’re welcome to try, but remember this, Eversteel—you won’t leave the arena standing. Count on it.”

  Their gazes remained locked for a beat longer before Aric scoffed and turned on his heel, disappearing back into the crowd. Sorin exhaled slowly, forcing himself to unclench his fists and calm his racing pulse.

  The onlookers slowly resumed their conversations, the charged moment dissolving into the evening's festivities. Sorin adjusted his collar, his jaw tight with simmering anger, and refocused his attention on Celeste. He could still feel the weight of Aric’s words pressing on him, but he buried it deep, channeling it into the unrelenting determination that drove him forward.

  Sorin took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back and forcing a calm expression onto his face as he approached Celeste. Her darkly amused smile sent a shiver through him—not of fear, but of intrigue. She had clearly witnessed his encounter with Aric and seemed to relish the tension it had stirred.

  “Quite the scene you made,” Celeste purred as he neared, leaning in to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. Her lips lingered just long enough to make him acutely aware of her proximity, the faintest trace of her perfume teasing his senses.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” Sorin replied smoothly, though the lingering adrenaline from his confrontation with Aric still thrummed through his veins.

  Celeste turned to the group of women around her, each impeccably dressed and radiating a sharp, almost predatory air. “Ladies, this is Sorin. You might recognize him from the competition—his performance made quite the impression.”

  One of the women, a striking brunette with emerald-green eyes and a confident smirk, stepped forward first. “I’m Lilith Vayne,” she said, her voice honeyed but sharp, like a blade hidden in silk. She let her gaze roam over Sorin unabashedly, a playful glint in her eye. “Celeste wasn’t exaggerating. You’re quite... striking.”

  Another woman with fiery red hair and a mischievous grin was next. “And I’m Evelyne Serrow. I’ve been hearing your name whispered all over the city. It seems Celeste has a talent for picking out the most... promising prospects.” Her tone carried a teasing edge, but her eyes lingered on Sorin’s shoulders and chest before flicking back to his face.

  The third, a raven-haired beauty with piercing ice-blue eyes, introduced herself with a cool but polite smile. “Isolde Varryn. It’s a pleasure. I watched your fight with Aric’s team—it was... impressive.”

  Sorin nodded to each of them in turn, feeling like he was being appraised by a pack of wolves. Vipers, he thought to himself, keeping his expression neutral. But then again, Celeste fits right in. Why wouldn’t her friends be the same?

  “Congratulations on advancing,” Lilith said, her voice cutting through his thoughts. “It must feel good, being the talk of the city already. You’ve certainly caught everyone’s attention.”

  “And not just with your fighting,” Evelyne added with a wink.

  “Thank you,” Sorin replied, his tone steady despite their probing gazes. “The competition’s been... challenging, but I’m not here to fade into the background.”

  Isolde tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing in a way that suggested she was testing him. “Your fights were more than challenging—they were brutal. Especially against Aric. That was personal, wasn’t it?”

  Sorin met her gaze evenly. “Aric and I have a short but violent history. Let’s just say I don’t plan on letting him write the next chapter.”

  The women exchanged knowing looks, their smiles sharp and conspiratorial. They clearly relished in the drama that Sorin and Aric would bring forth.

  “Well,” Celeste interjected, her voice dripping with amusement, “you’ve certainly piqued their interest, Sorin. But don’t let them distract you too much—you’ll need all your focus for the next stage of the competition.”

  “Oh, we’re just having a bit of fun,” Evelyne said with a laugh, waving Celeste off. “Besides, I think he can handle himself. Can’t you, Sorin?”

  “I’ve been managing so far,” Sorin replied, allowing a faint smirk to tug at his lips.

  The conversation drifted into safer territory after that, with the women offering lighthearted commentary on the competition and trading teasing remarks about the other academies. Sorin engaged where he could, but he remained keenly aware of Celeste’s presence at his side, her gaze lingering on him with a mix of pride and something more possessive. She clearly enjoyed being able to flaunt the next best thing in front of her friends.

  The room buzzed with life, the murmur of voices blending with the first melodic strains from the musicians tucked into the corner of the grand hall. Guests were gathering around the edges of the dance floor, an open space at the center of the ballroom now beginning to fill with elegantly dressed couples. The energy shifted, anticipation building as the rhythm of the music beckoned for movement.

  Celeste turned to Sorin, her striking gaze locking onto his with the confidence of someone accustomed to commanding attention. “The host must always be one of the first to dance,” she said, her tone laced with both expectation and warning. “Anything less would be an embarrassment.”

  Sorin’s stomach tensed slightly at her words. “I’ve never done much dancing before,” he admitted, trying to sound casual though the admission came with a pang of discomfort. “It might be best if I avoided it.”

  Celeste’s perfect smile faltered for a brief moment, replaced by a disapproving frown. “You can’t be serious,” she said, exasperation creeping into her voice. “I’m not standing here all night. If you won’t dance with me, I’ll just find someone else who will.” She crossed her arms and gave an indignant little huff, her gaze shifting toward the crowd as if scanning for a potential replacement.

  Sorin felt his pulse quicken—not with fear, but with a sudden surge of possessiveness. The idea of Celeste dancing with another man, of her attention drifting away from him to someone else, was like a needle pricking his pride. His jaw tightened, his competitive spirit flaring. “I’ll learn quickly,” he said, his voice firm, the challenge lighting a fire in his eyes. “Lead the way, and I’ll follow.”

  Celeste’s lips curved into a pleased smile, the faintest glint of triumph in her expression. “That’s the spirit,” she said, taking a half step closer to him.

  As Sorin glanced toward the dance floor, his gaze snagged on a familiar figure moving among the swirling sea of gowns and suits. Aric. His silver hair caught the light like a blade, and he was dancing with a beautiful girl Sorin didn’t recognize—a slender brunette in an exquisite teal dress. The sight reignited the simmering rivalry within him, stoking his determination not to falter. If Aric could take to the floor with such ease, there was no way Sorin would let himself be overshadowed.

  Straightening his shoulders, he held out his hand to Celeste. “Let’s not keep the floor waiting.”

  Celeste’s smile deepened, a flicker of approval softening her features. She placed her hand in his, and with a slight tug, he led her toward the dance floor. The other couples spun and twirled around them, their movements graceful, rehearsed, and practiced.

  The music shifted slightly, a waltz beginning to swell, its tempo elegant but not overly complex. Celeste positioned herself before Sorin, resting one hand lightly on his shoulder while guiding his other hand to her waist. “Keep your posture,” she murmured softly, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the music. “Follow my lead for now, and don’t overthink it.”

  Sorin nodded, the tension in his chest easing as the music filled the space around them. Celeste began to move, her steps fluid and deliberate, and Sorin did his best to follow. The first few movements were clumsy, his timing a half beat behind hers, but Celeste’s sharp glances and subtle guidance quickly pushed him to adapt.

  “You’re not entirely hopeless,” Celeste teased, her lips quirking upward as they fell into a smoother rhythm.

  “I aim to exceed expectations,” Sorin replied, his voice laced with confidence. He focused intently on her movements, letting her lead without fully surrendering control.

  As they continued, the hesitation in Sorin’s steps melted away. His competitive spirit wouldn’t allow him to remain second to anyone—not even to Celeste on the dance floor. Slowly, he began to anticipate her movements, subtly taking more control of their shared rhythm.

  Celeste raised an eyebrow as he spun her deftly, her smile turning into something sharp and approving. “Not bad,” she admitted. “You might even make me look good out here.”

  Sorin smirked. “I think you manage that just fine on your own.”

  She laughed, the sound rich and genuine, and for a moment, the rest of the ballroom faded into the background. It was just the two of them, locked in a wordless exchange of movement and energy, a playful battle for dominance disguised as a waltz.

  Around them, the other dancers gave them space, as if unconsciously acknowledging the electricity sparking between them. Sorin barely noticed, his attention wholly consumed by Celeste—the curve of her lips, the sharp wit in her eyes, and the challenge she radiated with every graceful step.

  For the first time that evening, Sorin felt completely at ease, his earlier doubts and frustrations swept away in the rhythm of the music and the unspoken promise in Celeste’s gaze.

  As Sorin twirled Celeste gracefully across the dance floor, he caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. Turning his head slightly, his gaze landed on Aric. The silver-haired rival strode confidently into the center of the room with a stunning brunette on his arm. Her long lavender dress shimmered under the glow of the chandeliers, and her effortless grace matched Aric’s commanding presence.

  Aric’s smile was as sharp as his blade as he spun his partner into an opening flourish, drawing the eyes of nearly every guest in the room. Their movements were flawless, exuding a level of skill and synchronization that silenced even the musicians’ occasional imperfections. Each step they took seemed effortless yet intentional, each spin perfectly timed. The pair moved with an artistry that immediately claimed the spotlight, leaving the other dancers, Sorin and Celeste included, to fade into the background.

  Celeste stiffened in Sorin’s arms, her posture betraying her irritation even as her face remained composed. “Aric and his theatrics,” she muttered under her breath, her lips pressed into a thin line.

  Sorin couldn’t help but feel a surge of irritation as well. He wasn’t about to let Aric steal the moment, not with Celeste by his side and certainly not on a night that should belong to him and Celeste. As his mind raced, he scanned the dance floor for inspiration.