Fyra (First Draft)

Thirteen

Much to her own surprise, Fyra hadn't yet managed to trip over her own feet as she danced with Acerian nobility. The steps she had thought forgotten replayed themselves in a corner of her mind, and her feet glided along of their own accord.

She struggled not to yawn as her partner continued leading the dance, not saying a word. He had introduced himself as Pierre Deveian, the eldest son of Lord Sebastian Deveian, a wealthy landowner who lived east of Bluedale. Lord Deveian said nothing to her, making her wonder if she should say something, smile, or meet his eye.

"Your grace is as bountiful as your beauty, my lady," he suddenly said, as if sensing the potent awkwardness in the air.

Deveian stood tall, and was as thin as a sheet of parchment. He was decent looking, though his large, hooked nose gave him a rather rat-like appearance. His hazel eyes darted about the room.

She smiled politely. "Thank you, my lord."

This dance seemed to last forever. Since her partner seemed less than inclined to speak, Fyra glanced around the huge room for what seemed like the hundredth time. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and exotic plants sprung from ornate vases. Elaborate paintings depicting previous Acerian rules stared at her, all accusing her with their piercing gazes.

Chills ran down her spine.

There were more than paintings watching her.

When the song came to an end, Deveian left her with a polite nod, and she walked to the nearest table, if only so she didn't look like a lost puppy wandering the floor. She snatched up a wineglass she had no intention of drinking, scanning the room.

Fyra's eyes found the ones that had been boring into her. Piercing, ice blue eyes that somehow managed warmth through the sharpness. The eyes of a prince.

He was standing with a group of wine sipping couriers. Fyra noticed with no small amount of amusement that Cirian didn't have a glass. She raised her glass in his direction then, to her lips, tasting only a whisper of tartness as she feigned a sip.

A smile lit up his face, the dimple in his left cheek making its first appearance that night. Fyra couldn't help but smile back, fighting the laughter that bubbled in her throat.

She looked away, again seeing the gilded thrones upon which his parents sat. Cirian's father, the king who held so much power, and yet looked so ordinary. His crown was a weapon weapon to be wielded against his people, and those who stood in his way were cut down.

Cirian's stepmother, a woman who had tried to fight for her people, but was cut down in a way worse than death. A woman rumored to be submissive and downtrodden. Her face told a different tale. Her eyes wandered the room, but somehow kept finding her stepson. If Fyra were to be the judge, the maternal love that surfaced when she looked at Cirian showed how much she cared for him.

A man who radiated cruelty and coldness, with glowing ice chips for eyes. Ice blue eyes that were so unlike his son's. And a woman with not only warmth in her gaze, but a steely determination. Though she had been through much, the queen was not broken. She still fought on.

Both so different in nature and goals, set at odds against each other even when they appeared allies.

Fyra turned towards the floor, nearly dropping her glass in surprise when the face that was just grinning at her from across the room appeared in front of her.

"Gods, Cirian!"

He smiled. "So it is you. I couldn't tell; it seems you actually managed to tame your hair."

She tried to scowl, but the corners of her lips tugged up. "Such a gentleman you are!"

Cirian's voice dropped to a whisper. "Shame really. You look much prettier with it unbound."

She stared at him, looking almost taken aback. She cursed at herself internally as she felt the blood rush into her face. She knew she looked like a tomato when she blushed, especially with her hair. That thought only made her blush deepen.

He thinks I'm pretty?

Fyra didn't think herself ugly, or even plain, but at the same time, she hadn't thought about the face staring back at her in the mirror for the longest time. Beauty wasn't something she had time to care about.

She knew she had her mother's eyes, and a map of freckles and scars across her body. Her mother was lovely, all softness and warmth. Fyra was sharper, colder, more focused.

It wasn't because of the fancy gown, or sleek hair, but tonight, she felt beautiful. With the prince's eyes, like sparking aquamarine gemstones, focused on her, nothing else mattered.

"May I have this dance, my lady?"

"Of course, good sir," replied Fyra, mimicking the polished tones members of court often used.

With a light chuckle, Cirian took her hand. Her heart fluttered in her chest, ready to burst. Fyra repressed the waves crashing about in her stomach.

The dance was bliss. The young prince and the thief glided through the night. Though it was reckless, though no one knew about the gap between them that their souls had managed to breach, they danced, lost in each other's eyes. No words were passed between them, but both knew that words weren't needed.

In that moment, everything was perfect.

Then it all went to hell.

A/N: Thanks so much for reading!

*gasp* What do you think went wrong?

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