The Grand Ballroom, Altherian Palace — The Coronation Reception
The coronation reception was nothing short of a spectacle. Outside, the night sky had settled into an inky expanse scattered with bright stars. The glass ceiling above offered a clear view of the Altherian heavens—so sharp and close that Elliott, used to the softer Vellurian skies, felt as if he could reach up and brush the constellations with his fingertips.
The ballroom itself glittered like the inside of a jewel box. Rich silvers and deep blues draped the walls and pillars, polished crystal chandeliers refracting the light until the whole place shimmered under the soft gleam of moonlight. The air was a heady mix of laughter, perfume, and the clinking of glass. Music swelled; nobles mingled, laughed, and preened.
And yet, the star of the night—the newly crowned King James of Altheria—stood sulking at the edge of the room.
To most of the crowd, he looked statuesque: regal, untouchable, carved out of sheer authority. But to Elliott, who knew better, that expression wasn't majesty—it was pure, unfiltered sulk.
The king's crystal goblet, half-filled with ceremonial wine, sat untouched in his gloved hand, condensation dripping down its sides. His face was a perfect mask of cold disinterest, so sharp it could've frosted the windows. Around him, nobles whispered nervously, unsure whether to approach or bow from a safe distance.
A few of the bolder ones—brave or just tragically stupid—tried their luck anyway. A handful of Altherian noblewomen, too confident in their beauty or the influence of their families, drifted toward their new king with smiles practiced in front of mirrors. One or two tried the soft approach, fluttering lashes and tentative compliments; others strutted forward like prize mares, expecting to be chosen.
None survived the encounter unscathed.
Each was dismissed with a curt shake of the head and a glare so sour it could curdle milk. Aiden didn't even speak—just turned his head slightly, a faint narrowing of eyes, and that was it. Off they went, retreating with the quiet despair of people who'd just realized the universe does, in fact, have favorites, and they weren't one of them.
Meanwhile, the royal advisors were losing years of their lifespan in the background.
The coronation ball was supposed to start with the king's first dance. Tradition dictated it—his dance opened the floor, signaled the beginning of the celebration proper. But it was now nearing the end of the fifth song, and the king was still standing there like a particularly hostile statue.
No partner. No motion. Not even a twitch.
The dance floor remained starkly empty, polished and gleaming, a mirror reflecting his stubbornness.
A lesser man would've just picked someone and gotten it over with. A more rational man would've smiled, played along, done what was expected.
But Aiden was neither lesser nor rational—especially when it came to Elliott.
He didn't care if the entire court was standing awkwardly, waiting. He didn't care if the advisors were sweating through their silks. The first dance wasn't just a formality—it was symbolic. A statement. Tradition said it was to be danced with one's consort, or at least someone of significance. And he had neither.
Or rather, he had someone—someone who was, as far as the world knew, lying unconscious miles away in a Vellurian palace.
The idea of dancing with anyone else—of letting someone else touch his hand, stand where Elliott should stand—was revolting. Aiden could be pragmatic about most things, but this wasn't one of them. The thought alone made his skin crawl. To use someone as a stand-in, even for appearances, felt like an insult.
So, in essence, the new King of Altheria had decided to be a stubborn, sulky little child—and make everyone else suffer for it.
He was perfectly content to stand there all night if it meant not betraying that one silent loyalty.
What he didn't notice, however, was the shift in the air.
A ripple of hushed whispers spread through the crowd near the main entrance. Heads turned. The music faltered for half a second. A flurry of motion followed—nobles subtly parting, curiosity flickering in their eyes.
Aiden didn't notice any of it. His focus was inward, his gaze unfocused. His thoughts had long since wandered, looping endlessly around the ache in his chest, the absence that felt like it was carved into him.
He did, however, sense a presence approaching from behind—a faint awareness that tugged at his instincts. He dismissed it instantly. Probably another overly confident debutante. Another round of pain for his advisors. He was already preparing his best scathing glare, the one that had made grown men apologize for breathing too loudly—
Then a voice spoke, close to his ear.
A warm, teasing voice he knew down to its very cadence.
"The king seems to be having trouble finding a dance partner."
Aiden froze.
His mind went utterly blank. For a full two seconds, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe. The voice—the words—it was him. It was Elliott. But that couldn't be possible. Elliott was supposed to be unconscious, still recovering, miles away.
His pulse stuttered violently in his chest. He didn't even turn at first, terrified that the moment he did, the illusion would vanish.
Then he felt it—a hand slipping around his arm, just above the elbow.
Slender. Warm. Familiar.
The touch sent a shock straight through him, even through the layer of velvet between them. His body turned slowly—mechanically—because anything faster would've felt impossible.
And there he was.
Elliott.
Standing under the ballroom's moonlight, looking like a dream made flesh.
He was dressed impeccably, of course—because Elliott Lancaster never did anything halfway. His attire was a perfect blend of both worlds: Vellurian in cut, but shaded in Altherian colors. Deep, stormy blue trimmed in silver. The rich fabric caught the light as he moved, draping elegantly but never stiff, glinting like a thousand faint stars whenever he shifted. The silver embroidery traced subtle patterns that shimmered as if alive.
But it wasn't the clothes that struck Aiden speechless. It was him.
Elliott looked... whole. Not entirely recovered—there were still faint shadows under his eyes, his complexion a touch too pale—but compared to the broken, fevered image Aiden had last seen, this was light-years better. His eyes were bright, alive, brimming with mischief. His posture was confident. His expression—good gods—he looked smug.
So smug.
Aiden could practically feel the gloating rolling off him.
The bastard was enjoying this.
He'd caught him off guard in front of half the continent, just to watch him squirm. And Elliott knew exactly what he was doing—the tilt of his head, the faint smirk curling his lips, the deliberate pause before speaking again—it was calculated torment.
Aiden's mind, meanwhile, was short-circuiting. His thoughts were a jumble of disbelief, outrage, relief, and something that felt dangerously close to tears.
Elliott, seeing his stunned expression, only smiled wider. His eyes sparkled with that familiar, infuriating mix of affection and self-satisfaction—the look of a man who knew he'd just rendered the King of Altheria completely useless with one line.
"Surely," Elliott said lightly, his tone positively dripping with smug amusement, "you wouldn't want to keep your guests waiting forever, Your Majesty?"
Aiden blinked at him, once. Twice. His jaw tightened.
Elliott's smile only grew.
Oh yes. He was thriving on this.
And Aiden, for the first time that night, actually felt something other than the ache of loss—something sharp, alive, and horribly familiar.
He felt utterly, helplessly, stupidly in love.
And also very close to throttling the man.
Mostly in love.