The Taste of Salt and Smoke

"Then I'd make myself forget. Or I'd burn the world to take them. There's rarely an in-between." -Theon The chandeliers above glittered like constellations suspended in glass, their flickering flames casting soft gold light across polished marble floors and the faces of nobles who lived on whispers and spectacle. The Grand Hall of Winterbourne manor had never looked more beautiful. And Elian had never felt more like a ghost inside it. He stood to one side, half-hidden by a column etched with the sigils of his House. A flute of champagne rested untouched in his gloved hand. The bubbles had long gone flat, but he still held it—because holding something, anything, was better than allowing his fingers to tremble. Laughter echoed around him. Rich, indulgent, gilded. This was not a celebration of love, but of power. Tonight, the Houses of Hale and Winterbourne will cement their alliance not with treaties or signatures—but with a betrothal. A match made of blood and expectation. Between Prince Cassian Hale and Lady Lora Winterbourne. His sister. His best friend and the man Elian had loved all his life. He shouldn't have come. Gods, he shouldn't have come. Yet here he was. Dressed in the light blue color of his house that brought out the pallor of his skin and the ache in his eyes, standing like a lamb beneath a wolf moon. Watching. Waiting. Bleeding quietly. Across the hall, Cassian stood like something carved from war and longing. His ceremonial tunic hugged his broad shoulders, silver trim gleaming like the edge of a blade. His jaw was clean-shaven, his mouth tight, eyes scanning the room as if they too were seeking something lost. As if they were seeking him. Their eyes met. It was brief—half a breath, a flicker—and yet Elian felt the weight of it all the way to his soul. Heat flared behind his ribs, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. Cassian looked away first. He always did. Since coming back from the front lines Cassian hadn't spared him a real glance, not once. Elian swallowed hard, the taste of ash thick in his throat. "Your Grace," came a voice at his elbow. Elian blinked and turned, forcing his spine straight. Lord Theon Veyl stood beside him, dressed in dove-grey that brought out the green in his eyes. He smiled too easily. A serpent in silk. "Elian," Theon said again, his voice warm with feigned intimacy. "You look ravishing tonight." "I wish I could say the same," Elian replied smoothly, sipping at his glass to give his mouth something else to do. It tasted like bitterness and cheap defiance. Theon laughed. "Your tongue's still sharper than a serpent's tooth. I find it thrilling." "I find it inconvenient," Elian muttered, eyes drifting back to the dais at the center of the room. Cassian was no longer alone, Lora had arrived. And gods, didn't she look the part. Her gown was spun from silver thread and ice-pale blue silk. Crystals winked from the hem and sleeves like starlight caught in a snowstorm. Her golden curls had been twisted up into a coronet of roses and sapphires. She looked beautiful. Regal. Deserving. Elian's heart cracked anyway. He'd always known she would be his ruin. Cassian turned toward her, offering his arm, and she took it with a smile Elian didn't recognize. A practiced one. Royal. Together, they looked like a portrait of unity. A future carved in stone. But Cassian's shoulders were too stiff. His hand hovered too long before it touched the small of her back. He held her like glass. Elian felt ill. "Tell me something, Lord Veyl," he said abruptly, not taking his eyes from them. "Do you believe in fate?" Theon arched a brow. "Ah. So we're having that kind of conversation." Amusement tainted his words, as if this was the exact kind of conversation he wanted to have. "Humor me." "I believe in timing. In politics. In chemistry. Not in fate." Elian hummed. "Cassian does." I do. "Of course he does. He was raised to believe he was chosen. That belief shapes everything." Elian's hand curled around the stem of his glass. "And if you were fated to someone? Someone you could never have?" Theon leaned closer, his voice softening, dripping with malice. "Then I'd make myself forget. Or I'd burn the world to take them. There's rarely an in-between." A sudden hush fell across the room. Theon's head lifted like a fox scenting blood. "Ah. It's time." The Steward stepped forward, tapping his staff against the floor thrice. The crowd quieted. Every eye turned toward the dais. The announcement was coming. Cassian's gaze flicked through the crowd once more—and stopped. Found Elian again. There was a beat of silence between them. A breath held between two hearts. Then— "By decree of the Houses of Hale and Winterbourne," the Steward boomed, "and in the interest of alliance, strength, and sovereign prosperity, it is my honor to announce the formal betrothal of His Highness, Prince Cassian Hale—" The room held its breath. "—to Her Grace, Lady Lora Winterbourne." Applause erupted. A roar of approval. Cheers. Toasts. Glasses raised. Elian stood perfectly still. The sound didn't reach him. His ears rang with the echo of a life un-lived. Of a name not called. Of a promise broken beneath chandeliers. He should have left. He should have turned and fled the moment Cassian walked in. But some masochistic instinct held him there. "I should congratulate her," he said, his voice brittle, hollow. There was no emotion there. Theon frowned. "Elian—" "I won't be spoken about in corners. I won't be pitied." Without waiting, Elian stepped forward. The crowd parted around him like a tide. Cassian saw him coming. Lora turned, a polite smile blooming on her lips—until she saw her brother. Then something faltered in her expression. Her grip on Cassian's arm tightened. Elian offered a bow. Just enough to be proper. Just enough to mock. But who was he mocking, Cassian? Lora? This farce? Or himself for ever having even hoped that he could have a happily ever after? "Congratulations, sister," he said, his voice cool and glassy. "You'll make a radiant queen." Lora stared at him. "Elian..." He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Whispered so only she could hear: "No one could be more deserving..." She flinched. He straightened, eyes locking with Cassian's. Gods, those eyes. There was pain in them. Real. Sharp. But not enough. He was bleeding inside, his blood being used to fill the hole left in him from knowing he could never have this man. Suddenly, the bravado that had led him to congratulate them weaved in the face of Cassian's pain. Elian turned to Theon. "Come. I find the air here stifling." Theon offered his arm, and Elian took it. It wasn't affection. But it looked like it. Cassian's jaw clenched. "Elian," he said, voice low. Rough. He didn't stop walking. Didn't turn around. Only once they were outside on the balcony did Elian stop. He leaned against a column, dragging in a breath that felt like glass. "You're cruel to yourself," Theon said, not unkindly. "I was cruel the moment I hoped." He didn't mean to say it aloud. A shadow fell across them. "Leave us," Cassian said to Theon. Theon raised a brow, then offered Elian a nod. "As you wish, I'll be nearby, if you decide the world should burn after all." He left. Cassian stepped closer. Elian didn't move. "Why did you come?" Cassian asked, his voice ragged. "Why did you follow me?" Cassian closed his eyes. "To talk. " Elian's throat tightened. "About?" “I'm doing what is best.” Elian’s voice was low, barely holding itself together. “We never really had a chance, did we?” Cassian said nothing. Elian swallowed hard. “We never even got to try. Just… hope. Maybe. For what it’s worth… I thought maybe you felt it too.” Cassian’s hand brushed lightly against Elian’s—almost involuntarily. “I did. I do.” Silence hung heavy between them. Elian’s voice cracked, brittle and raw. "But hope isn’t enough. It never was.” Cassian finally looked at him, pain shadowing his eyes. “This world doesn’t make space for us. Not like this. Not without destroying everything.” Elian shook his head slowly, bitterness lacing his words. “So it was always just a fantasy. A beautiful lie we told ourselves.” Cassian didn’t answer. He turned away. And Elian was left holding nothing but the echo of what might have been.