A Fey for Valentines Day

The Golden Prince

I scan the ballroom, searching for anyone who might fit those descriptions. But everyone here looks like potential royalty. The men are tall and elegant, dressed in finery that spans beyond comprehension — doublets and cravats, tuxedos, and armor that oddly seems to flow like liquid. The women are just as regal, if not more so even. Impossibly beautiful, every one of them.

How am I supposed to find them in a sea of nobility?

Maybe they'll find me. Maybe that's how this whole thing works—the predators seeking out the prey.

Turning back toward the dance floor, still trying to make sense of everything the mysterious woman in green had told me, I searched the crowd.

That's when I saw him.

Two shockingly golden yellow eyes staring at me from across the dance floor. Standing at the far edge of the room, beneath one of the floating chandeliers. His gaze impossibly steady, warm, like sunlight against my skin, impossible to ignore.

He's tall and bright is the best way to describe him. Maybe even golden, like his eyes. His blonde hair catches the chandelier's radiance like spun bronze. His mask simple, yet stunning. Everything about him seems to glow with soft, warm light. And even from here I can see the angles of his face beneath the mask must be painstakingly beautiful.

Light, I think. Like the sun's rays.

With a smile, he starts to make his way through the crowd, straight toward me. Moving through the sea of dancers like they don't even exist. He doesn't acknowledge them. His eyes never leave mine.

My instincts suddenly scream at me to run. Every survival mechanism I possess from living in New York City tells me this man is dangerous. Not because he looks threatening—he looks like a Renaissance painting come to life, actually — but because he looks designed. Crafted. Too beautiful to be anything but poisonous.

But there's nowhere to run.

He stops in front of me, close enough that I catch his scent—honeysuckle and cedar, with a faint tang of summer rains underneath. He's even taller up close, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"I've never seen you before," he says with a soft smile. "You must be her guest of honor tonight. The one she brought to us."

"Yes, apparently I'm tonight's entertainment."

A look of mild surprise flickers across his face. "Most guests either consider it a honor to be brought to the Masquerades, or spend hours weeping and panicking. You seem very..."

"Irritated?"

His smile tugs higher, transforming his face to look even younger, almost boyish despite the aristocratic cheekbones peaking out beneath the mask. "I was going to say 'remarkably composed'. But I actually like your version better. I like honesty."

"Honesty seems like a liability here."

"You're right. It is." He extends his hand, palm up, offering a formal gesture that belongs in a movie like 'Pride and Prejudice'. "Come, dance with me."

I don't take his hand. "You're one of the princes aren't you?"

His smile falters. For just a moment, something I can't quite put my finger on flashes behind those golden eyes — pain, or maybe exhaustion. But it's gone so quickly I question if maybe I imagined it in the first place.

"And if I am?" He keeps his hand extended, steady and patient.

I think about the woman in green, about the sorceress who brought us all here, about the clock ticking away on the wall. The minutes bleeding away all too quickly. I think about the fact that I have no plan, no strategy, no solutions, and that refusing to dance with a prince when I'm supposed to potentially be falling in love with him seems counterproductive at best.

So I take his hand.

"I don't know how to dance the waltz," I admit nervously.

"Don't worry. I'll teach you."

His fingers close around mine, warm and strong, and he leads me onto the dance floor. The music shifts as we join the other dancers — slower, more intimate. It's still a waltz, but this one wraps around us like a private conversation.

"I'm Alaric," he introduces himself as he turns to face me, setting his other hand on my waist. The touch is light, respectful, yet still intimate.

"Sophia."

"Sophia," he repeats, tasting the syllables. "That's a beautiful name. It means wisdom, if I'm not mistaken?"

"My mother was an optimist," I say nonchalantly.

He smirks again. "Tell me about yourself, Sophia. What's your life like beyond this place? Before you found the fountain?"

I stumble slightly, surprised by his inquiry. His hand tightens on my waist, steadying me. "Why do you want to know?"

"You're unlike anyone I have ever met." His voice drops, meant only for me. "You're not trying to impress me. Not performing. Not trying to dazzle me, or say what you think I want to hear. You're unapologetically real. It's refreshing."

We spin through the crowd, past masked faces that blur into smears of color, and I focus on the feeling of his hand in mine, his hand on my waist, the steady rhythm of the dance.

"I'm an artist," I finally say. "A painter. Albeit not a very successful one, yet."

"What do you paint?"

"The city, mostly. Light on the buildings. The way the rain looks against Times Square." I pause, surprised at how easily the words flow. "Things that I find beautiful. Things that are usually ignored until they are captured in time."

"The city? Times Square?" He quirks a brow inquisitively. "What are these places?"

No one's ever asked me that. They ask what I paint, where I sell, how much I charge, why I paint what I paint. But no one has ever not known what New York City is.

"It's where I live," I say simply. "Tall skyscrapers of metal and glass. Lights everywhere. Music. People. It's beautiful. It's such an extraordinary place that I have always felt someone should capture the ordinary magic of day-to-day life there. Make other people notice."

"Ordinary magic," he repeats softly. "I like that."

We dance in silence for the next few minutes. He leads with effortless skill, guiding me through turns and dips that should be beyond my limited coordination but somehow aren't. It's like the dress is dancing for me, or the music, or his hands on my body — something making up for every skill I lack.

"May I ask you something?" I finally say, breaking the silence.

"You can ask anything." He agrees, holding my gaze steadily. "Though I may not have all the answer you seek."

"There are two of you?" His brow quirks, and I realize my mistake in not elaborating on my meaning. "You're one of the two princes, aren't you?"

A muscle tightens in his jaw. "Yes."

"So this whole elaborate thing is a sort of competition for you as much as it is for me?" It's equal parts statement and question.

"That's what she wants it to be, yes."

"And what do you want it to be?"

He balks at that, stopping our motion in the middle of the dance floor. Other couples swirling around us, while he's staring at me with an intensity that makes my heart stutter.

"No one's ever asked me what I want." He contemplates for a long moment before shaking his head and continuing. "It doesn't matter what I want. Even here. It never has. It probably never will."

"That's not an answer. That's simply an acceptance of what always has been."

"No," he whispers. "I suppose you're right, it isn't."

Before I can press him further, the lights flicker and dim, and the temperature in the room drops slightly. It happens so suddenly that I gasp as a wave of cold washes over the dance floor, cutting through the warmth that radiates from Alaric. The music falters, then changes completely. The dancers slowed, then stopped, their masked faces turning toward the far end of the ballroom.

Toward the dark shadows that have accumulated there.

And as I stare at those shadows, something moves within them. Something that seems to pull every bit of light from around it, creating a pocket of pure darkness just before a figure emerges.

Striding from the shadows is a stunning male who is everything Alaric isn't, storm and shadow. Dark hair, silver eyes, his attire black from head to toe, as black as the metal mask that curves around his face like wings, like claws. Moving with predatory grace.

His eyes find mine, lock in on me, and he moves towards us. The closer he gets, the more I see a wild winter storm churning in his eyes. So cold, so icy. A hunger reflecting there that Alaric's gentleman demeanor never showed.

Alaric's had tightens on mine. I feel him tense beside me, feeling the warmth around us flare like a protective shield.

"Sophia," he says with a harsh swallow, his voice tight. "You're about to meet my brother."