Regress

Chapter 5: A Flame Through the Glove

The Crown Ball blazed. Crystal chandeliers scattered light across a sea of silk and jewels, and the string orchestra’s waltz coiled through the vast ballroom like a living thing.

Elena’s gloved fingers rested on Kael’s shoulder. His own hand sat at her waist—correct, formal, the minimum contact the dance required.

The black leather of his gloves drank the chandelier light.

“They’re watching,” she murmured.

“They always are.”

She let her gaze drift past his shoulder. Seraphina circled the dance floor’s edge in a froth of pale pink, her fan fluttering, her honey-blonde curls bobbing as she whispered to a baroness. Close enough to overhear. Close enough to catch a secret if one happened to slip.

Elena leaned fractionally nearer. “My brother nearly didn’t attend tonight. The break-in at the manor unsettled him.”

Kael’s jaw tightened. The hand at her waist pressed a shade firmer.

“The old vault beneath the east wing survived intact, at least,” Elena continued, lifting her voice just enough. “My father sealed it before he died. I’m the only one who knows what’s down there.”

The violins swelled. Seraphina’s fan stilled.

“Pre-registry artifacts,” Elena added, softer now, as if confiding. “Mother’s research. Things the crown mages would very much like to catalogue.”

Kael’s grey eyes sharpened. The gold flecks in them stirred—not desire now, but something harder.

“You speak loudly,” he said.

“Do I?”

“Deliberately.”

The waltz ended. He released her waist but caught her elbow before she could step back.

“A word. Alone.”

Marie pressed her spine against the cool stone of the servant corridor, a tray of empty glasses balanced on her hip.

Through the archway, she watched Seraphina glide from the ballroom to the terrace. The honey-blonde head bent over a slip of paper torn from her fan casing. Pale fingers folded it, pressed it into the palm of a waiting page.

“Mage Registry Tower,” Seraphina breathed. “Quickly.”

The page vanished into the dark beyond the terrace steps.

Marie counted to ten. Then she lifted her tray and re-entered the ballroom through the west door.

Elena stood near the orchestra, Kael’s shadow falling across her. Marie caught her eye and lifted her fan—closed, then open, then touched to her left shoulder.

Bait taken. Moving.

Elena’s chin dipped half an inch.

Kael drew her into the alcove before she could speak.

The velvet curtain fell behind them, muffling the ballroom’s noise. Shadows pooled in the hollow of his throat. The alcove smelled of old stone and the faint, familiar scent of cedar and smoke that clung to his clothes.

“What did you just do?”

His voice stayed low. Controlled. But the question landed like a blade set point-down between them.

“I let a spy overhear something useful.”

“You baited her.”

“Yes.”

“With information that could see your house razed for treason.”

Elena met his stare. “With information that doesn’t exist.”

A beat of silence. His gloved hand rose to brace against the stone beside her head—not touching, but close enough that she felt the warmth radiating through the leather.

“You’re gambling Rhee Manor on a lie.”

“I’m gambling a lie on someone who can’t afford to verify it before she acts.” Her voice stayed steady, but her pulse hammered against the brooch at her throat. “Seraphina wants me destroyed. I gave her the rope. She’ll hang herself with it, or she’ll reveal her handler trying.”

Kael studied her. The crease between his brows deepened.

“The vault doesn’t exist.”

“The east wing doesn’t have a basement.”

Something flickered in his expression—not quite admiration. Too wary for that. But close.

“You’re reckless.”

“I’m out of time.” She looked down at his hand, still planted beside her head. The black glove. The same glove that had touched her wrist in the conservatory, bare skin to leather, and left her heartbeat unsteady for hours afterward. “Why do you wear those? Even dancing.”

The question landed harder than she intended.

He didn’t move. But the air around him thickened, charged with something unsaid.

“Habit,” he said.

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the one you’ll receive.”

His hand dropped. The warmth withdrew, and the cold rushed back in, sharp as a door slamming shut.

“She’ll come for you now,” he said. “Whatever trap you’ve set—she won’t wait long to spring it.”

“I’m counting on it.”

He held her gaze a moment longer. Then he stepped back, lifting the curtain just enough to let the ballroom light cut a silver seam between them.

“Stay in sight for the rest of the evening. No more secrets where ears might catch them.”

“That would rather defeat the purpose.”

The corner of his mouth tightened. Not a smile. A warning, barely leashed.

Seraphina’s apartment sat above a cobbler’s shop in the district where minor nobility clung to the hem of the court. The single room smelled of rosewater and old candle wax.

She bolted the door. Lit the taper. Sat at the writing desk with her lace mitts still on—the left one padded subtly to hide the crooked pinky beneath.

The coded letter took shape in sharp, hurried strokes.

*Heir confirms Rhee vault. East wing. Pre-registry artifacts.

Research records. Claimed sole access. Move before the queen’s audience or risk Crown seizure. Burn after reading.*

She folded the paper three times and sealed it with a dab of plain wax—no crest, no mark that could trace back.

Her hand trembled as she pressed the seal.

Finally. Something real. Something she could use.

The Ashford carriage rattled through the dark streets, its lanterns swinging.

Lian had slumped against the window within minutes of departure, his breath fogging the glass. The charm bracelet dangled loose from his wrist—a little silver horse, a copper flame, a chipped amethyst Elena had sent from the capital three winters ago.

Kael sat opposite. His hands rested on his knees, the black gloves blacker in the carriage’s shadows.

Elena watched the streetlamps slide past. The silence pressed in, heavier than the dance had been, heavier than the alcove.

“You didn’t answer me,” she said quietly. “Before.”

“No.”

“Will you ever?”

His head turned. The carriage lamp caught the scar bisecting his brow, the hard line of his jaw.

“Ask a different question.”

She looked at him—at the gloves, at the stillness of his hands, at the way his shoulders set as if bracing for a blow.

“What are you protecting me from?”

The silence stretched. Then, so low she nearly missed it:

“Myself.”

His gloved fingers moved before she could speak—an absent gesture, brushing a thread from her bare wrist where her sleeve had ridden up during the ride.

The leather touched her skin.

A flame licked out.

Small. Brief. A curl of orange-gold fire that bloomed through the glove’s seam and vanished before either of them could gasp.

The scent of singed leather filled the carriage.

Elena stared at the blackened stitch line. At Kael’s face—pale now, jaw locked, as if he’d been struck.

He withdrew and pressed his fist against his knee. The leather creaked.

“Kael.”

“Don’t.”

He didn’t speak again. The carriage rolled on, and the silence between them grew teeth.

Rhee Manor’s doors swung open. Marie appeared on the steps before the carriage had fully stopped, her shawl clutched around her shoulders.

“He’s asleep,” Elena said, nodding toward Lian.

Marie climbed into the carriage and eased the boy out. He mumbled something about horses and fire and let himself be guided inside without waking.

Elena descended. Turned back once.

Kael hadn’t moved. The carriage lamp painted his face in planes of light and shadow. His gloved hand remained a fist on his knee.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

“Go inside.”

The door closed. The carriage pulled away, its lantern shrinking into the dark.

In the foyer, the brooch pulsed warm against Elena’s chest—a soft, steady heat, as if something inside the silver hourglass had stirred and refused to settle.

Marie returned from Lian’s room, her footsteps soft on the marble. “He’s out cold. Didn’t even stir when I took his shoes off.”

“Good.”

“You’re standing in the dark.”

Elena didn’t answer. She climbed the stairs to her bedchamber and closed the door.

The queen’s summons lay on the nightstand, its gilt seal catching the candlelight. She picked it up, turned it over, set it down again.

Behind her eyes: a curl of flame. Black leather. The smell of smoke.

“What else are you hiding?”

The brooch pulsed once more—soft, answering light bleeding through the silver filigree—and the candle guttered out.