Chapter 5: The Waltz of Storm and Flame
The ballroom held its breath.
As Elena and Dragonguard stepped onto the polished obsidian floor, it was as though the very air had shifted—alive with tension, magnetism, and something older than time. The chatter of courtiers faded, muffled beneath the soft rising of violins. When they turned to face each other, all eyes followed. Nobles, princes, and spies leaned forward, as if witnessing a prophecy unfold.
Elena lifted her chin and moved into position, prepared to guide the rhythm. Yet, to her surprise, Dragonguard took the lead. His hand found hers with practiced precision, the other resting gently but firmly on the small of her back. Before she could speak, the dance had begun.
And gods—he could dance.
Their feet moved in perfect harmony, neither missing a beat. Each step glided across the marble with the grace of seasoned warriors and the flow of water running through a stream. They spun, dipped, and turned as one. Not a single moment faltered; the music and movement blended until it became impossible to tell where she ended and he began.
Elena's POV
He was sharper than she remembered. In her past life, she had only known glimpses of the man behind the storm. A dragonslayer, a general, a noble. But here—here on this floor, with the moonlight shining in and the crowd watching in stunned silence—she saw him.
His presence was like steel wrapped in velvet: imposing, yet smooth; commanding, yet silent. There was no hesitation in his motion, no apology in his gaze. He was a tempest. And as he twirled her under his arm and brought her close again, she could not help but wonder...
"Does he remember? Or is it just me who sees ghosts in the mirror?"
His hand tightened slightly around hers. Her heartbeat stuttered.
Dragonguard's POV
She was beautiful. No—elegant in a way that defied mere beauty.
From afar, she had always seemed composed, poised, another noble pawn with a charming face. But here, in his arms, moving as though they had danced together for lifetimes, he saw something else. There was a sorrow in her eyes, carefully tucked behind her smile. A weight on her shoulders despite their lightness. And in her gaze, the fire of a woman who had lived through storms and bled in silence.
He wondered, just for a second, what burden she carried.
The Nobles' POV
Gasps floated across the ballroom like petals in the wind. This was no ordinary dance.
"Have you ever seen the Stormbringer waltz?"
"Never. I didn't think he knew how."
"Look at them. They move like they were forged together."
"They're not dancing, they're... declaring."
"Impossible. They move like one soul split in two."
"It's said that strong aura users can sense each other's rhythm, their intent. They synchronize instinctively... but this? This is something else. This is fate."
"Perhaps... a Sign."
As the melody softened and slid into a slow, elegant waltz, Elena and Dragonguard slowed their pace. He stepped forward, guiding her into a closer embrace. One hand on her waist, the other clasping hers. She rested her hands on his shoulders, her fingers brushing the hardened muscles beneath his ceremonial armor.
And then, the memory struck her.
Blood. Fire. Pain.
She had been injured, gravely, on the western front against the orcs. Her vision had been fading when he had arrived. Dragonguard, storm-eyed and furious, had lifted her from the battlefield like she weighed nothing. His arms had been her shelter. His gaze, protective and warm. That one moment, in a world that had been so cold.
Her breath hitched. She blinked.
The music was dying down. Dragonguard stepped away, releasing her hand.
Dragonguard tilted his head slightly. "You speak the Draconic tongue."
Elena smirked, the shadows in her gaze retreating behind a playful glint. "Perhaps. I might tell you... if you danced with me again. But I never said I would."
She bowed her head slightly. And then, in flawless Draconic, whispered:
"Vahzah los fahdon!" "Thank you for the dance."
Before he could reply, she turned and walked away, her gown flowing like fire behind her. The crowd parted. He remained rooted in place.
Dragonguard's POV
He watched her leave, silent.
For a brief moment, something rare flickered across his stoic face.
Amusement.
"I was... used," he thought. _"Tricked."
He chuckled once under his breath.
Leaving the crowd, Dragonguard stepped onto the massive balcony of the ballroom, wind tugging at the black fabric of his cloak. The moonlight bathed the Empire below in silver.
Behind him, a shadow materialized from the far end of the hall, stepping forward silently and kneeling.
"Shade of the Storm," Dragonguard said calmly, not turning.
The kneeling figure inclined his head, his black armor whispering softly against itself
Dragonguard didn't turn. "Elena."
The figure nodded and vanished, understanding the command. Investigate the 5th Princess.
Dragonguard stood in silence, gazing at the stars, the music replaced by the thrum of unease that had haunted him all night.
There's tension in the air. Something brewing. The nobles grow restless. And in the East...
Back in Elena's chambers
The silence of her room was comforting, familiar. She touched her fingertips where his hand had rested on her waist. The memory clung to her skin.
But there was no time for dreams.
She turned to her desk and summoned her maid. "Prepare a letter."
Her quill moved with precision as she addressed the letter to Duke Roseviver, the Rank 9 Druid known throughout the east.
To Duke Roseviver,
I hope the Runebark has bloomed this year. I shall need its silence once more.
I intend to visit your estate within a few days. Matters of great importance must be discussed in person.
—Elena Evergreen.
She sealed the letter with the sigil of House Evergreen and handed it off.
Sleep claimed her not long after. Her dreams were filled with green forests and silver storms.
Meanwhile, at the Emperor's quarters
Knight-Captain Marcus stood at attention, guarding the door of his sovereign.
Behind the double doors, the muffled sounds of pleasure spilled out again. Groans. Moans. The squeak of furniture. Laughter.
Marcus closed his eyes for a second.
Is this what the Empire has become? he thought.
Footsteps approached. His hand relaxed on the hilt.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her—Duchess Zenovia, the Emperor's favorite.
She wore silk and shadows, lips painted deep red, her green eyes gleaming like those of a predator.
She blew him a kiss as she passed.
"Don't wait up, dear Marcus," she purred, slipping through the door with a sway of hips.
The sounds from within grew louder.
Marcus did not move.
He stared down the hall, jaw clenched, and whispered to himself:
"While the Empire moans in pleasure... the East burns in silence."
And in the night, the shadows moved.