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... interwined with the silvery calmness. Demond's palm hovered over glitters of ice, staff readied at her summon, Adil's rotted palms both grasping the sceptor, a non-chalent tiny giant whose steadfast frame spoke of an epitaph of countless waiting from a wilted lily.

A beckoning for a fast opening to break the threaded silence, as Demond summoned her staff before its tip hurled a flash of avanlache, with Adil's roots sprung up to meet the blast, the trembling impact sprayed a iced arc to ...

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Ayleth, Princess of Zenithra, is secretly trained in hand-to-hand combat, and collects swear words she doesn't know how to use. During the Festival of Peace, in which every royal son on the continent will be at the castle for a month, she is instructed by her parents to find a husband. Yet, Ayleth has never even been kissed—until the very first ball, when she meets the man in the Lion mask.

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******

“You…” She stepped back. Then back again, her mouth dropped open. “You… You cannot be…”

“I am,” Etan said, and his hair raked back as he pushed his mask off his handsome face. So handsome her heart raced.

His hair was ebony black, his skin a warm brown that threatened to fade in in the winter months. He stared at her with glittering green eyes, over high cheekbones and a noble nose, his jaw tight and shadowed this late in the day. His chin was high over the pillar of his neck that she’d just touched with its hard lines and steel strength, so different to her own. And his chest... She gasped and covered her eyes. She’d humiliated herself revealing her stupid, childish curiosity.

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*

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Duan Jiayan: “…”

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