Chapter 727: A Dance With the Birth-King

The most dangerous waltz of Hajin’s life began with a bow from a man in a plain coat.

He could not refuse in front of a thousand mourners, so he curtsied back, bustle wobbling wildly. Ibaran took his gloved hand with great gentleness, drawing him slowly out onto the floor of jet.

“You waltz badly, my boy, but with spirit,” Ibaran said warmly, turning him through the first slow circle.

‘He knows. Damn it, he knew the second I walked in.’

The orchestra swelled around them, its strings dragging like a lullaby sung to a child who refused to sleep. Every couple stepped aside, bowing their masks, leaving a circle of empty floor for the widow and the king.

“Madam Flint is a widow of delicate nerves, Your Majesty,” Hajin squeaked, in his terrible falsetto.

“Please, drop the voice, it hurts my ears.”

Hajin let the squeak fall away, keeping his grin exactly where it was, like a street fighter’s guard. The Sun-Chain lay warm beneath his sleeve, so his right hand closed around it, links biting the palm.

“Fine, old man,” he said, in his own voice, “how long have you known?”

“Since you stepped out of that mirror, I felt a sunrise walking across my floor,” Ibaran said fondly. “I expected you to hide in a cellar, not wear a veil.”

His palm rested very lightly between Hajin’s shoulder blades, an ancestor’s touch smelling faintly of old tea. Somewhere beneath their feet something huge and old shifted, as though the whole ballroom were a cradle.

“She laughed exactly as you do, you know,” Ibaran said softly, “head back, a little too loud, never once apologising for it.”

“Who laughed like me?” Hajin asked, though he already knew.

“Your Goddess, my boy, stubborn as a mule and twice as warm.”

The old king smiled with his entire face, the way a man smiles at a faded portrait he cherished. Hajin’s stomach turned over, because there was no lie in it, only a love gone rotten at the root.

‘He talks about her like a lover, like she isn’t his murder.’

“She called me a fool to my face, you see, in front of the whole court,” Ibaran went on, “I have never been so happy.”

His feet followed the steps drilled into him by Eirwen’s cruel lessons, quick and sure despite the bustle. He kept his eyes on the white lapel, watching for any twitch that might come before a blow.

“Your mother begged me, you understand,” Ibaran said gently, turning him again, “Hanae, on her knees at my river, asking me to keep her child ripe.”

“My mother never begged anyone for anything, damn you.”

“She did it for you, Hajin, so I have never broken that promise.”

The waltz carried them slowly toward the staircase, then along a long wall of mirrored glass. Hajin caught silver in the reflection, a girl with her hands knotted in her skirts, watching.

“Let me offer you a bargain,” Ibaran said, so kindly that it almost sounded generous. “Give me the Fragment freely, then take your place as Prince of the Underworld, with every girl you love at your side.”

“Safe, fed, warm, hunted by nothing, ever again.”

“Even Nyra?” Hajin asked, his voice dropping.

“She would sit at my table every evening, wearing a crown I would polish myself.”

Jaw tight, he snarled, “Lay one finger on her and I’ll—”

“Hush, hush, nobody is touching anyone tonight,” Ibaran said, pouring calm over him like warm milk.

Something cold slid through Hajin’s chest, steady as a blade finding its sheath after a very long war. For one breath he saw it, the long table, the laughing faces, every bed warm, every chair filled.

‘It sounds like the end of the road, which is exactly what’s wrong with it.’

“Not a chance in hell, old man,” he said, grinning, “my girls aren’t a prize you hand out.”

“They’re the family I picked, you fossil, so shove your crown somewhere warm.”

Ibaran stopped dancing, though the music kept playing without him, the couples resuming their slow turns. The Birth-King stood perfectly still, the first king of Didi’s line, a kindly shepherd regarding a stubborn lamb.

“Not yet, then,” he said softly, almost sadly. “I will ask again, Hajin, so do be kinder next time.”

His gloved fingers touched Hajin’s breastbone, light as a moth landing on a waiting lamp, unhurried. A thread of gold light slid slowly out from beneath the lace, thin as spider silk.

“Hand of Not Yet, hush now, it only hurts if you fight,” Ibaran murmured.

The floor began to rock beneath them, gentle as a mother’s knee, a cradle the size of a ballroom. Hajin’s feet turned to lead at once, every step sinking, every muscle begging him to lie down and sleep.

‘The floor is rocking, my legs are mush, I want a nap more than breakfast.’

His knees buckled, one of them striking the floor with a crack that echoed through the room. Around the circle the courtiers gasped behind their veils, fans pausing, hands rising to cover their lips.

“Sleep, my boy, sleep,” Ibaran said, drawing the thread out another inch, “there’s nothing out here worth fighting.”

“Ha… hahaha,” Hajin wheezed, shuddering with laughter, “you hit like a nap.”

‘Hold the chain. Hold it, you idiot, and don’t let go for anything.’

His right hand clenched the Sun-Chain until the links dug through the sleeve into his skin. Warmth flared up his whole arm like sunrise through a shutter, stubborn, hot, entirely his own.

“Come on, come on, stay up,” he told his own trembling knees.

He pushed one foot flat against the rocking floor, then the other, rising by slow, stubborn, shaking inches. For the first time in the ballroom’s history, a man stood under the Cradle Rock instead of sleeping.

“Remarkable,” Ibaran breathed, his thumb pausing on the thread, “nobody has stayed on their feet before… not one, in all these years.”

“Gripping my own chain, old man, turns out I’m a really bad sleeper,” he said, teeth bared in a grin.

[DarkBlade: HE’S HOLDING HIS OWN CHAIN TO STAY UP, THAT’S SO METAL]

Across the room, frost raced over the long mirrored glass, silver ferns climbing high past the gilded frames. Didi stood in the middle of it, fists locked at her sides, her breath smoking, eyes blazing gold.

“Beloved boy,” Ibaran said, as the thread stretched another inch, “you laugh so beautifully, how can I not love you?”

He found her through the lace and winked, trembling with effort, a widow in a ruined bustle. She bit her lip so hard that it bled, refusing to look away for even a heartbeat.

“Then let go, you creep,” he gritted, “or I’ll show you what comes after the laugh.”

Every chandelier flickered once, then every flame in the ballroom stretched thin, trembled, and finally died. The Veil Ball dropped into a darkness so complete that the Sun-Chain’s glow seemed to shrink.

“Hajin!” Didi’s voice cracked somewhere in the dark, thin and furious.

Screams rose across the ballroom, chairs scraped, a thousand fans clattered to the floor in a rush. In the dark, Hajin heard a single warm voice, perfectly calm, close enough to brush his ear.

“Your friends are late, my boy,” Ibaran said gently, as the music went on playing.