CHAPTER 54: FRESHER BALL (2)

Chapter 53– Fresher Ball (2)

(Michael POV)

The orchestra’s melody shifted.

Violins softened, the tempo slowed. A hush rippled through the crystalline ballroom as the conductor lifted his baton, guiding the flow into something elegant, deliberate. The signal was clear.

It was time to dance.

Couples drifted toward the crystal floor, gowns sweeping like waves of silk, coats brushing against enchanted light that shimmered with each step.

The chandeliers refracted rainbow fire across the glass runes beneath our feet, making it look as though the dancers moved atop a river of stars.

I expected Maria to remain still.

Reserved. Distant. A Frostheart to the core—untouchable.

Instead, she turned toward me, her gaze cool, almost detached, but touched with a faint trace of amusement.

"Do you dance, Michael?" she asked.

The question caught me off guard. For a moment, my mind stumbled like my feet threatened to.

"...Not well," I admitted.

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, sharp as ice, warm as fire. "Good. Then you won’t outshine me."

Before I could muster a retort, her hand slipped into mine.

Cold. Delicate. Yet firm with intent.

She pulled me forward, toward the crystalline floor where nobles had already begun to sway in polished patterns.

Whispers rose instantly, cutting sharper than the violins.

"Maria Frostheart... actually dancing?"

"...With him?"

"Impossible..."

The crowd parted, unconsciously, unwilling to intrude. A circle of silence widened around us, the music filling the empty space where voices faltered.

Even Leon’s stare grew hotter, heavier. I could feel it scorching the back of my neck, though I ignored it.

Maria positioned herself before me with effortless poise. Her gown shimmered like frost woven into silk, silver hair cascading as if lit by moonlight.

She placed her other hand lightly against my shoulder, gaze unwavering.

"Follow me," she said simply.

And then the music swept us in.

---

At first, I was stiff. My movements were precise like a formula solved step by step but graceless. A dance performed with the mind rather than the body.

Maria, however, moved like water. Every turn, every glide, she carried herself with a fluid elegance, her gown flowing as though it obeyed her command.

She didn’t so much lead as she guided, the subtle pressure of her fingers nudging me into rhythm, adjusting, correcting.

Where I faltered, she compensated. Where I hesitated, she pulled.

It was less a dance, more a duel disguised as one.

"You’re... not terrible," she murmured after a minute, her voice soft enough only I could hear.

"High praise," I deadpanned, my eyes flicking toward hers.

Her lips twitched, and then—unexpectedly—she laughed.

Not the cold, mocking laugh she often wore as armor, but something quieter. Warmer.

"I wasn’t expecting you to be terrible either," she admitted.

"Then why ask?"

"To see if you’d admit it."

I narrowed my eyes slightly. "...And if I hadn’t?"

Her silver gaze met mine, sharp enough to pierce yet soft in its amusement.

"Then I’d know you were lying."

Her smile lingered, faint but undeniable, as the light of the chandeliers fractured across her hair.

It was almost unfair, how naturally she drew the eyes of everyone in the room. Nobles whispered furiously at the edges of the floor, teeth grinding behind painted smiles.

And then it struck me.

This wasn’t just a dance.

It was a declaration.

A queen stepping onto the stage of nobles—and choosing her partner.

And she had chosen me.

---

(Maria POV)

The hall was watching.

Of course they were. The moment she took his hand, she felt the weight of their stares , sharp, brittle, suffocating. Nobles trying to disguise outrage as amusement, commoners holding their breath as though afraid of breaking glass.

Maria Frostheart had lived beneath those eyes her entire life. She was used to it.

Admiration, envy, hatred — she had worn them all like a cloak since childhood.

So why was tonight... different?

Why, when she stepped onto the crystalline floor with Michael Willson at her side, did it feel less like suffocation... and more like freedom?

---

She had chosen him deliberately.

Not because she needed protection. Not because she lacked suitors but the opposite, in fact. There had been endless offers. Noble heirs with practiced smiles, barons’ sons promising connections, even a viscount’s child who dared compare himself to her equal.

She rejected them all.

Because Maria Frostheart had no interest in being anyone’s accessory.

She had chosen Michael for a reason: he was the boy who had clawed his way to Rank 1 without a family crest to carry him. A boy who unsettled the nobility by existing at all.

He was useful.

Standing beside him made her point clear: the Frosthearts did not bend to politics, nor to tradition. If she wished, she could pluck a commoner and raise him above them all.

At least, that had been her reasoning.

Cold. Strategic. Inevitable.

But then... she looked at him.

---

He was not graceful. Not like Leon Lionheart, whose every step carried the arrogance of generations drilled into muscle. Not like Eric William, who moved as if born with light in his veins.

Michael’s steps were deliberate, almost mechanical, a boy solving an equation rather than dancing.

And yet, there was no hesitation.

Even when he stumbled, even when her touch had to correct him, he moved forward without shrinking beneath the hall’s gaze.

Most men she danced with stared at her as if she were glass a fragile beauty to handle with gloves. Others looked as though they owned her, entitled to every step she offered.

Michael?

He looked at her. Only her. As though the whispers and stares, the sneers and awe, did not matter.

And it was... strange.

Her chest felt unsteady. Her lips betrayed her, curling into a smile that wasn’t calculated. Her laughter slipped free — soft, quiet, almost clumsy.

Not armor. Not strategy.

Just... laughter.

Maria Frostheart, who had lived her life behind a mask of ice, felt something thaw.

-------

( Michael POV )

Around us, the silence was deafening.

Elara’s eyes widened, lips parting as though she’d just witnessed the collapse of an empire.

Selena’s fingers dug white into her goblet.

Chris leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a smirk twitching at his lips—half mocking, half begrudging.

Aiden let out a low whistle, amused. "Now that’s going to sting."

And Leon—

Leon’s jaw clenched tight enough I thought the glass in his hand might shatter. His stare burned holes into my back, but Maria ignored it completely, her world narrowed into the dance. Into me.

Each step drew us deeper into rhythm. Each spin pulled us closer to the center of the hall’s attention.

I wasn’t graceful. I wasn’t trained.

But I didn’t stumble.

Because she wouldn’t let me.

And because, for the first time, I realized something.

The whispers weren’t about her anymore.

They were about us.

---

( Maria POV)

What is this? she wondered, her gaze lifting to his eyes.

Why did her pulse quicken when his hand tightened around hers, firm but respectful? Why did her heart race faster than the music when he spoke back to her with that flat, steady voice that refused to kneel?

Why, when the hall whispered "Maria Frostheart," did she no longer feel their chains — but something like wings?

She didn’t know.

And perhaps that uncertainty terrified her more than any noble’s dagger.

Because for the first time... Maria Frostheart wanted to know what the feeling was.

And it came not from her name. Not from her family.

But from the boy standing before her.

Michael Willson.

-------------

(Michael POV,)

The music swelled, the final note lingering like frost in the air.

Maria’s hand slipped from mine as the dance ended, her smile faint but victorious.

Not a smile for me.

A smile for the hall. For the nobles who ground their teeth, for the commoners who dared not breathe.

And perhaps, just perhaps.

A smile for herself.

Because in this ballroom built on lineage and pride, she had declared war.

And her opening move... was me.

-----------

(Maria POV )

As the music ended, she held onto his gaze a moment longer than necessary.

The hall applauded faintly, scattered claps against brittle silence. But Maria barely heard them.

Her lips curved again, the smallest smile — not for the nobles, not even for the declaration she had intended.

But for him.

For the first time in her life, Maria Frostheart smiled for herself.

---------

(Michael POV)

The dance ended. Applause scattered across the ballroom—polite, hesitant, almost brittle.

Maria Frostheart and I stepped away from the crystalline floor, but the quiet that followed clung like frost.

And then the nobles moved.

They didn’t draw blades or cast spells. They didn’t need to. Their weapons were sharper with smiles polished to a mirror sheen, words dripping honey, footsteps weaving circles around us like predators tightening a noose.

"Lady Frostheart, such elegance this evening."

"Michael Willson, the Rank 1 of the first years... what an unexpected surprise."

"You both... certainly draw the eye."

Their compliments stung more than insults. Every syllable carried barbs hidden beneath velvet.

Maria’s response was flawless—her lips curving into that perfect Frostheart smile, cold enough to remind the room why her family’s name was feared. She didn’t bend, didn’t indulge, simply acknowledged with a nod that left them hanging in silence.

I chose the simpler route: curt nods, flat words. No more than they deserved.

To them, I was an anomaly. An intruder. A commoner daring to walk among royalty.

And they couldn’t decide whether to sneer, flatter, or crush me.

Maria leaned slightly closer, her voice pitched low, meant only for me.

"You’re doing well. Stand tall, don’t give them more than they deserve."

I arched a brow. "You sound practiced."

Her eyes glimmered faintly. "Every day of my life."

---

The circle shifted. New presences cut into the fray.

"Willson."

The voice was smooth, laced with the faintest chill. I turned, finding myself facing Alice Nightveil.

Her long black gown seemed to drink the rainbow light of the chandeliers, her pale eyes reflecting it back like moonlight. Frenick Rosella lingered a step behind her, forgotten in her shadow.

"You handle attention well." She studied me, as if cataloging. "Few commoners last five minutes in a crowd like this without tripping over their own shoes."

"...Thanks, I guess."

Alice tilted her head slightly, not smiling. "Don’t mistake it for flattery. I’m curious."

Before I could reply, another voice cut in. Warm, strong, confident—like a soldier entering a sparring match.

"Michael Willson. Rank 1."

Emily Lionheart. Her red dress shimmered like flame against her crimson red blonde hair, her fiancé Justin Emberheart steady by her side.

Even among nobles, her presence commanded attention from daughter of the Lionheart house, and one of Arcadia’s most admired cadets.

She raised her glass faintly. "That was an impressive entrance. And dance."

Maria’s expression didn’t change, but I felt her stiffen beside me.

Emily’s eyes flicked toward Maria briefly, then back to me. Her smile softened, genuine but edged. "I’ll speak directly. You’ve shown you can stand apart. That’s rare. The Lionheart family values strength and loyalty, not just bloodlines."

I narrowed my eyes slightly. "...You’re offering?"

Emily didn’t hesitate. "Yes. A position within my circle. Connections, resources, mentorship. You wouldn’t be just another cadet—"

Maria’s voice cut clean through, cold as steel. "—He wouldn’t be another pawn, either."

The temperature between them dropped a few degrees. Emily’s eyes narrowed, her noble poise faltering just slightly before she chuckled.

"I see. Frostheart doesn’t like to share her pieces."

Maria said nothing. The silence was answer enough.

Emily turned her attention back to me. "I won’t press. Consider it an open hand. Think carefully about who stands with you, Willson. A storm is coming—and standing alone rarely ends well."

Her gaze lingered on me, meaningful, before she drifted away with Justin, nobles parting for her as if for royalty.

Alice Nightveil remained a moment longer. Her eyes lingered on me, sharp and searching. Finally, she whispered, "

The night hides more than shadows."

Then she, too, melted back into the crowd.

---

Maria exhaled softly beside me. "You see now?"

"Predators," I muttered.

"Circling the strongest prey."

I frowned at her. "You make it sound like I’m already on the menu."

Her lips curved, faintly amused. "You always were."

And she was right.

Because this wasn’t a ball. Not anymore.

It was a hunt.