Page 118 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Varil Delphyne came to a halt one step above the bottom landing, her approach unhurried but absolute—as though time itself had bent to allow her entrance. No wonder: she was regal like how mountains were regal—immovable, ancient, and beautiful in a way that left one shivering. Her white gown was not the warm ivory of celebration, but a searing, spectral shade, bleached snow edged in silver. Her skin and hair were nearly the same hue. Opalescent, untouched by time. Silver horns curved elegantly from her temples, coiled like metal drawn from the bone, their bases wrapped in jewel-encrusted gold bands.

And her eyes⁠—

Golden, bright and burning.

Like Ark’s, but older. Sharper.

But it was the mating mark that commanded awe. A living tapestry of black script, it began as a dense knot below her right ear and cascaded in an unbroken river of elegant swirls down her neck, over her bare shoulder, and along the entire length of her arm to her wrist. As Cassia watched, the patterns shifted—slowly, subtly, like smoke curling in still air. The one-shouldered gown seemed designed solely to showcase it: a magnificent, intimidating testament to a bond so profound it had claimed her very form and was still, after all these years, alive.

Cassia had never seen a creature so beautiful.

Or so terrifying.

The Daemaris didn’t offer a smile. She didn’t extend a hand. Instead, she let her gaze rake across her son first—measuring, parsing, perhaps even calculating. Then slowly—so slowly—those eyes turned to Cassia.

The gaze slid across Cassia’s face, her attire, and her skin prickled where it passed, as if being appraised by something ancient that found most things wanting. Then those golden eyes stopped, fixating on the right side of her neck. On the tiny black swirl of the bond mark Ark had made just days ago. Cassia’s hand twitched with the urge to cover it.

She didn’t.

The mark was small now, barely the size of a coin. But she knew, with a certainty that settled hot in her chest, that it would grow. Every time Ark nourished it, it would spread, tracing its way across her skin like a vine claiming a trellis.

The thought arrived uninvited and hit her like a fist. Would hers look like his mother’s one day?

She blinked, stunned by her own mind. When had she started thinking in decades?

Cassia dipped into a practiced curtsy, neither too low nor too shallow—just enough to show deference without cowering. When she rose, Ark placed a hand at the small of her back.

“Mother. May I present Aura Cassia, Kitchen Witch and proprietor of The Witching Flour, Steward of Starlight Orphanage, and”—his gaze flicked to her, softened—“my Chosen.”

Cassia watched Delphyne’s eyes and caught a flicker—there and gone—before the mask slid back into place. It wasn’t an outrage or even cold dismissal, and perhaps that was a good thing. Even if Delphyne had been caught off guard, Cassia knew: she would never show it in public. That would be a sign of weakness.

Ark seemed unconcerned. To her, he said, “Cassia. This is my mother, Varil Delphyne.”

Cassia offered a small, steady smile. “Daemaris. What a beautiful ball. Thank you for having me.”

The demon’s gaze swept over her—slow, deliberate, taking in every detail. “I saw you dance earlier,” she said, her voice cool and clear. “You do it well. That is not always a given, with witches.”

“Thank you. Though I’m sure any grace seen tonight was due to your son’s guidance.”

“A generous compliment,” the Daemaris said flatly. Her eyes narrowed, just slightly, as she looked at Ark. Something that looked almost like fondness passed through her face, then vanished. “Arkenoth. You come to see your mother only once a year, yet . . . no kiss?”

Ark inclined his head with practiced elegance, but Cassia felt the hesitation behind it—the slight delay that revealed more than he intended. He stepped forward and brushed a kiss to his mother’s cheek.

“Forgive me. I didn’t wish to interrupt your study of my partner.”

The Daemaris didn’t smile, but corners of her lips twitched. “You’ve grown clever. Or perhaps you’ve simply grown.”

“I try.” Ark glanced toward the far end of the ballroom. “Where is Father? Away again? I’d hoped he might grace your most important evening.”

She waved the question away, the gesture bored. “He wanted to attend. But the Daemar’s seat demands much from him.”

Ark inclined his head. “Of course. He is, after all, a creature of duty first and foremost.”

A flicker of stillness passed between them. The Daemaris tilted her head, her eyes gliding back to Cassia. “How serendipitous that you find a Chosen so close to Yulefrost. Your timing is nothing less than impeccable.”

“You know me, Mother. When I see something worth keeping, I don’t wait for spring.”

“I would have expected my son to choose a partner with a longer pedigree. But perhaps I underestimate his flair for dramatics.”