"Your locks look so pretty when they're tidy and pinned to the side!" Blackburn almost looked like an overly enthusiastic child as he pranced round the scarred man's stiff figure.

  "Shut up," Emberchase simply pursed his lips after the statement. Four maidservants ogled around them; two surrounding him, two on Blackburn.

  Five days. Five days after the guards had dumped him in the chamber, and for five damned days the dancer hadn't slept a wink.

  Every single time Emberchase would attempt to sleep, his dreams would be plagued by the horrifying monster he called fire. He had vowed it would be the first and last he'd allow it to run rampant, but even with all his promises, time had no way of turning back. That man. That old man, nothing more than a mere farmer foolish enough to try and charge at him during that fateful night, had chased after him all these years.

  And now, there was actually some living proof of all the things he had done.

  The fire-dancer made sure no one made it out alive. No, he was just there to crumble everything down. He was sure of that. Foxface had provided assistance, but the two of them knew better than to get too close to each other.

  He was such a horrible, horrible person. The crazy thing was, he quite liked it, if not for all those things that had kept him awake for the rest of the night.

  He had woken up once to the strange feeling of heat, and when he did, the blacksmith was on top of him, a victorious smirk on his face and an all too familiar amethyst-encrusted dagger in both hands. The younger man had held it over his head and brought it down upon the scarred dancer's chest, right over his heart. After that, Emberchase would finally return to reality, with the sheets drenched in his cold sweat.

  He surreptitiously glanced at the other prisoner, who was examining the dark blue robes on his waist with such energy the dancer would've thought he was a child in a man's body. With what kind of childhood he had faced, he would never want to know.

  The ball was happening by nighttime. And since they weren't exactly prisoners bound by chains but only by the palace's west wing, Princess Shreethel had managed to convince her brother to at least let them roam the hall as part of the concubines she had bought for her friends.

  Concubine. The word sounded so foreign when Emberchase attempted to say it out loud. The younger man simply laughed at the explanation but was nevertheless grateful.

  The tips of the scarred man's robes fell to his calves as a servant smoothened the silk with great care. Another one applied a hint of kohl on the corners of his eyes, filling them with the alluring colour of deep and dark scarlet. He closed his eyes to prevent himself from seeing the scarred reflection on the mirror, cursing on the inside.

  A concubine. He looked and somehow felt like a concubine. What would she have said if she ever saw him wearing such attire?

  'Of course she'll laugh her head off and make fun of your current state for days,' the voice in his head began with a chuckle. 'But she won't. Because she's not with you anymore... and she will never be.'

  Sometimes the fire-dancer thought he was insane. He had been battling against his own thoughts like a madman. And those thoughts, in a rather ironic manner, kept him sane in times when he only had his best friend, fire, to turn to.

  Fire wasn't exactly the best companion, anyway. It only wanted to eat and play, and when it grew tired and had enough, it would return to slumber without even saying goodbye.

  "Hey, not bad!" Blackburn exclaimed, unmistakable excitement coating his tone. He opened both sleeveless arms and examined the faded lotus patterns on the edges of his robes with great interest, his eyes gawping and marveling at every single design.

  The maidservant adjusting the separate band of blue and white cloth on his lower arm giggled. She gazed and touched his body in such a way that implied undeniable attraction, and it made the weaver of flame's mouth twitch upwards.

  Love was a powerful force, indeed. No, perhaps it was lust, not love. It could bend rules and blow through obstacles, all for the significant other said person desired. It was so, so easy to take control of the heart, and that was what Emberchase had been doing for the past few days.

  Shreethel was his way out.

  Before the fire-dancer knew it, a smile had already made its way through his lackadaisical facade, distorting the scars next to his lips.

  "Who gave you your scars?" Shreethel had once questioned him when she came to visit the west wing. They had stared into the sunset together, for she could only indulge herself in him by the time her castle work was finished.

  The man had only chuckled, his eyes raking her beautiful form slowly, purposely... sensually. "They're something an old enemy made. Scars of both love and envy, I often call them."

  "So you fell in love before?"

  "Who knows? They say such things are fleeting sensations," the scarred dancer paused intentionally, for effect. "But I guess I was too late when I tried to grasp it."

  The fair princess had gauged for whatever something she hoped to find in his scarred face, but the man had known how to keep his emotions at bay. The dancer had sighed and closed his eyes, his hand on the left of his face as he bit his bottom lip, giving her a small taste of what he had called 'vulnerability'.

  It was human nature to care deeply for those who had shut themselves up and only opened to a few select. Humanity's naïve hearts had chosen to love such ordeals for they believed in the concept of helping others change. Emberchase knew all about them; he was also a bittersweet victim against the horrible controls of the heart. It made people weak, and it clouded judgement. That's why it's easiest to invade the heart.

  Princess Shreethel had placed a hand on his shoulder for comfort and simply decided to change the topic. "Well then, can... can you show me how you talk to fire?"

  "I suppose I can, my princess. Anything for you." With a knowing smile, the weaver of flames took the princess's hand and pressed his lips against the back of it. Her hand slightly shuddered, and the man's lips twitched upwards.

  Perhaps it was loneliness that had driven her to care for him, to enjoy his false facade and embrace the warmth of his company. The embers had flailed and woke sleepily, and Shreethel, completely taken aback by the sight of fresh fire, flinched and had attempted to take her hand away. Emberchase held her back and had given her soft palm a comforting squeeze, running his thumb pad around it in lazy circles.

  "Don't worry. I won't let fire hurt you," he had promised, the flames lapping and flaring up the tips of his fingers, standing tall like stiff candlelight. They shook and wavered from time to time, but the scarred dancer had kept his oath and had secured the princess's safety from the biting flame.

  "Yeah. He's like that most of the time," was the last thing Emberchase had heard coming out of Blackburn's talkative mouth. The maidservants giggled after he said so, and when Emberchase turned, something red flashed by his side and obscured his vision for a second.

  Immediately, the fire-dancer's hands twined themselves on both sides of his head. "Tassels? Why am I wearing tassel pins?"

  "Oh, hey... good. You're back from your thoughts." Blackburn's grin widened as he strutted closer and patted his head. "Is that the only thing you've noticed the ladies added?"

  Emberchase gazed at his hands and noticed the black, silken gloves that only wrapped around his middle fingers. His shoulders were bare and showed his biceps, but just above his elbows were tight, black cloths of the same material as his gloves. It stretched out until his wrists, overlapped by a pair of golden bangles. The chills settled in his stomach, and that was when the scarred dancer realized that his belly was open, and that the black and red tunic hung loosely over his chest.

  "It really suits you, Signor Emberchase," a young maidservant marveled as she parted the man's locks with utmost care, her fingertips airy against his forehead. "You would look absolutely perfect... if weren't for those horrid scars on the left of your face."

  "I know! It's a shame. We ought to cover those things up with his hair," added another one, her dark brown curls bouncing down her shoulders when she bent and fiddled with the dancer's locks.

  Emberchase's brows furrowed, and something hot scorched and seared his scarred skin. The blacksmith must've noticed, for almost instantly, he stopped conversing with the certain servant who had been vying for his attention and stood.

  "Yeah, well... we can take care of ourselves from here on out, lovely ladies, thanks so much for the help." The thick bracelets around his wrists rang crispily when the younger man accidentally struck them against each other, but he didn't mind such sound and proceeded to half-talk and half-shove all four of the maidservants out.

  After he did so, a loud sigh emerged from his mouth as he gazed at the fire-dancer with growing worry. "I know. Some people can be a little too honest sometimes. I mean... you don't have to think about what they said at all! You are who you are, and no one can dictate that."

  "You're too kind." Emberchase closed his eyes and flexed both bare, slender shoulders before facing away from the mirror. Something inside his chest bled, almost as if Foxface Reisyce had stabbed it spot on with that signature toothy grin.

  He was too kind, indeed. Too kind for someone whose entire life had been taken away from his hands. If... if that damned kingdom hadn't perished, what would've become of him now?

  "I mean, let's look at the bright side! We have a few quiet moments of privacy before setting out into the world of nobles and blue bloods." Blackburn did a dramatic wave in the air before chuckling, his deep sea eyes crinkling into mere slits.

  "Speaking of which, I actually made something for you, Emberchase." The brown-haired man raised an index finger and pointed to the door to the kiln. "You said you had plans about fire-dancing in front of the crowd, right? You're gonna need some fancy props."

  The scarred man blinked once, twice. Did the other prisoner remember everything he had said? No, he didn't leak his plan out on purpose. Blackburn was just too good at gauging out his thoughts. Guilt probably played a small part too.

  The human heart was fragile, indeed.

  "What about it, anyway? I don't need anything else if I'm already dressed in such a manner," replied Emberchase with a shrug. He had never taken interest in exposed clothing, and now his stomach just felt frozen. Perhaps going to the kiln would be nice.

  Blackburn's shoulders drooped. "Yeah, but I thought it'll make you look better. I mean, you've been wooing the princess for the past few days, after all."

  "What else do you know about me now?" That was meant to be sarcastic, but the smith apparently thought he had been serious in asking said question.

  "Hmm... that you tend to have nightmares all the time? I'm a light sleeper, so I watch you."

  "You watch me when I'm sleeping?" There was no mistaking the high pitch in the weaver of flame's voice. No wonder he always got the chills whenever he woke up in the middle of the night.

  "Sorry. Kinda a habit of mine already, since I look after my sister all the time."

  "You have a sister?"

  "Well, yes, but she's not my real sister," Blackburn was already crouching and lifting up the square door to the kiln when he said so. "I guess I adopted her, then. Our parents were pretty much gone, anyway."

  The fire-dancer followed him, probably because he didn't have anything else to do with his damned life. Sitting around listening to his heart pound wasn't much fun, either. "You don't feel awful for that... whatever that incident was?"

  "Of course I feel awful. But I was like, still eight — nine, maybe — when that happened."

  Emberchase inched closer to him when they reached the cramped workplace. Blackburn's shoulders and biceps were much, much more developed than his, probably since he was a smith, and he was tall, too. They were already only a hair's breadth in height difference.

  "What if you knew someone was behind that incident? Would you take the path of vengeance? Would you kill the one at fault?" Of course, that question never escaped the dancer's mouth. He had pondered and mulled whether to ask or not, but his tongue curled midway and he felt so bitter for being a spineless coward.

  "Here ya go, new, and slightly fancier stuff than your norm juggling torches!" When the scarred dancer snapped out of his own trance again, his eyes landed on a pair of fans, their edges and handles made of thin and sturdy metal, and their flaps embroidered with bright, golden curls that extended upwards and spread all over the red cloth like wildfire. On the handles were two brass rings that made his grip on them much, much easier.

  Emberchase's lips twitched into a small smile. "They're pretty, but aren't they for women?"

  "In books that I've previously read — well, when I was out the castle walls, of course — fans were used as weapons because they looked harmless enough. Fans are the symbol of grace, beauty, and the fact that we're going to become concubines for the night." Blackburn scratched the back of his head, his eyes fixated on the fans with a quivering, almost failing grin.

  "Also, I modified them to be fire proof. Maybe."

  Emberchase snapped the new objects open and stared at the designs before closing them back again. He did so a couple more times and twirled them around his hands, the slightest hint of bemusement causing the corners of his lips to quirk upwards.

  The dancer had just noticed that he had been faking a smile for a few days straight already. It was hurting his jaws, but it wasn't like he had a choice. Lies were better concealed with a pleasant expression.

  "I guess I'll use these. They're surprisingly light for some reason, too." Emberchase threw the open fan into the air and extended his index finger, coiling it around the brass grip before twining it securely on his hands.

  "Really? You'll use them?" There was an almost stupid, hopeful expression in those sea eyes. Looking directly into them was something a little too hard to do, even for him. "That makes me so glad. I've never seen fire-dancing before, but I'm sure it's gonna be great!"

  Guilt was soon to fade away, and Emberchase was sure that it would turn into another one of those small stabs of pain to be easily pushed aside. He just had to pretend a little longer. No one needed to know anything else, and it was definitely better that way.

  Maybe the boy was right... no, of course he was right. He was a liar, and a great one too. No one needed to know anything about the truth to Laenoris, and no one would ever need to.

  Everything was already fine just the way they were.

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  Wow, gosh... we actually made it to Chapter 20! Thanks so much for giving this book a chance, guys! I really, really appreciate it.

  Blackburn is finally introduced into the scene, and with him comes the mystery of Laenoris's destruction... or, not so much of a mystery.

  For some reason, he's still pretty enthusiastic about the current events.

  Let me know what you think about the current chapter? Shit's about to go down in the next parts once the ball starts in Black's point of view!