His eyes narrowed. “I’m sure I do not need to tell you that your ancestor transformed nautical travel across the United Fae Isles when they were still separate territories after producing the first magical star charts. I do not need to tell you of the celestial harvesters, nor of the starlight spinners.”
Indeed, he did not need to tell Iris any of these things. With each word, she felt the weight of her inadequacy more keenly.
“Imagine what magnificent starlight-related magic might have been passed to you,” Lord Jasvian continued, “if your father had chosen to marry well instead of diluting your bloodline with a human woman. Now the once-great Starspun name will dwindle to nothing more than a footnote in magical history.”
Something snapped inside Iris. “And the Rowanwoods will be remembered for what, precisely? For hoarding lumyrite-derived wealth while contributing nothing of beauty or wisdom to the world? For producing descendants so utterly convinced of their superiority that they cannot recognize true magic unless it comes packaged in profit margins?”
A flush crept up Jasvian’s neck. “How dare you assume?—”
“Perhaps if you spent less time mourning the purity of other families’ bloodlines and more time developing a personalitybeyond staggering arrogance, you might actually be worthy of the legacy you so desperately cling to!”
Something in Lord Jasvian’s expression shattered. Above them, an ear-splitting crack rent the air as the chandelier rattled violently, its crystal pendants suddenly bursting with light before shattering into thousands of glittering shards. Iris flinched, her gaze darting up even as Lord Jasvian’s arms flew outward, fingers curling expertly. The falling glass transformed instantly into a cascade of golden dust.
When Iris’s eyes landed on him once more, they were both breathing heavily. Her hands shook at her sides, while the remains of his control were clearly hanging by a thread.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord,” she said coldly, “I believe I hear someone calling for more paper flowers.” And with that, she turned, brushed past Lady Rivenna and her horrified parents—who, it seemed, had not allowed themselves to be distracted by any ice sculpture garden—and marched away through the crowd.
Chapter Six
Jasvian’s bloodthundered in his ears as he watched Lady Iris Starspun’s retreating form, her midnight blue gown swirling around her as she carved a path through the astonished crowd. Her parents exchanged a brief, panicked glance before hurrying after her.
Howdareshe? The sheer audacity of speaking to him that way, questioning traditions that had sustained their society for generations and throwing his private words back in his face. Words that, while perhaps not kind, had beentrue. The preservation of magical bloodlines was vital to their society’s future. Someone had to speak sense, even if others found it uncomfortable to hear.
And what of the things she’d said about his own magic? Granted, it lacked the aesthetic appeal of more flamboyant powers, but it wasessential. Lady Iris clearly failed to comprehend the responsibility he bore. He could have pointed out that his abilities saved lives—dozens of them, each time he sensed a building tempest and prevented a disastrous mine collapse. He could have explained that the Rowanwoods did nothoardlumyrite-derived wealth, as she had so carelessly suggested, but rather fostered prosperity throughout the realm,their operations sustaining countless families across the United Fae Isles with dignified employment and fair compensation.
And then there was her ridiculous claim that he disapproved of all art and his magic contributed nothing of beauty to the world. Did lumyrite not power self-playing musical instruments? Did it not enhance illusion tapestries that transformed rooms with changing scenes of far-off lands? Without it, half the elegant enchantments that adorned this very ballroom would cease to function. Though his own hands might not craft these wonders directly, his magic ensured that lumyrite could be extracted safely and abundantly, making possible the very enchantments that transformed the mundane into the magnificent.
The last of the golden dust settled around him, glittering on the polished floor. He suddenly became acutely aware of the crowd’s attention, their curious glances and whispered speculations. His grandmother still stood beside him, and when she caught his eye, the slight arch of her brow spoke volumes.
“Well!” she announced with practiced nonchalance, addressing the gathered onlookers. “These ancient chandeliers really ought to be replaced. All this magical energy from our young debutants—it’s a wonder the entire ceiling hasn’t come down!” She gestured elegantly toward the dance floor. “Do continue with the festivities.”
Her well-timed intervention worked its usual magic. The crowd’s attention shifted as the orchestra struck up a lively tune, and couples began to form for the next dance.
“Quite the outburst,” she remarked quietly, turning back to him once the immediate spectators had dispersed. “I haven’t seen you lose control of your magic since you were a boy.”
Jasvian stiffened, horror creeping through him as her meaning became clear. “The chandelier? That was most certainly not my doing. I do not lose control.” The verysuggestion was absurd. His entire life was built upon rigid self-discipline. The mines depended on his ability to maintain perfect control of his magic at all times. A single lapse in concentration could mean disaster. “Far more likely it was Lady Iris,” he continued stiffly. “She’s clearly still unused to her powers.”
Lady Rivenna’s gaze held his for a long moment. “Perhaps it was a combination of both your magic and hers. Such things have been known to happen when?—”
“It was not,” he interrupted, more forcefully than he’d intended.
His grandmother smiled and patted his arm with maddening condescension. “Of course not, dear,” she replied, her tone suggesting precisely the opposite.
She drifted away to speak with Lady Thornhart, leaving Jasvian to confront an alarming possibility. Had he truly lost control? Even for just a moment? The idea unsettled him deeply. He prided himself on his discipline, on the careful containment of his emotions and magic alike.
This entire evening had gone from tedious to disastrous. He hadn’t wanted to attend in the first place, finding these gatherings exhausting with their endless social expectations and crushing press of bodies. The constant noise and movement set his nerves on edge, and he’d noticed himself being unusually sharp-tongued in his conversation with Hadrian. Perhaps that had led him to express his opinions about Lady Iris’s magic more bluntly than propriety dictated. But once she had challenged him so directly, with those flashing eyes and razor-sharp responses, something in him refused to yield ground. Each barbed comment she’d delivered had only driven him to respond in kind until their exchange had spiraled beyond his control.
One they’d reached that point, he couldn’t possibly have acknowledged that he secretly shared her opinions of theOpening Ball. He’d always found the entire ritual faintly absurd—young fae parading their abilities while society assessed their worth based on spectacle rather than substance. But he was not about to admit that to Lady Iris Starspun.
As the weight of attention shifted elsewhere, Jasvian found himself increasingly desperate to escape. Unlike his grandmother, who had always been skilled at managing social situations, he found every ball and social gathering where he was expected to make polite conversation to be more like navigating a maze blindfolded. Give him a quiet room or the open mountainside near the mine shafts any day.
“Lord Rowanwood!”
He turned reluctantly to find Lady Emberlee Whispermist approaching, trailed by two other young women whose names momentarily escaped him. They surrounded him in a flutter of silks and perfume, their expressions eager. “That was quite the exciting moment with the chandelier,” Lady Emberlee said, her voice pitched just high enough to grate on his already frayed nerves. “So dramatic!”
“Indeed,” he replied neutrally, searching for any graceful exit from this conversation.
“You handled it so masterfully,” another young lady—Myrissa Featherlock, he now recalled—simpered. “Transforming all that falling glass into harmless dust! Such quick thinking.”
