✧ Chapter Eight ✧The Masquerade of Choicesfrom Have You Someone to Protect?By ©Amer
"There are days meant for the heart to rest, so it may beat stronger tomorrow."
The sun lingered gently over Solara, casting golden streaks across cobblestones and rooftops, as if the town itself had paused to breathe in the joy of what was to come. It wasn't quite the day of the ball yet—but it might as well have been. The streets were alive with anticipation. A whole day still stood between now and the grand evening, and yet, the excitement had already taken root in every corner of the town.
Bunting fluttered from balconies. Shops lined their windows with florals and sweets. Strangers greeted each other like neighbors. In Solara, the celebration of one was the celebration of all—especially when it came to Alen.
People adored her. Not simply because she was coming of age, but because she carried the joy of the place with her. And in a town like Solara, where each house felt like a shared hearth, that meant everything.
On a whim—perhaps inspired by the town's whimsy itself—the event had been given a theme just the day before. A masquerade. The townsfolk were thrilled. It made everything more magical. Now, in addition to gowns and plans, everyone was crafting or exchanging masks—each meant to be unique, and one would even be awarded a prize at the celebration.
Inside a cozy sun-dappled parlor, laughter echoed as Lhady, Sian, and Mira rested from their morning errands. Ribbons, sewing kits, and half-finished hairpieces lay scattered around them like battle spoils. Among the chaos: half-painted masks and feathers tucked behind ears.
"Alright," she grinned, brushing her braids back. "We're all going to the ball. It's only fair we spill. Who's walking in with who?"
Sian's eyes sparkled. "You first. You already have that smug look."
"I might," Mira said, dragging the vowels playfully. "Let's just say I've accepted an invitation from a certain apprentice at the forge. He's taller than I remembered."
Sian gasped. "I knew it! The smithy's son? You're going to burn in gossip."
"Worth it."
They both turned to Lhady then, whose hands were busy arranging small silver flowers into a mask.
"So," Sian began, twirling a comb between her fingers, "who do you think she's walking in with tomorrow?"
Mira gasped. "Oh, don't tell me you haven't tried asking her."
"Of course I did! She just smiled and said, 'It's a surprise. A beautiful one.'"
"She would," Mira said, groaning. "I love her, but she's such a drama blossom."
"Let her be," Lhady said softly, brushing a few strands of thread from her lap. "It's her moment. Let her bloom."
Sian looked at her, amused. "You sound like a mother."
"She sounds like the older sister she basically is," Mira added with a playful poke to Lhady's arm. "So, big sister, what are you wearing to the ball?"
Lhady blinked, caught off guard. "Anything in my closet that isn't unraveling at the seams."
"Oh, come on," Sian groaned. "This is a ball, not a library reading."
"Besides," Mira leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "Will you and Caelum be matching?"
Lhady stared at her. "Matching?"
"You know," Sian grinned. "Coordinated colors. Subtle romance. Couple vibes."
Lhady laughed, but her gaze drifted toward the window. "I doubt he has time to even think of that. We've mostly been traveling or running errands… I don't even know if he has anything fit for a ball."
There was no mockery in her voice, only a sincere thoughtfulness. It wasn't judgment. Just worry. Would he even think to prepare something? He was always so quiet about himself.
That early evening, as the light outside shifted into the soft blues of twilight, Lhady found Caelum back at the bookshop, shelving a new stack of donated books with sleeves rolled high and quiet music humming from the open door.
She approached carefully. "Caelum?"
He turned, a hint of ink on his wrist, brow lifted. "Hm?"
"I was thinking," she said slowly, "about the ball. It's tomorrow night, and… well… do you have anything to wear?"
A pause. "You're worried about my clothes now?" he asked with a quiet smile.
"I'm just making sure," she replied, then added quickly, "Not that I think you wouldn't. I just—"
He waved off her fluster gently. "You're kind, Lhady. But don't worry. I'll be ready. You focus on enjoying the night with your friends."
"But you're attending too," she said, almost without thinking. "With me."
He paused—just long enough for her to notice—but then gave a nod. "Then I'll make sure I carry myself in a way that suits your beauty."
A flush crept up her cheeks before she could stop it, the warmth betraying her surprise—and delight.
Before their dinner, and as Lhady prepared for it, Caelum disappeared from the house like wind slipping through a crack in the wood. Without a word or announcement, he made his way into the heart of Solara, to a boutique tucked between bakeries and apothecaries. The dressmaker, an old woman with sharp eyes and a measuring tape that moved like a ribbon in flight, recognized something quiet and noble in him.
She gave him her best piece. Not the flashiest, but dignified. And, noting the silence in his manner, she offered a discount without explanation just on her mind "for causing the girls around here to blush too much."
"You remind me of someone," she said as she folded the coat for him. "Someone good. Make sure she knows you're there for her."
"I try," was all he said.
Later that evening, when Caelum returned, Little Alen stood on tiptoe waiting in the hallway with something bundled in bright cloth. "It's for you," she said proudly. "I made your mask. You're terrible at these things."
Inside the bundle: a simple yet striking mask—deep indigo edged in silver, echoing the violet Lhady often wore. It wasn't loud or elaborate, but it carried thought and care. Something meant to quietly match without needing to say so.
Caelum didn't say much, but he knelt slightly and ruffled her hair. "Thank you, Alen."
Back home, Lhady rested for a while easier. Something in his answer earlier had eased her. By dinner, Lhady noticed the weight in his shoulders was lighter. When she asked again—just one more time to be sure—he answered simply, "I've taken care of it."
Talk of bloodlines and secrets that once clouded the air seemed to fade, tucked away like books not ready to be read again. The celebration of their friend, of a girl stepping into her own story, had become more important than the shadows of their pasts.
At the same time, far beyond the noise and ribbons of Solara, a cart creaked toward the town's edge.
Silas stepped off, boots coated in the dust of the road, his cloak drawn low to hide the wear of travel—and perhaps, too, the brimming in his eyes.
He had asked—no, ordered—that there be no welcome. No flowers, no horns, no little children shouting his name. He knew this town too well. The people here adored him for his bright laughter, his wild stories, his heart-on-sleeve ways. If Caelum was known as the Quiet Knight, Silas was something else entirely—the Lightstorm, some used to call him. Always the first to start a song, to spin a tale, to charm even the grumpiest elders at market stalls.
And yet now, he arrived like a shadow. No one waiting. No fanfare. But his eyes—they searched the town with the ache of memory. Every window, every turn of the street, every echo of laughter—he had once longed for all of it from afar. Especially her.
His gaze, unbidden, darted to the way the bookshop would stand beyond the bend. His feet started forward on their own, guided by something older than thought, before a voice tugged him back.
"Oi. Where should we rest?" his friend, a fellow from the old guard—Finnan, a steady soul—hopped off behind him. "Elowen's place or the inn?"
Silas blinked. No, he told himself. Not yet.
He couldn't cause a stir. Not now. Not when the whole town was leaning into the joy of the ball. Especially not for her—Lhady deserved to enjoy the night without the past clouding the air.
"I'll wait," he said, quietly. "Let the light fall on her first. That's what he would've wanted. What I want."
And so, he turned from the bookshop and walked toward the quiet inn by the river, carrying the storm in his chest alone.
Back at the shop, as twilight fully folded into night, Lhady found herself alone in her bedroom. The air was cool, scented faintly with the lavender sachets tucked between books and linens. She stood quietly before her wardrobe, the moonlight pooling gently over the wooden floor.
She opened it slowly.
Inside, she found more dresses than one might expect from someone who lived as simply as she now did. They were elegant, timeless things—collected not out of vanity, but because of the way her guardian, Thorne Amer, once loved her. Even in their quiet life, he never let her go without beauty. She had never asked for much, but he always gave more. More than enough. Always the best he could.
In the corner hung another dress, sunlit golden yellow, long untouched. She hadn't worn it in nearly four years—not since the night before she had been left the day behind by the one she'd trusted to stay. Silas. The last person she had hoped would remain.
She didn't allow her thoughts to linger there.
Instead, with a quiet breath, she reached for the violet gown, delicate and simple in its elegance. The fabric shimmered like a soft promise, flowing in her hands as though it had always been meant for this moment. She had chosen the sunlit golden yellow before, a dress her first love had picked for an event they had attended together—but this time, she decided for herself.
This dress, this moment, would be hers alone.
It wasn't about what anyone else wanted or expected—it was the masquerade that would let her be whoever she needed to be. No history to cling to. Just her.
And in the quiet room, as the stars watched over Solara, Lhady understood what it meant to choose for herself.
The masquerade was more than a celebration of another year. It was a chance to step into a new story, one where she wrote the lines.
Then, letting the folds of memory rest back into the chest of the past, she climbed into bed and let sleep come.
Elsewhere in the house, Caelum sat silently in his own room. Before him rested two wooden chests. One was old and worn—the one he and Lhady had discovered together, heavy with echoes of a past neither of them fully understood. The other was newer, more personal, its surface marked by modest engravings.
His hands lay on this second chest, fingers tracing the lines not out of idle habit, but quiet reverence. Inside was the suit he had chosen—not flashy, but sharp and dignified. Fitting. A small, masked piece sat atop the folded coat. A gift from little Alen, hand-delivered with a grin that said nothing but meant everything. She had prepared it with thought and care.
His gaze lingered for a moment on the older chest, its silence louder than the room around him. Then he turned back to the present. He chose not to carry the weight of what was lost or buried—not yet. That would come. Tomorrow night, he would wear the present. And for once, that would be enough.
In a quiet room by the river inn, a man leaned against the slanted roof tiles beneath the night sky. Silas.
He drank sparingly from a small, half-filled flask—more for the motion than the need. His eyes, clear but tired, stared out toward the bend in the road where the bookshop stood. Or would, if he could see past the trees. He didn't need to, though. He knew exactly where it was. Every corner of this town still lived inside him like verses of a half-sung song.
He didn't allow himself to move. Not yet.
Instead, he watched the stars—those distant witnesses—and let their silence echo against the storm in his chest.
It was their masquerade of choices—their masks, their moments, their story.