Chapter Two: Awakening Sparks
That same night, another figure entered the ballroom. Unannounced. Pale as new snow, lips red as currants. Dressed in French silk, with eyes black enough to have seen centuries. His name was Count Alaric Duval, and he bowed with a grace that belonged to another age entirely.
“Your city is lovely in spring,” he said to Lady Farthingale, his accent touched by the echo of Parisian salons. “But I’ve come for something older than blossoms.”
Sweeping strings and soft candlelight wrapped the ballroom in a golden haze, but Isabelle Greystone stood rooted near the marble hearth, watching Lord Lucien Fenwick as if he’d stepped from the pages of some forbidden tale.
The waltz began.
She turned her gaze to the far end of the room. Back to Lord Lucien Fenwick. New to the region, barely known, and entirely out of place. Whispers had followed him since his arrival: that he hailed from the old northern families, that he hunted by moonlight, that he’d inherited his estate through tragedy.
Their eyes met again.
He moved—not with the practiced grace of a London beau, but like someone accustomed to wild ground and moonlight. A lowborn man would not have dared. A titled one would have waited for an introduction.
But Lucien bowed directly to her.
“Miss Greystone,” he said, voice low and rich. “May I have this dance?”
The room blurred. She raised a brow, then curtsied.
His eyes weren’t merely grey. They were storm-colored—layered, shifting, like winds roiling behind clouds. Something inside her stirred, as if it had been waiting for that voice.
A faint blush touched her cheeks, not from flattery, but from the intensity behind it. She should have turned away. She should have laughed and returned to her chaperone.
Instead, she tilted her head and offered her gloved hand.
“Yes,” she said—surprising even herself.
His hand closed gently over hers, and in that moment, the room narrowed to just the two of them. He led her into the waltz not just with elegance, but with instinct.
Their eyes met. A ripple of heat traveled through Isabelle’s spine—ancient, undeniable. He didn’t steer her toward the crowd, but toward him. Direct. Intentional.
As they stepped onto the polished floor, the orchestra began to play—a haunting waltz, neither entirely cheerful nor solemn. A song from the old countries.
Lucien’s hand at her back was firm, his presence coiled like something barely restrained.
“You don’t belong here,” he murmured as they danced, eyes locked on hers.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’re too curious. Too sharp. The London Season is no place for minds like yours.”
Isabelle’s lips parted. “And yet, here you are.”
His smile flickered—brief, unreadable. “I’m not here for the Season. I’m here for you.”
Her heart stumbled. “Have we met before?”
“Not in this life.” “I’m Lucien Fenwick—of the Veilwatch. A bloodline born on the moors of Northumberland, sworn to guard the veil between worlds.”
She froze. He didn’t smile. He simply met her gaze—steady, unblinking. As if the past clung to her face, and he was the only one who could see it.
The music crescendoed. Isabelle turned in his arms, heart pounding in rhythm with the violins.
“Why?” she whispered, nearly lost in the swell.
Lucien hesitated—just a breath—but she felt it.
“Because something ancient is stirring. And you, Miss Greystone, are part of it. Even if you don’t know it yet.”
“I’ve felt it before,” he continued, voice low. “On the moors near Fenwick, where the stones still whisper. Where wolves once walked in both skin and shadow. The veil thins there… and now, it’s thinning around you.”
Isabelle didn’t breathe.
“You’re speaking in riddles.”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m speaking in warnings.”
Before she could respond, a sudden chill swept through the room.
The violins faltered. A candle guttered.
And then he appeared—Count Alaric Duval, gliding across the floor like smoke. Guests turned to look, some drawn to his elegance, others chilled by it.
Lucien stiffened.
Their gazes met across the ballroom—not Isabelle’s and Alaric’s, but Lucien’s and his.
Predator to predator.
Duval bowed slightly in greeting, eyes cold. Lucien inclined his head, jaw tight.
Around them, the mortals danced and laughed, unaware of the taut thread stretched between two ancient bloodlines.
And Isabelle Greystone, a girl with no title and a love for old texts, was the key to a pact older than England itself.