Page 178 of The Ascended
"Introducing, Thais Morvaren."
My name danced through the chamber, lingering in the air long after the syllables had been spoken. I stood at the precipice of the grand staircase, the world below me a dizzying jumble of excess and beauty. My fingers traced the gilded railing.
The ballroom sprawled beneath me. Crystal chandeliers hung from nothing. The ceiling arched impossibly high, painted with constellations I'd never seen in any mortal sky—stars that shifted and rearranged themselves. Surrounding the ballroom were massive gilded windows and terraces that opened up to the star-speckled sky.
All through the space, fire pits burned. They flickered between bright yellow and molten red, reaching high, flames licking the mist that permeated the room. They almost looked out of place, intense hues amongst all of the pastels.
The warmth that had been steadily blooming in me since I'd taken that sip intensified with each heartbeat. It prowled through my bloodstream, softening the edges of reality and heightening every sensation until even breathing sent shivers across my skin.Then I remembered—Lyralei's urgent warning. The bitter tang that had lingered on my tongue. Had it been poison? No, this feeling wasn't death. And if it was, it was pleasantly masked by pleasure.
As I descended the staircase, I felt the weight of countless immortal gazes—assessing, calculating, perhaps even admiring. The wisps of my gown whispered against my skin with each step, the sheer fabric somehow making me feel more exposed than if I wore nothing at all.
I scanned the crowd below, searching for a mismatched pair of eyes that remained frustratingly absent. Instead, my gaze found Marx standing near the base of the stairs, and the sight of her nearly stopped my descent.
She was transformed, a vision in a gown that seemed woven from the very essence of midnight. Deep maroon that bordered on black twisted up her form, revealing glimpses of skin through artful tears that suggested both violence and sensuality.
Even the servants glided through the crowd in attire that would bankrupt lesser kingdoms, their garments molded to their forms with each graceful movement. Syrena had spared no detail in creating this night of revelry.
I prepared myself for Marx's usual sardonic commentary about the stifling nature of such events, but when she spoke, her words carried a subtle slur that caught me off guard.
"You look unreal," she breathed, her eyes wide. "Have you ever seen such a beautiful place?" she asked.
The warmth pulsed through my veins again, and I found myself unable to stop from mirroring her wonder as I took in our surroundings. The ballroom truly was a marvel—a testament to the extravagance that eternity afforded. I had to actively remind myself to remain vigilant, to not surrender completely to the grandeur that surrounded us. Somewhere beneath the euphoria blooming in my chest, a kernel of wariness remained—a whisper of caution I couldn't quite silence.
"Introducing, Thatcher Morvaren."
I turned so quickly the world blurred at its edges before refocusing on the figure of my twin as he descended the same stairs I had just navigated. He moved with the easy confidence that had always been natural to him, a subtle smile playing at the corners of his mouth. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes I hadn't seen since our youthful exploits in Saltcrest, when we'd raced stolen skiffs through the harbor while merchants shouted curses from the docks. What had awakened that particular devil in him tonight?
"Fuck. Me." Marx whispered beside me, the crude words at odds with the reverent tone in which she delivered them. A servant materialized beside us, bearing a tray of crystalline flutes. Marx reached out without hesitation, claiming two.
"No, Marx!" I whispered as my memory came flooding back. My fingers closed around her wrist. "Don't drink."
I struggled to articulate why—only that Lyralei wouldn't have warned me without cause. The memory of her urgency felt distant now.
"You're right, I already had a few before you arrived," she replied, though her tone suggested annoyance at the thought of relinquishing the drink.
I knew I should have been worried for Marx, but she looked so beautiful, so vividly alive. I would keep a close watch on her, I promised myself.
Where worry should have clawed at my chest, I instead felt a flutter of anticipation. My thoughts scattered whenever I tried to focus on them, leaving only sensations in their wake—the brush of silk against my skin, the press of air in my lungs, the rhythm of blood in my veins.
"Sister dear," Thatcher drawled as he approached. “I gotta say, we clean up well, don't we?"
"Thatcher Morvaren," Marx purred, tracing a finger along the lapel of Thatcher’s coat. "You’re looking particularly delicious this evening."
Thatcher's eyes gleamed with mischief. "I could say the same about you, Marx."
“Gods. Please stop.” I managed to croak out.
There was something important we should have been discussing, wasn't there? Some danger or strategy? The thought slipped away like water through cupped hands, impossible to hold.
What I did know was that it was a welcome sight to see my brother looking so relaxed, so much like himself again after everything we'd endured. The weight that had settled on his shoulders since we'd begun this deadly game seemed temporarily lifted, allowing glimpses of the carefree boy he'd once been.
"Are you drinking that?" Thatcher inclined his head toward one of the flutes in Marx's hand. She offered it to him, her eyes fluttering up.
"No, don’t," I said again, the words fumbling from my lips as though my tongue had forgotten their shape.
“Why?” Thatcher eyed the liquid.
I struggled to remember the reason. In fact, I was having trouble remembering much of anything beyond the exquisite pleasure of existing in this moment.
