Blades In The Ballroom

The music had softened, but the feeling in the air remained electric.

Neon and Aria moved in perfect synchrony, the tension of the world outside momentarily forgotten as they twirled across the marble floor.

The weight of the crowd, the burning gazes of the elite, all of it seemed so far away, reduced to distant echoes beneath the warmth of their shared space. His fingers pressed gently into her back, his eyes never leaving hers as they danced, the world around them fading to a soft hum. Aria momentarily rested her head softly on his chest as they slowed down to the song, coming even closer. 

There was no war, no violence, no division. Just the two of them, together.

But that peace was fragile. Neon could feel it in the air—the undercurrent of discontent, the tension that rippled through the crowd, simmering just below the surface.

And then, a voice cut through the moment.

“You there.” The tone was sharp, commanding, without mercy. Neon’s heart stilled as he felt Aria’s hand tighten in his.

Aria’s mother stood at the edge of the ballroom, her gaze fixed on the pair with an icy, appraising stare. The flicker of displeasure in her eyes was unmistakable, and the tension in the room grew thicker still as she strode forward, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor.

Neon remained still, his body tensed. He didn’t need to hear her words to know what was coming. He’d seen that look before.

“You’ve made a mockery of this evening long enough,” the queen said to Neon, her voice carrying through the grand hall. “Separate them. This farce ends now.”

A hushed silence followed her words, the music halting, the murmurs of the nobility rising in a wave of shocked whispers. His grip on Aria tightened instinctively.

“You can’t be serious.” Aria’s voice was low but fierce, her eyes locked onto her mother’s with defiance. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, her body poised in a way that told Neon she wasn’t going to back down easily.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Aria.” The queen’s voice was chilling, her eyes narrowing. “This disgrace will not stand. I will not tolerate this—this embarrassment.”

But before the words could continue, a shift in the air occurred. 

Neon’s instincts flared, and his eyes immediately scanned the room, narrowing as they caught the faintest flicker of movement. It started with a whisper of motion. A ripple of figures shifting where they shouldn’t have been. Neon caught it instantly. Scattered through the ballroom, each placed with purpose. 

His breath hitched, his heart skipping a beat.

They were here.  

Neon’s body shifted instinctively. He had no weapons on him—not even a dagger or a pistol. He had been forced to don the formal attire of a Militian. But that didn’t matter. His eyes locked onto the figures in the crowd, calculating, assessing.

There were four of them. He had to stop them, but how?

A whisper of motion, a sharp intake of breath. The sudden flicker of a projectile—flying from the distance, aimed directly at the queen.

Aria’s mother. The threat was unmistakable.

Without a second thought, Neon moved.

His body surged forward, faster than he had ever moved in his life. He lunged into the path of the incoming projectile, throwing himself between it and the queen, his arm outstretched in a desperate attempt to intercept. The impact was jarring, but his quick reflexes paid off—his hand closed around the dagger, the tip of the metal biting into his skin instead.

Time slowed for a moment.

Neon stood there, chest heaving, the queen’s shocked gaze meeting his. For a second, everything felt still, as though even the chaos of the world outside had stopped. His held his hand as blood pooled onto the floor below him.

And then, as the sound of battle erupted around them, the queen regained her composure.

“Guards!” she shouted, her voice now full of authority. “Evacuate the guests! Protect my daughter—at all costs!”

Neon’s pulse quickened as the sound of scuffling filled the air. The room erupted into chaos, but the queen’s voice cut through it all, like the commanding presence she was.

One of the Militian guards hesitated, glancing back at the queen before looking to Aria.

For a brief, fragile moment, the room fell silent—guards frozen, their loyalty clashing with their fear. But there was no hesitation from the man who had been closest to Aria. He broke from his post, his eyes wide with disbelief, but his feet were already moving toward the princess, his orders clear.

Aria’s mother, the queen, stood tall, despite the tremor of panic creeping beneath her regal mask. She had no time to ask questions. No time to mourn the distance now between herself and her daughter.

Neon felt the weight of the moment hit him like a blaze. His eyes swept the room, calculating, assessing. The cloaked figures had scattered. Three of them had made their moves—two lay incapacitated, their attempts thwarted by his quick strikes, their weapons discarded in a blur of motion.

But the last one—the one with the knife—moved fast. Too fast.

Neon barely saw the blur of steel before the figure lunged at the queen, his blade a flash of silver aimed at her throat. The moment seemed to slow as the weapon came closer, but Neon’s body reacted before his mind could catch up.

He was already in motion—faster than a heartbeat—his hands flying out to intercept. But in the same moment, the second enemy sprung from the shadows with a snarl, turning his blade on Aria, his cold eyes locked onto the princess like a predator sizing up its prey.

A gasp tore from Aria’s lips, her gaze locked on the attacker, her body paralyzed by the terror of the sudden, overwhelming danger. 

Neon’s heart raced in his chest, every muscle screaming as he darted forward, his instincts screaming to save her, to shield her from this nightmare.

The attacker’s sharp blade hovered just inches from Aria’s neck, poised and ready to strike any second. Neon’s eyes flicked between them, panic and clarity blending into a single, burning desire to protect.

The queen’s own gaze never left the enemy who was now threatening her life, and she shifted her weight, preparing to move—but it was already too late. The cloak of one of the attackers swept close to her, and with one swift motion, the blade was at her throat.

It was a brutal, fluid moment, the sharpness of the danger cutting through the room like the edge of a broken promise.

The queen’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes locked on the attacker. 

For the first time in her life, she was utterly vulnerable, pinned between two captors—one at her throat and the other at her daughter’s side.

Aria tried to cry out to Neon as the cold steel pressed gently against her skin. Her hand trembled, reaching for him.

But it wasn’t enough. No words came from her lips, only silence. A silence that echoed in Neon’s mind, pushing him toward the impossible.

Neon’s chest heaved as he skidded to a stop in front of the queen, his eyes wild with fury. The line between life and death was razor-thin in that instant.

Then, the air cracked with the sound of another movement, another enemy.

A new figure appeared in the smoke, her embroidered cloak swirling around her like the very essence of night. 

Neon’s heart stopped for just a moment.

It couldn’t be.

Her. 

His throat tightened. The realization was cold. The woman who had attacked him in the ruins—the one who had planned this entire attack from the shadows.

This was no simple attacker. This was the architect’s partner, the one who called herself queen of the world, who had set everything into motion. The supposed mastermind behind it all. 

And now, she was here.

He whispered in disbelief. “The architect’s shadow... his partner... the queen.”

Her cold, predatory gaze met his, and for a moment, the world seemed to freeze. She was more than just another soldier; she was their key to everything.

Neon took a small step back, glancing at Aria, then the Militian queen. They had to get to the architect. He had to force this woman to lead him to the heart of it all. To Origin.

“You’ll regret this,” he murmured under his breath, his gaze hardening as he locked eyes with the figure under the hood, staring into blankness.

The architect’s partner, cloaked in mystery and danger, standing between him and the one thing they all needed. 

Answers.