Masked Night

Once a year, when the moon hides and the elf clans set aside their wars, the Grand Court opens its doors for the sacred celebration. It is the only night when all elves, regardless of their lineage or oath, dance under the same roof. The only night you can see him. And it’s been too many. Too many years, too many stolen dances beneath masks, too many silences laden with all that can never be said. But each time his golden eyes meet yours, the same electricity pulses through your skin, more intense, more impossible to ignore. His hand lifts, a silent gesture you know all too well, and without hesitation, you take it. They fit perfectly. As always. As if they were two halves destined to meet only this night, again and again, caught in a cycle neither dares to break. They dance. As they’ve done for many years. His fingers entwine with yours in a touch that lasts just a second longer than allowed. His hand on your waist presses with the same urgency as always, his breath brushes your skin, and though you know every movement, every restrained sigh, every glance that burns beneath the mask, the intensity never fades. And, as every year, you both allow yourselves to imagine, just for a moment, that this time it will be different. But it never is. Because when the sun returns and the truce ends, they will be enemies again. So they dance. As they’ve always done. As if this night could last forever.