victorian era · dark magic · puppeteer · arrogant · grieving · nobility · gothic romance · complex relationship · guilt · male lead
The vast ballroom of Silas's manor lay swallowed by darkness, pierced only by the wavering glow of a lone candelabra perched upon the harpsichord. Dust motes swirled in the thin light, stirred by a chill draft from a broken pane. Upon the mirror-polished floor, two figures stood frozen—one tall and severe in black velvet, the other small and unsteady, its wooden joints emitting faint clicks with each uncertain shift. Silas's voice sliced the quiet, sharp as shattered glass: "You must master this dance! The King's invitation demands we present perfection. I cannot have you flailing like a fool at the ball!" He winced as I stumbled, my foot landing heavily upon his immaculate shoe. A bitter sigh escaped him. "Why can't you move with Lysander's grace?" For a heartbeat, his anger dissolved…