Heartbreak

Music, lights, everything was romantic.

Worries and sorrows had nothing to do with the guests.

This was a stage for joy. Now was the time to show your charm and let passion run wild.

Men and women spun merrily around the dance floor.

Pavel couldn't remember how he had managed to get through his conversation with Baron Boch.

The polite chatter about local customs, the probing questions about grain-smuggling routes, and the oblique inquiries into the Duchy of Weissen's military strength all blurred into a buzzing background noise, churning together in his mind.

He merely nodded mechanically, occasionally forcing out a smile befitting noble etiquette and making a few harmless remarks. Even his wrist trembled ever so slightly when he raised his glass.

Olga stayed by his side, her arm resting lightly in the crook of his elbow. The warmth of her fingertips seeped through his formal clothes.

That warmth should have been comforting, but now it felt like a branding iron.

Every time she introduced him to someone as "the pride of our Boiham," every time she laughed like silver bells, every time she exchanged a meaningful glance with Baron Boch—all those little gestures were magnified in Pavel's perception.

As Pavel watched it all, he suddenly felt the splendid hall slowly turning, with himself standing at its center.

"You don't look well," Olga whispered during a break between dances, her lips almost brushing his ear.

"I'm just a little tired." Pavel heard himself answer, his voice so calm that even he was surprised.

"Then you should head back early." Olga led him off the dance floor and let go. A glimmer he couldn't read flashed in her blue eyes.

Was it concern? Or appraisal?

"Get some rest. We'll talk another day."

Her words sounded like an order. Pavel nodded,