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"Well, if you'd like, you could stay after the party. I'd be delighted to discuss the works of St. Vindicus... in private."
The baroness shoots him a coy glance over her fan, leaving no doubt about the true nature of her invitation.
She is undeniably a striking woman. Her smooth olive skin glows under the chandelier’s light, and her thick, dark hair is woven into an intricate tapestry of braids. It is clearly a source of pride; after all, every other lady in the room hides her locks beneath an elaborate wig. Yet, her most captivating feature is her dark eyes.
When Heinrix first met her, he noted the weight of her gaze - intense and almost piercing. Now, though, her eyes are different, filled with promise and a mysterious allure that makes his pulse quicken.
This is not a look he has ever received from a woman. Even now, part of him believes it is all a cruel jest. Surely, the baroness is simply toying with him—the poor, maimed freak. What could a woman of her beauty and status want with him, a one-eyed limping invalid, barely able to lift his left hand?
He catches sight of himself in one of the ballroom's grand mirrors. For a moment, he hardly recognizes the man staring back. His dark grey eyes meet his own, steady and thoughtful. From this distance, they appear the same color. He is tall, broad-shouldered, his square chin is set tight, giving him the look of unyielding resolve. Heinrix notes that he looks like a man at whom a lady might very well shoot coy glances. A flicker of something stirs in him, a feeling he struggles to name. Giddiness? Self-satisfaction? Pride?
He had always told himself that his painstaking recovery was for the Inquisition’s sake: to be more useful, more inconspicuous during missions. But now, he wonders if that was the whole truth.
He gives the baroness a small smile and bows with practiced deference. "My lady, I would be delighted."
Her gaze falls on him like a sunbeam, flooding him with a sudden, searing warmth.
Later, he reflects on what happened that night.
He remembers the clumsiness of his hands as he fumbled with her dress, unsure of what to do. She was his first, after all. Felicia only smiled, her passion unshaken by his inexperience. He recalls the way she looked at him, her eyes drunk with desire as her fingertips traced his torso. He remembers the sound of her voice, breathless, repeating his name as he moved against her.
And now, he finally understands the feeling he could not quite identify in the ballroom.
Normal. For the first time in years, he felt like a normal person.
He looks at his reflection. His dark grey eyes meet his own, steady and thoughtful. From this close, the subtle difference in their shades becomes unmistakable. The last remaining clue of who he really is.