Dressed in the drab, ill-fitting gray of serving staff, Veridia Vex watched the manor from the shadows. The cheap, coarse fabric of the uniform chafed her skin, a constant, irritating reminder of her fall. Beside her, Seraphine stood with a ramrod-straight posture that fought the very nature of their disguise, a princess stuffed into the skin of a peasant. The Soul-Tether connecting them pulsed with a low, resentful thrum.
"No matter what happens," Veridia hissed, her voice a low whisper that barely carried over the distant strains of music, "you are a nobody. You are invisible. You do not speak unless spoken to, and you keep your eyes on the floor."
A wave of pure, unadulterated contempt pulsed through the link from Seraphine. *I am a Vex. I do not bow.*
Ignoring the dangerous spike of her sister's pride, Veridia moved. She lifted a stolen tray of empty goblets and, with feigned clumsiness, let it slip from her grasp. The crystal shattered on the cobblestones with a sharp, attention-grabbing crash. As the two guards at a nearby service entrance turned toward the sound, Veridia grabbed Seraphine's arm and pulled her through the now-unwatched door.
They plunged into a wall of heat and noise. The kitchens were a chaotic ballet of sweaty chefs, clanging pots, and the overwhelming scent of roasting meat and spilled wine. Veridia immediately adopted the posture of a harried servant, her shoulders hunched, her eyes downcast. She grabbed an empty tray from a stack, becoming just another cog in the machine.
Seraphine, however, recoiled as a beefy, sweating chef bumped past her. Her face twisted into a sneer of pure disgust, a look so out of place it was like a scream in a library. A sharp pulse of warning, cold and immediate, shot from Veridia's mind to hers. Seraphine flinched, the sneer vanishing as Veridia subtly steered her toward the swinging doors that led into the heart of the gilded cage.
The grand ballroom was a sea of shimmering light and suffocating pleasantries. Holographic chandeliers dripped light onto a thousand gossiping demons, their laughter a sharp, brittle counterpoint to the oppressive drone of courtly music. Veridia kept her tray held high, a shield of mediocrity that allowed her to move through the crowd unnoticed.
It didn't take long for Seraphine's arrogance to ignite. A minor, pompous lord, his jowls quivering with self-importance, dismissed her with a lazy flick of his wrist as she offered him a drink. "Be gone, girl."
Seraphine stopped dead. Her spine straightened. Veridia felt the shift through the bond—a gathering storm of pure, aristocratic fury. Before Veridia could react, Seraphine leaned in and whispered a single, venomous sentence about the lord's questionable parentage.
The demon choked on his wine, his face purpling with rage. His eyes widened, his hand shooting up to signal the guard.
From across the room, Veridia felt the twin surges of Seraphine's vindictive triumph and the lord's explosive outrage. Cursing her sister's name, she abandoned her post and rushed through the crowd. She reached them just as a guard turned his head and dropped into a deep, trembling bow.
"My deepest apologies, my lord!" she cried, her voice pitched with the perfect note of terror. "My sister… she is clumsy and foolish, new to the city. Please, forgive her ignorance!" She grabbed Seraphine's arm, her grip like iron, and dragged her fuming sister away before the situation could detonate, leaving the noble sputtering but momentarily appeased by the display of groveling.
In the relative seclusion of an alcove behind a monstrous floral arrangement, Veridia unleashed her fury. She didn't speak. She flooded their bond with a silent, brutal torrent of images: the two of them chained in Malakor's dungeons, a torturer's blade carving their flesh, the final, humiliating static of a failed mission.
Seraphine fired back, not with fear, but with a suffocating wave of indignation. *He was a jumped-up merchant's son who dared to touch me!*
*He was a trigger that would have ended us! Control yourself, or I will!* Veridia shot back, her thought a sharp, cold spike.
The silent battle ended in a tense stalemate. With a new, grudging understanding settled between them, they began to work. Veridia became the social chameleon, moving through the glittering throng as she scanned for the route to Malakor's private wing. Seraphine, sullen but compliant, stood near the walls, a silent watchtower. Flashes of information began to pulse across the link: *Two guards patrolling the west corridor. Five-minute rotation. Malakor's chief lieutenant is by the fountain. Don't let him see you.*
The system worked, until it didn't. Seraphine spotted him first. Prince Zael, laughing with a circle of sleek, modern-looking nobles. A spike of pure, professional venom shot through the bond. *Look at him,* Seraphine's thought was a razor's edge, *preening like he owns the place. He thinks he's directing this show.* Her contempt was so potent it threatened to manifest as a sneer. Veridia felt her sister's dangerous pride swell, the impulse to walk over and say something cutting, to assert her own relevance. It was the same reckless arrogance that had nearly gotten them caught before.
Acting without thinking, Veridia sent a jolt of pure, manufactured panic through the bond—a psychic shriek of terror.
Seraphine gasped as if stabbed, her body flinching violently. The tray of drinks she was holding crashed to the floor, the sound of shattering glass drawing every eye in their vicinity. The moment of dangerous attention was absolute. Thinking fast, Veridia stumbled forward, "tripping" over her own feet and sprawling onto the floor, creating a second, more pathetic diversion that made the demons sneer and turn away, their interest lost.
Their reconnaissance was finally complete. The entrance to Malakor's private wing was at the end of a quiet, opulent hallway overlooking the ballroom. It was guarded by a single, statuesque warrior. The Captain of the Malakor Guard stood like a figure carved from obsidian and iron, his eyes missing nothing, his posture a testament to absolute, unyielding vigilance.
Hiding in the shadows of a connecting passage, the sisters watched. He ignored a passing noble who tried to engage him in conversation. He refused a drink from a server with a curt shake of his head. He even spotted a minor illusionist attempting to shimmer past him, his hand moving to his sword hilt in a silent, final warning that sent the trickster scurrying away.
Through the bond, their assessment was swift and unanimous. He was loyal to the point of fanaticism, resistant to magic, and too formidable to fight. He was an immovable wall.
Veridia's mind churned, sifting through years of court gossip and whispered rumors. The Captain was a zealot who despised the frivolity and weakness of the modern Court. But there was another rumor, one she'd dismissed as a joke: a secret appreciation for sheer, unadulterated audacity. He couldn't be bribed, fooled, or fought. But perhaps he could be… engaged.
A plan formed, as brilliant as it was suicidal. The only way to get him away from that door was to create a spectacle so personal, so scandalous, that his duty would force him to intervene.
She turned to Seraphine, not with her eyes, but with her mind. Her thought was a shard of ice, precise and deadly, sent across the link with a cold dread that was matched only by its thrill of pure, performative genius.
*He won't abandon his post for a fight or a fire. But he might for a sufficiently scandalous challenge to his master's honor. One of us has to seduce him. Not for pleasure, but for performance. In the middle of the ballroom. Right now.*