The invitation arrived at dusk, delivered not by courier but slipped beneath Aurelian's door in silence.
Black vellum. Crimson wax. The seal of House Vantrell.
He broke it open without ceremony. Inside: a single card.
"In shadow we remember, in light we pretend. Tonight, we dance."
Beneath it, the details: a masquerade hosted in the Vantrell wing of the estate, a symbolic gesture of unity. Attendance mandatory.
Aurelian read it twice. Then again.
Pretend.
It was the perfect word.
⸻
The ballroom had been transformed.
Velvet drapes turned the arched windows into obsidian. A thousand candles hovered above like fireflies caught mid-thought, their reflections dancing across polished marble. Music swelled from a quartet tucked beneath the mezzanine, their instruments silvered and strung with black ribbon. Every guest wore a mask.
Gold, feathered, jeweled. Some ornate, some grotesque. Each a lie. Each a weapon.
Aurelian chose his carefully—matte black, no embellishment, the kind that dared others to look away first.
He entered without fanfare, boots silent this time, and moved like smoke between the gathering shadows of diplomacy. Wine flowed. Laughter echoed. Every word tasted of tension.
And then he saw her.
Sera Vantrell stood at the far end of the room, backlit by crystal chandeliers. Her mask was ivory, carved like a falcon's beak, but it was her eyes he noticed—cool, sharp, already on him.
She wore a gown of midnight blue, sleeveless, cut high at the thigh and lower at the back. Regal, yes. But made for movement. Like armor disguised as elegance.
Their eyes met.
She crossed the room without hesitation.
"I expected you to sulk in a corridor somewhere," she said, voice low and dry.
"I considered it," Aurelian replied. "But I was told there'd be masks."
She gestured at his face. "Minimalist."
He glanced at hers. "Predatory."
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Fitting, don't you think?"
"Depends who's hunting who."
They stood in silence a moment, letting the music fill the space between them. Around them, the masquerade moved in practiced choreography—diplomats weaving through lies, nobles sipping from crystal, guards pretending not to scan for threats.
"You found the Marov name in the codex," Sera said finally.
He didn't ask how she knew.
"Yes."
"And now we're throwing a party," she said, bitter. "A celebration of the past without knowing what part of it might still be breathing."
"We do know one thing," Aurelian murmured, glancing around. "Whoever's watching us… they wanted this vow stopped. And they're not done."
She tilted her head. "You think they're here?"
"I think they'd be fools not to be."
Sera stepped closer, voice dropping an octave. "What do you think this is, Aurelian? A ritual? A trap?"
He met her gaze. "Both."
She nodded once. Then extended a gloved hand.
"Dance with me. So we don't draw attention."
He hesitated—then took it.
⸻
They moved in slow circles across the marble floor. His hand found the small of her back. Hers lingered a second too long at his collarbone. The music rose around them, violins and whispered percussion. They didn't speak—not with words—but something passed between them in that silence: a shared understanding.
They were not here for peace. Not truly.
They were here because the war beneath the vow had already begun.
"You trust Ezra?" Sera asked quietly.
"With my life."
"Then you might lose it soon."
He arched a brow.
She looked past him. "Two guards outside the northern balcony are Vantrell, but neither filed with House Security. Ezra spotted the patchwork on their cuffs. Foreign issue. Quiet steel, not royal-grade."
Aurelian's jaw tensed. "You think they're imposters?"
"I think they're not here to dance."
The music slowed, strings drawing out the final note like a blade across glass.
Aurelian dipped her, just enough to whisper: "We can't act yet. Not without knowing who sent them."
"Then we wait," she said.
"For now."
⸻
The poison came during the toast.
Lady Yvaine stood at the base of the staircase, glass in hand, her voice carrying with practiced gravitas. "Tonight, we honor not only our houses—but the blood that once swore between them. May what was broken now be mended. May silence hold no more secrets."
A chorus of glasses rose.
And then—one shattered.
A young diplomat—a cousin of the Vantrells, barely of age—collapsed mid-toast, his goblet clattering beside him. His mask split on impact. Foam stained his lips. Convulsions followed.
Screams rippled outward.
Aurelian and Ezra were moving before anyone else.
"Clear the room!" Ezra barked, kneeling beside the boy, two fingers pressed to his throat. "No pulse."
Aurelian caught the eye of a fleeing server. "Who poured his drink?"
The server stammered, then bolted.
Sera was already checking glasses. "Only his was poisoned. Others untouched."
"This wasn't a warning," Aurelian said grimly. "It was a demonstration."
Alira Vantrell appeared at Yvaine's side, expression unreadable. "He was not the target."
"No," Sera said. "But the message is clear."
Yvaine's voice cut through the noise: "Seal the estate. No one leaves."
Aurelian turned to Ezra. "Get me the servant roster. Check for any new hires in the last three days."
Ezra nodded and vanished into the crowd.
Sera faced him, voice low. "Someone inside is helping them."
He looked at the broken goblet, still dripping onto marble. "And someone out there wants us to bleed before we bind."
She touched his arm—just briefly. "This changes things."
Aurelian met her gaze, his voice barely above a whisper. "It always was war. Tonight just reminded us."
From the balcony, a wind swept through the broken hush of the ballroom, snuffing half the candles.
Outside, the fog thickened.
The masquerade was over. The masks, now, were real.