Our group begins to gather as we disembark from the carriages. Ulric, at the front of the pack, steps down from his larger carriage and turns to guide Cinna out after him. The Caprelli, barely half his size, lands with effortless elegance.

  Less elegantly, however, Saria leaps out of her carriage and lands barefoot, her skirt bunched under one arm and her heels dangling from the other hand. Her expression already suggests she’s weighing the possibility of spending the entire night without putting them back on.

  “Look at you, Cove. All done up—dangerous, that.” Veil emerges behind her with a bright smile, his gaze darting between me and Til. I relax into a resigned smile.

  “You too. Do me a favor—look confused all night. It’ll suit you.”

  I chuckle softly. He looks puzzled by the comment, but doesn’t linger on it. His attention is quickly stolen by Cinna and Ulric, whom he clearly intends to stick close to as long as possible. Saria trails after him idly, heels still dangling from her hand.

  “Magical slippers on, everyone. Tonight is one for the record books!” Signora calls from behind me.

  I see Saria flinch and glance back. I turn as well.

  Signora looks elegant, wearing her ensemble with calm confidence, her makeup thick and striking even paired with the more masculine cut of her clothing. But my attention doesn’t stay on her for long.

  I’m immediately drawn to the one resting a hand lightly at the crook of her elbow.

  Precise posture. Sharp features softened by masterful makeup. White, silky hair gathered beneath a large bow, yet still flowing as she moves. Her tail rests low and poised. The light blue dress fits her so perfectly it almost feels like a second skin.

  I can barely recognize Cattleya. Intellectually, I know it’s her—but…

  She looks like a different person.

  Feels like one, too.

  My eyes follow hers, searching for any reaction. My jaw tightens.

  As if sensing my attention, her gaze drops as she approaches. But the moment she passes me, our eyes meet. Her careful expression cracks—just for a moment. A slight furrow of her brows. A narrowing of her eyes.

  Then she looks away again, forcing herself back into composure.

  Cat…

  Before the feeling can fully consume me, a hand settles against the flat of my back, grounding me, guiding me to turn.

  I look toward Til. What greets me is a warm smile, completely unaware of the storm in my head. Once I’ve turned fully, he withdraws his hand and offers me his elbow.

  “Ready?” he asks gently, waiting patiently as my expression shifts through a dozen thoughts before settling into something professional.

  I slip my hand through his arm and step closer.

  “Lead the way, Captain,” I say with a confident smile, locking those intrusive thoughts neatly away—for now.

  As we step through the gates leading into the Concord gardens, we move forward slowly in neat double-file pairs, circling the large fountains before converging again between the rose bushes. A low murmur of conversation fills the air around us—unhurried, unrestrained.

  The density of Vellaris is replaced here with something else entirely. Exclusivity. Fine dresses. Immaculate tailoring. Jewelry of expensive metals and rarer stones.

  And somehow…

  I feel like I belong.

  At least for now.

  Even if everything that makes me part of this world is borrowed.

  Fake.

  I glance up at Til. He doesn’t notice. His jaw is tight, posture rigid, eyes scanning like a soldier crossing hostile ground.

  I can’t help but chuckle.

  …Fake? Huh.

  The thought lingers. At my soft laugh, he glances down at me with a nervous smile. I squeeze his arm twice. The gesture seems to steady him, loosening some of that tension.

  We both look forward again as the main doors loom ahead—or rather, a gate. Majestic. Massive. A full carriage could pass through it easily.

  Two sentries stand at either side. Aureate—obvious from the armor alone. Their eyes never land on any of us, scanning the environment instead. To look directly at guests would be rude. Unacceptable.

  Inside, more sentries line the halls. None address us. None guide us. They don’t need to. The steady current of attendees makes the path obvious.

  We move deeper in a straight line. The first great hall is bisected by our route, grand staircases rising along either side. The corridor beyond is lined with paintings—portraits of men. Dozens. Nearing a hundred. Past and present members of the Council of Scales.

  By the time we pass the final doors, I can already hear music ahead.

  A live band plays something slow and easy as we step into the ballroom. Massive chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, which is paneled with sheer crystalline plates, letting us see the night sky beyond in something like a mosaic.

  We trickle into the room with the rest of the crowd. As people disperse into clusters of conversation, we pause—momentarily unsure what to do.

  I glance up at Til. He’s already looking down at me, uncertain.

  “We should look the part,” I tease, squeezing his arm again. “Ready to charm the obscenely wealthy?”

  I grin.

  “You could tell a few stories about your voyages. Exaggerate the numbers a little. Maybe tell them you own an entire trading company.”

  I’m already chuckling when Til furrows his brows, visibly uncomfortable with that level of embellishment.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  He changes the subject by signaling to a nearby servant carrying a tray. He retrieves two glasses of expensive-looking wine and offers one to me.

  “I shouldn’t be drinking,” he says, apologetic. “But I suspect we’ll need it.”

  I accept the offered glass with a confident smirk.

  “I remember you got better at drinking the last time we indulged,” I say, playfully nudging him. “The first time we went out after we met—one glass and you were already tripping over your words.”

  I’m far too amused to remember how to behave like a proper lady.

  He scoffs, already taking a sip. The levity seems to relax him a little.

  Good.

  “Lady Lioren will arrive shortly, along with the night’s most esteemed guests.”

  The voice sounds beside me. I turn to see an Altari man—older, though with delicate features sharpened by angular bone structure. His long hair is tied neatly into a ponytail, flowing down the back of richly embroidered robes.

  “Ah—of course. I am very much looking forward to meeting Lady Lioren. I’m certain whoever she chooses will be… fortunate.”

  I turn too quickly, slipping into the practiced cadence without thinking, the words spilling out in an attempt to match the environment.

  Instead, I’m met with confusion.

  The man looks surprised. The woman at his arm looks equally so—taller than him, also Altari, long blonde hair tied into a neat bun with long bangs framing her face.

  “Thank you for the warning, Commander. We’ll be ready,” Tilemachos says gently, settling a hand on my shoulder.

  …Eh?

  I look back at the man—and the pieces click.

  That… is Lucius.

  I’ve never seen him clean-shaven. Or clean, for that matter. Even if his robes look very close to what he usually wears… at least he isn’t pairing them with sweatpants this time.

  “…You look good, Commander. I genuinely didn’t recognize you,” I say with an awkward chuckle. “Who is—” I gesture vaguely toward the woman.

  “Lenore,” she says warmly. “A pleasure, Imone. Lucius has spoken highly of you.”

  My brows lift as I glance toward Lucius.

  “My wife,” he states simply.

  …Huh.

  Feeling it appropriate, I step back and offer a curtsy. She mirrors the gesture. We both smile and chuckle softly, amused by the ceremony of it all.

  Before we can say anything else, Lucius is already stepping away—without a word, as always. Lenore gives a small waggle of her fingers as she follows beside him.

  “I had a long conversation with the Commander when I first arrived,” Til says as he steps closer, relaxed now. “He’s a career mercenary,” Til says, quieter. “Runs a textile importing business he inherited from his family. Not too different from me and my father’s smithy.”

  We both glance toward Lucius as he disappears into the crowd.

  “Huh… Never knew. Never thought about it.”

  I take a sip of my drink, then glance back up at Til.

  “Looks like you have more in common with him than just cleaning up nicely when you make the effort.”

  Another tease. Another grin.

  “…He also met Lenore while working in our field,” Til continues, voice growing more careful. “They worked together for years until they… well, got married.”

  His gaze lingers on me, searching, as if waiting to see whether I’ll catch the implication.

  And how couldn’t I?

  I did imagine it, sometimes. What it would be like. What our life might have looked like.

  It still makes something warm stir in my chest—but the idea itself feels distant now. Nostalgic.

  “I’m impressed,” I say, offering him a relaxed smile. “You’ve been in the company less time than I have and you’re already this close with the Commander. Good on you, Captain.”

  The words seem to ease something in him. He lets the moment pass with another sip of his drink, his gaze drifting back out across the ballroom.

  I do the same.

  Scanning the sea of expensive dresses and floral perfumes, wondering if I’ll spot anyone I know.

  A faint, hopeful tingle in my chest urges me forward. Noticing my movement, Til steps in to match my pace, soon offering his arm. I take it without thinking, resting my hand against his sleeve.

  But it feels futile. The ballroom is enormous. There must be a thousand people here, and more still trickle in through the doors we entered from.

  My search doesn’t last long.

  The lights dim.

  The music slows… then stops.

  Like many others, I turn my gaze toward the staircase at the far side of the ballroom. At its peak stands an older gentleman in lavish attire, magical lighting drawing every eye toward him.

  When he speaks, his voice carries effortlessly, a crystal held in his hand amplifying both range and volume.

  “Honored guests—thank you for gracing us with your presence tonight.”

  He raises a jeweled goblet.

  “May coin flow through your ventures.

  May your scales forever tip in your favor.

  May the markets welcome all that you offer.”

  His gaze sweeps slowly across the crowd.

  “We gather tonight to celebrate the coming of age of my beloved Lioren. A lady of unbreakable spirit and unwavering loyalty—one whose presence alone has the power to soften even our darkest days.”

  His voice lowers slightly.

  “When her father… my brother… met his end under such tragic circumstances…”

  He pauses, the silence carefully measured.

  “She mourned him for a thousand days and a thousand nights. Yet even in grief, she never turned from those who depended on her. Not even from me, who mourned my brother beside her.”

  He presses a hand to his chest.

  “The very pinnacle of our values. Loyalty. Industry. Sacrifice.”

  His voice tightens, as if held carefully on the edge of emotion. Instead of breaking, he lifts his goblet and drinks deeply. Around us, several guests mirror the gesture.

  “May I present to you… Lady Lioren.”

  The man steps aside, leaving the doorway clear.

  She emerges in a long silver dress that clings to her frame, panels of it sparkling under the concentrated stair lighting. She lifts one hand in a graceful acknowledgment, smiling gently.

  The crowd erupts into applause.

  “Tonight, I encourage you to seek her permission for a dance. May her favor bless both you… and your fortunes.”

  He raises the goblet again. Applause swells, then gradually fades as he lowers it.

  “The first dance has been reserved for a guest of honor. A man who may one day sit beside me at the Council table. A man to whom this city owes a great deal.”

  He gestures toward the doorway once more.

  “Allow me to present… Edgar Nura.”

  My blood runs cold.

  I expected to see Edgar here, yes—but this? An emerging council member? Not only that… this close to them?

  Will Signora’s plan even work now?

  Before I can think further, he emerges.

  Lioren offers him a deep curtsy as he approaches, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

  And a mask covers his face.

  Something so unusual… and yet the crowd accepts it without question.

  Like his attendants, his clothing is excessively layered, concealing every inch of skin. A thick leather glove extends toward Lioren. She places her hand into it.

  The crowd applauds once more.

  The ceremony concludes, and they descend the staircase together, hands joined.

  The council member follows behind them.

  Then another pair emerges.

  One of them I recognize instantly.

  Dark horns sweeping upward. Green hair braided into an elaborate bun threaded with fine jewelry. Magenta eyes that seem to find me even across the distance.

  Minnara.

  She descends beside a man dressed much like Edgar—larger, broader, the same uncanny mask concealing his face.

  …Is it really a face, though?

  Are they truly here?

  Did Edgar—and whoever that man is—remain elsewhere, sending puppets in their place?

  The thought unsettles me.

  But I’ll find out soon enough.