I part the beaded curtain and step through as the melody coils through the air, slow and hypnotic. The cool strands brush against my fingers as they sway closed behind me. The air is thick with heady perfume, spiced wine, bodies pressed dangerously close. I donot need to look at the others to know they feel it, too. The unseen undercurrent beneath all this beauty. The tension wound tight enough to snap.
It hums in my blood. It feels like home.
I let my gaze sweep the room, cataloging the players in this game before they can do the same to me.
And then I see her.
Seated upon a gilded chair that is no throne but might as well be, her posture languid. As if all of this, this performance, this illusion, exists purely for her amusement.
Her pitch-black hair falls in sleek ringlets, a thin golden circlet resting against her brow. It glints softly in the light, forged from the same delicate metal as the mask that conceals most of her face. But her eyes, an eerie, liquid blue, are unmistakable.
Lady Marlayna of House Taramethos.
Of course, she is still here. Of course, she still rules them.
I do not know why I am surprised.
But if I recognize Marlayna, then without a doubt, she will recognize me.
I cannot risk that.
My gaze lifts to the balconies above, shadowed alcoves hanging watchfully over the masquerade.
“Where is the mirror?” I whisper to Tamis.
“I’m not sure,” he says.
It takes every ounce of restraint not to gut him where he stands for such a worthless answer.
“Sometimes it’s beside her,” he adds, voice low. “Other times... upstairs. In the parlor.”
I scan the chamber again, my eyes dragging over every surface. Nothing. No glint of silver, no sign of it at all.
“It must be upstairs,” I mutter, the frustration coiling tight beneath my ribs.
“Possibly,” Reon murmurs, following my line of sight. He tips his head toward the Fae guards at the base of the stairs, their expressions blank, their presence anything but idle. “They are clearly guarding something.”
I nod. “Then upstairs is where I must go.”
Zyphoro smirks, eyes gleaming with that signature reckless amusement. “You’ll need a distraction, I assume?”
She turns to Reon, head tilting just so, eyes of the storm flashing beneath her mask. “May I have this dance, Lord of Eyr’Drogul?”
His tongue rolls against the inside of his cheek as he casts his gaze over her in a slow, appreciative sweep. His smile is crooked, shameless and enough to make my stomach churn.
“I thought this ginger wasn’t allowed to touch that flawless skin of yours?”
In a flash, Zyphoro grabs him by the collar and yanks him close, their faces nearly touching, a breath of a whisper separating their indulgent smirks.
“It must be your lucky night, then,” she purrs. “Be sure to savor it.”
Reon grins, biting back a groan as he seizes her wrists and drapes them over his shoulders, hands sliding down to clutch her waist. He takes control, rough and eager, and Zyphoro laughs, surrendering to his lead with a glint in her eyes that dares him to try harder.
In an instant, he spins her into the swell of masked bodies, their steps sliding into rhythm as the violinists quicken their tempo. The eerie melody winds tighter, a noose of sound pulling the dancers deeper into its thrall, each movement more fevered, like they’ve all forgotten where the music ends and the spell begins.
I catch the way Tamis’ chin drops to his chest, shoulders caving in. Poor, pathetic, fucking soul.
“I’m getting a drink,” he mutters, sulking off.
