We’re almost to the door.
Skeela and I move in tandem, masks low, cloaks sweeping. The weight of what we’ve done clings to our heels like soot. My pulse still rattles from the handoff—smuggling a crate of firearms through a masquerade of monsters dressed in velvet and vice isn’t something I’ll forget soon.
But we’re so close.
The stone arch that leads to the outer hall yawns open ahead, framed by blackthorn sconces and a pair of guards who haven’t looked at us twice. One step more and we’re free of this place, of its stench of opulence and rot.
Then I hear it.
A voice I haven’t heard in years, oiled and low.
“Well now. That walk’s familiar.”
I stop. Not because I want to—but because my body betrays me. Freezes. Breath catches, shallow and sharp.
Skeela glances back, but too late. The noble is already on us.
Tall. Lean. Silver thread winding through his dark braid. His mask is lacquered bone, grotesque and grinning, but I know what’s underneath. I know the voice. The stance. The tilt of his chin. His name was Vaeron. Once. Back when names had power over me. Back when he trained me like one trains a beast—to heel, to break, to bleed.
Skeela catches the shift in my body and steps forward slightly. But Vaeron is fast—too fast. He’s already curling his fingers around my upper arm.
“Well, well,” he purrs, dragging me closer. “River, was it? The little gift that escaped the box.”
My stomach flips, bile sour at the back of my throat. I keep my mask in place. Keep my face blank. I want to scream. I want to slash him open here in the middle of this gleaming nightmare. But the guards would be on us in seconds. He knows it. He counts on it.
Skeela starts to speak, but I shake my head minutely. Her eyes narrow. She understands. This is mine.
Vaeron grins like a man watching a spider crawl across his favorite glass. “Didn’t think you’d be so bold as to come back. And to a party, no less.” He leans in close, breath hot and wine-sour. “You always did like dressing up, even when we told you not to.”
“Please,” I whisper, pitching my voice small, tremulous. “Not here.”
That’s all it takes.
He smiles wider, triumphant, and gestures toward one of the side chambers lining the ballroom’s western wall.
“Then let’s find a quieter place. Somewhere we can reminisce.”
He doesn’t ask. He pulls.
I let him.
My heels click softly on the obsidian floor, each step measured, careful. The music thrums in the distance, muffled now. Skeela’s gone from my peripheral vision—vanished into the crowd. She knows better than to cause a scene.
The side room is dim, lit only by a few enchanted candelabras and the glow of a hearth set deep into volcanic stone. The walls are draped in crimson and black silk. A chaise lounge sits crooked in the center, like it’s waiting for something awful to happen on it.
Vaeron closes the door behind us and bolts it.
I turn, still silent, mask still on.
He saunters forward, leisurely now. Comfortable.
“You always were my favorite,” he says. “So clever. So obedient—until you weren’t.” He circles me like a hawk, eyes glittering. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you? I remember the sound your breath made when you were scared. Still does.”
I keep my hands at my sides, loose.
He reaches out, fingers grazing my cheek through the mask. I don’t flinch.
“You’ve aged well,” he murmurs. “Though I suppose that’s easy when you’re free. Must be nice. Eating what you want. Wearing silk instead of chains. Pity you didn’t stay broken. You wore it so well.”
