His hand drops toward my collarbone, and I move.
Fast.
The trench knife slides out from the hidden sheath under my gown’s sleeve. He doesn’t even register the movement until it’s too late.
I slash upward—clean, precise.
His eyes go wide. Blood blooms like dark wine across his throat, spraying hot and thick onto my gown, the floor, the chaise. He stumbles back, gargling, clutching the wound with both hands.
I don’t wait to watch him fall. I wipe the blade on the hem of the chaise’s cushion, sheathe it again, and adjust my mask. My breath comes slow, controlled. My heart’s a war drum, but I lock it down tight.
I unlock the door and step out like I belong.
Back into the ballroom, back into the music and perfume and masks. My steps are deliberate. Calm. I feel every eye thatisn’ton me and keep walking.
Behind me, a wet thud. I think it’s over…until I hear, impossibly, the sound of him scrambling to his feet. I try to keepwalking, but I’ll stand out more if I don’t look back along with everyone else.
The noble staggers forward, throat torn open, gurgling blood on cracked stone. His voice rattles—not words, but thick rasping gasp that blooms up the corridor like a warning. One hand clasps the wound; the other needles through dark air, pointing at me with a finger slick with red.
Time shudders.
Someone screams. A glass shatters. Music crashes into discord. And just like that, the masquerade becomes a powder keg.
“Assassin!”
“The girl?—!”
“Stop her!”
I move.
Not like a dancer now. Like prey. Fast and sure-footed through chaos, cutting between silk-clad nobles and gaping onlookers. The hem of my gown catches on a broken chair leg, rips up to the knee. Doesn’t matter. I run.
A guard lunges—dark armor, red eyes, hand outstretched. I duck low, twist, let his momentum carry him past me into a pair of shrieking courtiers. The scent of burning oil hits my nose—someone’s knocked over a brazier. Fire crawls up a velvet curtain, lighting the shadows blood-red.
I sprint through a hallway of mirrored panels, each reflection a nightmare version of myself—masked and blood-spattered, eyes wild, gown torn. My heart jackhammers. My lungs burn. My mouth tastes like iron.
Guards shout behind me. “She went this way!” “Cut her off!” “Stop the whore!”
I hit the garden terrace, boots skidding on wet stone. The moon hangs fat and cruel overhead, bathing the world in silver and smoke. The scent of crushed flowers and spilt wine clings toeverything. I vault over a balustrade, land hard in the overgrown hedges below. Thorns bite into my calves. I don’t stop.
Through the garden. Over crumbling statuary. Past dry fountains and ghostly trees with white bark and twisted limbs. The city walls loom beyond, black against the stars.
I see him.
Kragna.
He’s already there—half in shadow, cloak thrown back, eyes glowing faintly with that same wild light he gets when the blood’s up. His nostrils flare, and when he sees me, he doesn’t ask questions.
He just grabs my hand.
We run.
Down a narrow alley that reeks of piss and ash, past shuttered shops and flickering lanterns. The city behind us groans with panic—bells clanging, dogs barking, shouts overlapping like battle hymns.
I stumble. He catches me. Keeps going.
“You good?” he pants.
