Keep it together, keep it together.
She fixes her eyes on a candle ahead of her, training them on it so intently to keep herself calm, focused. She doesn’t look at Kael. She can’t. Cannot see if the Decay bleeds through his irises. Cannot see if his veins darken.
Her jaw clenches, squeezing her molars so tightly they almost crack.
“All done, proceed,” the guard announces, and Elyssara exhales the breath she’s been holding.
Kael steps up beside her, all calm and casual.
“No idea what you’re so nervous about, El,” he teases, throwing her a wink from behind his mask.
She huffs a laugh in response. “Yeah, because a weapons check went so fucking well for us last time.”
He smirks, but his eyes are already scanning the room, cataloging exits, guards, and no doubt, looking for Maireth.
Elyssara follows his gaze.
The grand hall of Azhareth stretches before them in a cathedral of red, bone, and gold. Lacquered pillars rise toward a vaulted ceiling painted with grotesque beasts and celestial constellations, their scales catching the lanternlight like scattered embers. Silk banners cascade between the columns, their crimson folds whispering softly in the currents of warm air drifting through the chamber.
Everywhere she looks, wealth bleeds from the walls. A reminder of how engineered the Outside is—poverty by design.
Gold filigree. Jade inlays. Intricate carvings worked so finely they look as though they were grown rather than sculpted.
And beneath it all—eyes.
The court of Caeloria watches.
Some with curiosity.
Some with constructed neutrality.
Some with calculation.
Some with barely concealed disdain.
The eyes do not witness history; they wait to see which way blood will spill.
Elyssara lifts her chin and walks anyway. She barely makes it three steps into the hall before the sensation hits her.
A gaze.
Sharp enough to feel like fingers sliding along her spine.
Her steps slow.
Across the room, just beyond a sweep of silk-draped nobles and glittering masks, a woman stands watching her.
No.
Not watching.
Assessing.
Stalking.
The woman is young—no older than Elyssara herself—but the room seems to bend subtly around her presence. As if the court itself knows exactly where its gravity lies.
Long dark hair is drawn back with elaborate crimson pins, red silk tassels falling like droplets of blood against the pale curve of her neck. Her gown is a masterpiece of ivory silk embroidered with winding scarlet patterns that curl across her shoulders and down her arm like living flame.
