Chapter 6: A Blade’s First Ball
The night was silent.
The mansion's corridors were dimly lit by soft candlelight, their flickering glow casting long shadows across the pristine floors. The scent of lavender and burning wax lingered in the air, a familiar aroma of wealth and power.
She had finished her tasks for the evening.
The silverware was polished to perfection. The floors had been scrubbed until they gleamed. Vaera's chambers had been tidied, her nightgown neatly placed on the bed, ready for when she returned.
There was nothing left to do.
Yet she did not rest.
She never did.
Instead, she stood at the window of her small room, gazing out into the vast estate gardens. The moon hung high above the sprawling maze of roses and hedges, its pale light illuminating the pathways where nobles strolled during daylight hours.
She had never once stepped into that garden.
The flowers were beautiful, but their beauty was fragile.
Fleeting.
She had no interest in such things.
Her fingers idly traced the handle of the dagger she always kept by her side. The cool metal was far more comforting than any flower could ever be.
A knock echoed at her door.
Soft, yet deliberate.
She turned immediately.
There was only one person who would visit her at this hour.
"…Enter."
The door opened, and Vaera stepped inside.
Even in the dim candlelight, her silver hair shimmered like stardust, her violet eyes gleaming with quiet amusement as she studied her. She was dressed in a silken nightgown, its dark fabric flowing around her like liquid shadow.
Her presence was commanding, even in something as simple as sleepwear.
The sight of her filled her with a familiar warmth.
Vaera closed the door behind her, leaning slightly against it as she regarded her maid with a knowing look.
"You're awake."
"I do not require much sleep," she responded.
Vaera smirked. "No, I suppose you don't."
There was a pause.
Then—Vaera straightened, her gaze sharpening ever so slightly.
"Tomorrow, you will be accompanying me to a gathering."
She did not blink.
"…A noble gathering?"
"Yes." Vaera tilted her head, as if watching for a reaction. "It will be your first time outside the estate in an official capacity."
She considered this for a moment.
A noble gathering.
A room filled with powerful aristocrats, all indulging in their shallow conversations, their veiled insults, their endless schemes.
It would be… interesting.
But more importantly—
She would be by Vaera's side.
And that was all that mattered.
She bowed her head. "Understood, my lady."
Vaera hummed in approval, taking a few steps closer.
Her scent filled the air—rosewater and something deeper, something dangerous.
Like poisoned wine.
"There will be many eyes watching us," she murmured, her voice softer now. "Some will be curious. Others will be looking for weakness."
Weakness.
The very word made her fingers twitch.
She would never allow that.
"Then I will ensure I meet your expectations."
Vaera smiled. "You always do."
She reached out—her slender fingers tilting her maid's chin upwards, forcing their gazes to meet.
For a brief moment, there was silence.
Then—Vaera's lips curved.
"I will require your assistance in preparing."
The warmth in her chest deepened.
She lived for these moments.
For the chance to serve.
For the chance to prove herself.
She straightened, her expression calm and composed.
"As you wish, my lady."
The preparations began immediately.
The wardrobe in Vaera's chambers was immense.
Silks of the finest weave. Velvet imported from distant kingdoms. Dresses embroidered with gold and laced with gemstones.
Every piece was exquisite.
Yet, despite the overwhelming luxury, Vaera was picky.
She sat at the edge of her vanity, watching as her maid carefully sorted through the selections.
"This one?"
She held up a deep violet gown, its bodice lined with silver thread.
Vaera barely glanced at it.
"No."
She returned it.
Another.
"This?"
A black and crimson dress, the corset adorned with intricate rose motifs.
Vaera's fingers tapped against her vanity.
"…Perhaps."
She set it aside.
One by one, she displayed the choices.
And one by one, Vaera dismissed them.
Until, finally—
A dress of midnight blue.
Its fabric shimmered like the night sky, speckled with subtle hints of silver that caught the light at certain angles.
It was elegant. Commanding.
Perfect.
Vaera's lips curled.
"This one."
She nodded, setting the gown carefully on the bed.
Next—the accessories.
Jewelry boxes were opened, displaying an array of precious gems.
She chose a necklace—a delicate silver chain with a single, violet gemstone resting at its center.
Vaera allowed it.
Earrings—subtle yet refined.
Gloves—silken and dark.
Shoes—elegant, yet made for graceful movement.
With each choice, she ensured perfection.
And when Vaera finally stood, fully adorned in her chosen attire—she was breathtaking.
She stepped forward, adjusting the final lace of the gown, smoothing out the last wrinkle.
And then—she stepped back, admiring her work.
Vaera turned, meeting her gaze through the mirror.
"What do you think?"
She did not hesitate.
"You look divine, my lady."
Vaera's reflection smirked.
"Flatterer."
She did not deny it.
She did not need to.
Because it was not flattery.
It was truth.
And tomorrow—everyone would see it.
The carriage rocked gently as it traveled along the cobbled roads, the rhythmic sound of hooves echoing in the cool night air.
Inside, the glow of lanterns illuminated the velvet interior, casting flickering shadows across polished mahogany and gold-embroidered upholstery.
She sat across from Vaera.
Her posture was straight, hands neatly folded in her lap.
Even now, she remained attentive—watching, waiting, ready to serve at a moment's notice.
Vaera, however, was relaxed, one leg crossed over the other as she gazed out the carriage window. The passing scenery was nothing but vast noble estates, grand and opulent, their towering gates adorned with family crests.
But she was not admiring the view.
She was thinking.
She could see it in the way Vaera's violet eyes gleamed—calculating, as if she were always five steps ahead of everyone else in the world.
And then—Vaera spoke.
"In two years, we will be attending Roseveil Academy."
She blinked.
The name was familiar.
An institution of prestige, where only the most powerful of noble children were admitted.
Vaera continued, her voice smooth as silk.
"It will be… an interesting experience."
A pause.
Then Vaera's lips curled ever so slightly.
"The academy is a battlefield in its own right."
She listened intently.
"Children of dukes, princes, and esteemed warlords all gather there," Vaera mused, drumming her fingers lightly against the wood. "Their words are their weapons. Their status is their armor."
A world of endless schemes and ambitions.
It was expected.
Nobles were like serpents.
Slithering, waiting, striking only when the moment was right.
"And you, my dear maid, will be at my side through it all."
The words sent something warm curling in her chest.
She had no interest in noble affairs.
No interest in status or politics.
But Vaera?
Vaera was her world.
And if Vaera wanted her there, she would go without hesitation.
"As you wish, my lady."
Vaera smirked.
"Good girl."
The words stirred something deep inside her.
A sense of purpose.
She would ensure that no one dared to harm or disrespect Vaera in that place.
And if they did—
She would make them regret it.
The carriage slowed as it approached the grand estate where the ball was being held.
She could hear the sounds of music drifting through the air—soft, elegant melodies played by an orchestra. Beyond the carriage windows, the estate loomed, massive and ornate, its halls glowing with golden light.
The entrance was bustling with nobility, men and women adorned in fine silks and elaborate jewelry, their laughter like the chime of crystal.
The sight meant little to her.
Her focus remained on Vaera.
As the carriage came to a halt, Vaera turned to her, reaching forward with delicate fingers.
And then—
A soft touch against her chin.
She froze.
Vaera's fingers lifted her face, forcing their eyes to meet.
Those violet eyes—sharp, knowing, unreadable.
Her voice was a whisper of silk.
"I expect you to be beside me all night."
A pause.
Then—Vaera's grip tightened ever so slightly.
Her voice dropped lower.
"Understood?"
A shiver crawled down her spine.
She swallowed.
"Yes, my lady."
Vaera held her gaze for a moment longer, as if searching for something.
Then, slowly—she smiled.
The carriage door opened.
Vaera released her chin.
And together, they stepped out into the world of vipers.
The ballroom was a glittering spectacle of wealth and vanity.
Golden chandeliers cast a warm glow over noblemen and women dressed in their finest silks, their laughter and idle gossip filling the air like an endless melody. The scent of expensive wines, roasted meats, and sweet confections lingered throughout the grand hall.
At the heart of it all, Vaera von Nachtrose sat elegantly at a lavish table, dining with all the grace befitting a noble of her station.
She was composed, poised—untouchable.
And beside her, ever watchful, ever present, stood her maid.
She stood a step behind Vaera, hands clasped before her, her posture impeccable. Her presence was unassuming yet unwavering, a shadow at her lady's side.
Eyes observed her lady, noting the way Vaera delicately sliced through a cut of roasted lamb, the slow, deliberate way she raised her wine glass to her lips. Everything Vaera did was measured. Every move, every glance, every slight curve of her lips—it all served a purpose.
But then—
A voice disrupted the quiet hum of nobility around them.
A man's voice.
Sharp. Derisive.
"You Nachtroses truly are an unsettling sight."
She froze.
Her gaze shifted.
A nobleman stood near their table—a young heir, likely from some lesser noble house eager to elevate itself.
He had an air of arrogance about him, the way he leaned against the table with a wine glass in hand, lips curled in mockery.
"Silver hair, violet eyes… truly unnatural." He swirled his wine before taking a slow sip. "It's no wonder your house has such a reputation. Perhaps there really is something… cursed in your blood."
The words were venomous.
And yet—
Vaera did not react.
She ignored him completely.
She didn't spare him a glance, didn't dignify him with a word.
She simply continued her meal, the very picture of indifference.
The nobleman chuckled, as if amused by her silence, and with a lazy shrug, he wandered off into the ballroom.
She watched him go.
Her hands, still delicately folded before her, tightened ever so slightly.
Her nails pressed faintly against her gloves.
Rage burned, slow and simmering, beneath her skin.
She had killed men for far less.
If this were the slums—
She would have already buried a blade in his throat.
But here, in the ballroom, under the weight of noble society's watchful eyes—
She remained still.
Her lady had dismissed the insult.
And she was her lady's shadow.
So she swallowed the rage and waited.
A short while later, Vaera rose from her seat.
"I'll be going to the washroom," she murmured, voice as smooth and effortless as ever.
She nodded, stepping aside to let her lady pass.
And then—
She was alone.
Her gaze flickered across the ballroom, scanning the sea of silks and powdered faces.
And there—
She spotted him.
The nobleman.
He was leaving the ballroom, slipping into the halls of the estate.
Away from prying eyes.
Away from witnesses.
Her lips parted ever so slightly.
Her chest rose with a slow, steady breath.
Then, without a sound—
She followed.
The moment she slipped from the ballroom, the music faded into a distant hum.
The grand halls of the estate stretched before her—lavish, opulent, yet eerily empty.
Her steps were silent, her presence a whisper in the dark as she trailed the nobleman.
He walked leisurely, unaware, oblivious to the shadow that followed.
She had already chosen her weapon.
As she had left the ballroom, her fingers had brushed against a table lined with silverware, plucking a slender carving knife from its place.
It was not an assassin's blade.
It was not meant for clean, efficient kills.
But tonight, she had no intention of making his death clean.
The nobleman stopped in one of the dimly lit corridors, stretching his arms, his steps unhurried.
He was alone.
Perfect.
She moved.
In an instant, she was upon him, her presence unknown until the very last moment.
The noble barely had time to breathe before she struck.
The knife plunged into his side.
A wet squelch.
A sharp gasp.
He stumbled, eyes wide, mouth parting in a choked wheeze.
Before he could react, she ripped the knife out.
Blood sprayed across the pristine white walls.
His knees buckled, but she wasn't done.
She grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall, the back of his head cracking against stone.
His hands clawed at hers, his body jerking in panic, but she was stronger.
Faster.
More ruthless.
"W-Wait—" he choked out, voice trembling, fear seeping into every syllable.
She didn't wait.
The knife drove into his arm.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The fabric of his fine noble coat was shredded, his flesh carved open with every vicious stab.
Blood dripped from his fingers, pooling at his feet, soaking into the expensive carpets.
The noble screamed.
It was a pathetic sound—high and strangled, echoing down the corridor.
She didn't stop.
Her hand was slick with his blood, her grip firm as she twisted the blade, carving deep, jagged wounds that would never heal properly.
Scars.
Scars he would carry forever.
Scars that would remind him, every time he looked at his own arms, of this night.
Of her.
His body twitched violently under her blade, his legs kicking out, but he was too weak.
The blood loss was making him sluggish, making his limbs tremble.
But he was still alive.
She wanted him to stay alive.
For now.
Her knife dragged slowly across his forearm, peeling flesh like delicate silk, exposing raw, tender muscle.
He howled.
The sound was almost… pleasant.
He sobbed, voice breaking, his entire body shaking violently.
His lips quivered, forming pleas that never fully escaped his throat.
He was pathetic.
Just like all the others.
Just like the filth that had once beaten her, strangled her, cursed her existence.
Her grip tightened.
Her heart pounded.
For a moment, she felt the stirring of her blessing—the power that would allow her to make his agony last far beyond death, far beyond anything he could imagine.
But no.
Not this time.
This time, she would let him live.
She leaned in, her lips close to his ear.
A whisper.
Soft.
Lethal.
"You will remember this," she murmured.
His entire body shuddered.
Her knife dragged down his arm one last time, tracing deep, deliberate lines.
Then—
She let him go.
The noble collapsed onto the floor in a bloody heap, his body twitching, sobs wracking his frame.
He wouldn't die.
He would be found.
And when he woke, when the pain returned to him in full force, when he saw the ruin of his own flesh—
He would know.
No one insulted Vaera von Nachtrose.
Not without paying the price.