A Court of Masks

The Grand Hall of Ravaryn Palace glittered with illusion.

Not just from the chandeliers, which burned with suspended globes of enchanted flame. Not even from the nobles' embroidered gowns and jeweled smiles. No this illusion ran deeper. Beneath every bow, every toast, every dance step on the obsidian floor, Elara felt the sharp edge of secrets.

It had been three days since the vault. Since the impostor. Since the mirror moved when she hadn't. And yet, here she stood again, in borrowed finery, hiding behind Thalia's plain face and eyes that saw far too much.

Lysara stood beside her, now fully recovered and every bit the smiling noble. But Elara saw the tension in her spine. They had agreed: neither would speak of what happened in the hidden chamber. Not yet. Not until they knew who was listening.

A hush fell as trumpets sounded from the east wing.

Prince Kaelith entered with his usual flourish gold-trimmed navy cloak sweeping behind him, his hair perfectly tousled. Nobles turned to bow or curtsy, their expressions alight with praise.

Elara's hands curled into fists.

His presence hadn't changed. Commanding, magnetic. He looked exactly like the man who had sentenced her to death. Yet something was different sharper, guarded. As if he too had seen something behind the curtain recently.

He stopped near the dais and addressed the crowd. "To unity. To tradition. And to the future of Ravaryn."

A cheer went up. Toasts were made.

Elara kept her face downcast, but her eyes flicked toward the court's corners. The impostor wasn't visible, but Elara had learned that didn't mean she wasn't present.

Then Kaelith's voice rose again. "Tonight, I invite each noble House to present a token of loyalty to the realm. A gift. A pledge. Or a truth."

Elara blinked. That wasn't part of the usual Equinox gala traditions.

Whispers broke out. House D'Ama offered a new treaty with the coastal merchants. House Lysarin unveiled a blessed relic a holy shield restored from the old wars.

Then came House Valeblume.

Elara's breath caught.

Her mother stepped forward, robed in midnight silk, her hair woven with black pearls. She held a small chest no wider than a loaf of bread and approached the dais with calm precision.

Kaelith regarded her coolly. "Duchess Valeblume. What do you bring?"

Her mother opened the chest.

A gasp rippled through the room.

Inside lay a circlet. Silver-veined with phoenix feathers carved into the band. Elara's circlet. The one she had worn the night before her execution. She remembered the weight of it on her brow as Kaelith kissed her cheek and whispered of forever.

"I bring a symbol of sacrifice," her mother said softly. "The crown once worn by a daughter who served, and paid the price."

Elara's knees nearly gave out.

Kaelith stared at the circlet, expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he lifted it from the velvet lining and held it high.

"A relic of the past," he said. "May it remind us never to let ambition cloud loyalty."

Another cheer went up.

But Elara saw it his fingers trembled slightly as he held the circlet. Just for a second.

He remembered.

Lysara leaned in. "This is staged. For someone's benefit."

Elara nodded. "Ours."

A servant approached Kaelith to take the circlet, but he waved them off and stepped down the dais himself.

He walked directly toward Elara.

The crowd parted instinctively as he stopped in front of her.

"You," he said. "Fetch wine for the High Chancellor."

She curtsied low. "Yes, Your Highness."

But as she turned, his voice dropped low, cold, too quiet for the others.

"You look familiar."

Her blood ran cold. She kept her back straight. "I serve in the west wing, Your Highness."

"Do you?" He leaned in slightly. "Have we met before?"

She didn't answer. Couldn't.

After a long pause, he nodded slightly and walked away.

Lysara grabbed her arm. "He knows."

Elara shook her head. "No. He suspects. And suspicion is more dangerous than certainty."

The gala resumed, but the music sounded warped. Too fast. Too sharp.

She turned to find Seryth slipping through the crowd toward her, his coat dusted with starlight.

"Urgent," he whispered. "Come. Now."

They ducked out a side hall, past the guards, into the tapestry gallery.

He handed her a sealed parchment. "Intercepted this from a courier dressed as a kitchen servant."

Elara broke the seal.

Inside, a single phrase:

"The Crown is splintering. The heir knows the fire lives."

She stared at it. "The heir… Kaelith?"

Seryth looked grim. "Or someone else entirely."

A loud crash echoed from the Grand Hall.

They sprinted back just as nobles shrieked and pulled away from the center of the ballroom.

The Chancellor was on the ground convulsing. Foaming at the mouth.

Elara's heart dropped.

Poison.

Lysara met her eyes across the hall.

And the impostor?

She stood just behind Kaelith, whispering in his ear.

Smiling.