The braziers had been lit early, their glow pushing back the winter that pressed against the stone walls. Steam still clung faintly to Lady Ixora's skin as the maids moved around her, careful and reverent. One brushed scented oil into her dark hair, slow strokes meant to soothe. Another fastened the undergown at her shoulders, thick linen meant for cold halls and colder nights.
Ixora stared at her reflection, expression unreadable. The mirror gave her back a noblewoman composed, untouched by the unease stirring beneath her ribs.
A knock cut through the quiet.
Not one of her maids.
The door opened, and a palace servant stepped in, head bowed. In his arms rested a long, narrow chest carved with unfamiliar sigils, its lid sealed with dark wax.
"For my lady," he said, voice flat. "A delivery."
No one spoke.
The servant placed the chest on the table and withdrew without another word, as if lingering would invite trouble.
One of the maids broke the seal. The lid lifted.
Blue spilled into the room, deep, rich, unmistakable. Winter-silk layered with velvet, heavy enough to command warmth and attention both. The color was not chosen for her complexion. It was chosen to be recognized.
Tucked atop the cloth lay a message. No flourish. No affection.
For the ball.
Wear this.
Lord Cassian.
Ixora did not reach for it.
The maids froze, eyes flicking between her and the door, waiting for instruction that did not come.
Footsteps sounded then, measured, familiar.
Her father entered the chamber.
He took in the scene at once: the open chest, the blue silk, the rigid stillness of the room. His jaw tightened, the only sign of the fury that rose behind his eyes.
He said nothing of the sender.
Instead, his gaze moved to her reflection. To his daughter.
"You look beautiful, my dear," he said quietly.
Ixora met his eyes in the mirror. Something passed between them, understanding, shared and bitter.
"Do I have a choice?" she asked.
A pause.
"In truth?" he said. "Not tonight."
Her fingers curled once at her side. Then she nodded.
"Very well."
The maids moved again, lifting the dress with care. The fabric was warm, heavier than it looked, settling over her shoulders like a claim. As they fastened it, her father stepped forward and clasped the final chain himself, slow, deliberate.
Not as a concession.
As a promise.
Ixora straightened, chin lifting. The blue did not own her. Tonight, she would wear it, but she would not belong to it.
Outside, the wind howled against the palace walls, and somewhere beyond them, secrets gathered their teeth.
***
King Isis POV:
Steam coiled along the vaulted ceiling of the bath house, carrying the faint scent of crushed herbs and heated stone. At the far end, a carved dragon's head jutted from the wall, its jaws parted as hot water poured endlessly into the sunken pool below.
King Isis stepped onto the mosaic floor and spread his arms.
The bath maids moved at once, silent as trained shadows. Clasps were undone, layers loosened, his outer robe drawn away with practiced care. He did not look at them. His attention was already elsewhere.
"Agnes," he said.
The eunuch stood a pace behind him, hands folded within his sleeves, eyes lowered but alert.
"Double the guard in the inner corridors," Isis continued, voice even. "Not the obvious halls. The servant passages. The musicians' doors. Any place a blade or spell would choose for comfort."
Agnes inclined his head. "It will be done, Your Majesty."
"The north wing remains sealed after the second bell," the king added. "No exceptions. If a noble complains, remind them winter is unkind to wandering."
A faint pause. Steam thickened.
"And the guests?" Isis asked, stepping down into the pool as the water lapped against stone.
Agnes allowed himself a breath before answering. "Envoys from three lesser kingdoms have arrived ahead of time. Two with thin escorts. One—" he hesitated "—with mages disguised as scholars."
Isis sank into the water until it reached his chest. The dragon's mouth roared softly behind him.
"Names."
Agnes gave them.
The king nodded once. "Seat them where they can be seen. Isolation breeds desperation, and desperation makes for easy promises."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Isis rested his arms along the edge of the bath, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable. "This ball is not for music," he said quietly. "It is for counting who still needs us… and who believes they no longer do."
Agnes's voice was low. "And if chaos comes?"
A thin smile touched the king's mouth, there and gone like a blade's glint.
"Then we will know who brought it."
The water continued to pour from the dragon's jaws, relentless and hot, as winter pressed against the palace walls and alliances trembled like thin ice.