The ballroom swelled around her—velvet, gold, silver, and hundreds of perfumed masks—but Lenore Ebonmere moved through it like smoke. She twirled and danced with lords and dukes she barely knew, curtsied to ladies and duchesses she would never trust, and let the fabric of her gown sweep secrets across the polished floor.
No one knew of the cold calculation in her eyes behind the mask.
No one saw how her smile was shaped to that of a blade.
"You wear the House of Ebonmere's colors well," purred a familiar voice at her side.
Lenore turned—slowly. Rowan Theralis. A handsome man in a golden mask. His smile was effortless, his posture lazy, like nothing in the world could touch him. She watched him quietly, certain the charm behind the golden mask wasn't just for show.
But tonight, something in his voice was sharper.
"You came late," Lenore said cooly. "Did the council meetings keep you chained to your seat?"
"The chains of duty are heavier on some nights," he replied, offering a crooked smile.
Lenore did not respond. She let the silence press between them like a dance she refused to lead. She wouldn't ask why he was watching her so intently before. She already knew.
Across the room, the royal family shimmered beneath the red moonlit chandeliers. The lycan king, Alaric Malric de Caldereth, the queen, Morganna Elira de Caldereth, and finally the princes—Severin, Darius, and Corvin de Caldereth—who each stood like shadows of a different storm. They were watching. But not obvious enough for her to feel the weight of their gaze tailing her through the flickering lights.
Her mask itched.
A whisper brushed her ear. "They're talking about you again."
Lenore's head did not turn. "They always do."
"No," Rowan said, stepping a fraction closer. "Not the nobles. The High Circle. The Advisor. He's here, you know."
Lenore's gaze shifted.
Across the ballroom, veiled in the warm glow of the chandeliers and drifting shadows, stood a man apart from the revelry. He wore a high-collared open robe the color of deep obsidian, and a red sash hung from his shoulders. The fabric was embroidered with silver sigils that seemed the shift when the light caught them. He wore a tailored deep red shirt, paired with a pair of black trousers and sleek black dress shoes. His mask was unsettling in its stillness—carved from ivory bone, narrow and pale, its surface etched with faint, branching cracks like a porcelain relic too long in the dark. It bore no expression, save for the sharp angles at the jaw and twin slits that revealed eyes like polished coal: depthless, watching.
Octavian Virell did not speak, did not sip wine idly, or charm his way through the crowd. He simply observed—detached, almost predatory—a presence felt even before it was seen.
Her lips thinned. "The council's leash must be slackening, if the great Octavian Virell found time to play dress-up." But her chest tightened all the same. He and her aunt had never exchanged anything but frost and fire—if he was here, it wasn't just to sip wine and dance.
Rowan's expression cooled. "Well, Octavian is no idle guest. If he's left the council halls, something's stirred the waters."
A fresh chill slid down her back. Her aunt hadn't mentioned his attendance. She had insisted this masquerade would be symbolic—a nod to the old ways, and a rightful debut for Lenore before the courts on the eve of her Blood Moon ascension. A coming-of-age not just by age, but by legacy.
But if the Royal Advisor was here, unannounced, then something else was in motion.
She looked for her aunt among the crowd but found only silks and shadows. The music swelled again. Another waltz. Another mask. Another smile that meant nothing.
Rowan's voice dropped, meant for her ears alone. "Ever get the feeling we're all dancing to someone else's rhythm?" He leaned in as he said it, the warmth of his breath brushing the shell of her ear. The music, the light, the crowd—none of it quite reached them for that one moment.
Lenore didn't flinch, but she went very still, like a candle caught in the breath of a storm. Her lashes lowered—not in submission, but calculation.
"No," Lenore said, stepping away, her gaze lingering on the masked faces. "I wonder how many of us think we're playing the melody—when we're just part of the song."
She left him there—standing too still for a man of his charm—and disappeared into the sweeping corridors of House Ebonmere in search of her aunt.
Behind her, she could still feel the pulse of eyes. The princes. The whispers. The old design.
And above them all, the Blood Moon watched.