Chapter 12: The Masked Banquet
The halls of Veydrich Palace glowed with a thousand candles, their light shimmering on marble pillars and glinting in the gilded mirrors that lined the grand ballroom. Outside, the storm still clawed at the city walls, but here—within the heart of the capital—nobles laughed, drank, and danced as though the world were not teetering on the edge of calamity.
Elias stepped inside, his black doublet tailored to perfection, a silver mask hiding the sharp lines of his face. The masquerade was the perfect cover; in a place where everyone wore a disguise, no one would notice the fugitive slipping through the crowd.
At his side, Isabella was transformed. Her gown was a deep sapphire, cut to catch the light in every turn, the mask upon her face delicate as spun lace. A single diamond rested at the hollow of her throat, drawing the eyes of every passing courtier.
"You're staring," she said without looking at him.
"I'm calculating," Elias replied. "Two dozen guards on the floor, four exits, and one way to the upper balcony."
"And the contact?"
"Somewhere in this room."
From the moment they arrived, whispers followed them. A man in a wolf's mask lingered by the musicians, his eyes hidden but his posture too attentive to be casual. A pair of women in golden masks drifted past, their laughter pitched just a little too high. Elias could feel the tension beneath the music and wine, as if every guest here carried a dagger behind their fan or goblet.
At the far end of the hall, the Duke of Carrowmaine raised his goblet to toast the evening's host. Behind him, on the dais, the Queen herself sat in pale silks, her gaze sweeping over the revelers like a hawk's. Elias could not tell if she recognized him—if she saw through the silver mask to the man she had once met in a very different life.
The music shifted. Couples flowed onto the dance floor. Isabella took Elias's arm, guiding him into the swirl of motion before he could object.
"You'll draw less attention if you look like you belong here," she murmured.
"And you?" he asked.
"I was born to belong here," she said, and spun beneath his arm.
As they moved through the dance, she leaned close, her lips barely brushing his ear. "The man in the wolf mask. He's watching you, not me. That means he knows who you are."
Elias glanced subtly. The wolf-masked man was indeed shadowing their movements, weaving through the dancers with practiced ease.
When the music ended, Isabella excused herself, vanishing into the crowd. Elias slipped toward the balcony stairs, aware of the wolf's gaze at his back. The air upstairs was cooler, the noise of the ballroom muffled.
He found the contact waiting in the shadows—an older man, dressed plainly despite the elegance of the event. His mask was simple black velvet, his voice low and urgent.
"You are Elias Valenwood?"
"That depends on who's asking."
"I speak for the Ordo Lux," the man said. "The Council is not your only enemy. The Raven is not working alone—he is backed by the Crimson Conclave."
Elias frowned. He'd heard the name only in whispers, a sect as ancient as the Gate itself. "And you're telling me this because?"
"Because they mean to claim the Crown at the eclipse, and to do so they will spill more blood than you can imagine. You have enemies in every shadow, but tonight you have one chance to strike first."
Below, the music swelled again. Through the railings, Elias saw Isabella on the floor—smiling, laughing—with the wolf-masked man. His arm was at her waist, his lips close to her ear.
Elias felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.
The contact followed his gaze. "Careful, Valenwood. Trust is the rarest coin in these halls, and the most easily counterfeited."
Before Elias could respond, the ballroom doors slammed open. A gust of wind blew through, snuffing candles and sending silks fluttering. A figure stood in the doorway, clad head to toe in black, a raven's mask covering his face. The musicians faltered, the dancers froze, and the room filled with the thick, electric silence of fear.
The Raven spoke, his voice carrying easily over the hush.
"Your Queen has kept you in comfort while your world rots," he declared. "Tonight, you will see the mask beneath her crown."
He raised a hand. Dozens of figures in crimson cloaks surged into the hall, blades drawn. The air erupted with shouts, the clash of steel, the splinter of goblets shattering on marble.
Elias leapt the balcony rail, landing hard but moving before the shock could catch him. His sword was in his hand, the blade catching the candlelight as he cut through the first crimson-cloaked attacker. He searched for Isabella in the chaos, but she was gone—vanished with the wolf-masked man into the press of bodies.
"Isabella!" he shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the din.
The Raven's gaze found him across the hall, and though the mask hid his face, Elias could feel the smile beneath it. The Raven inclined his head—mocking, almost inviting—before retreating toward the rear doors, his crimson guard covering his escape.
When the fighting ended, the palace floor was slick with wine and blood. The Queen was gone, taken or fled—no one knew. The Duke of Carrowmaine lay dead, a crimson dagger in his chest. And Isabella… still missing.
Marcellus arrived breathless, having fought his way past the city gates. "The Conclave is moving faster than we feared," he said. "If they have her—"
"They won't keep her," Elias interrupted, sheathing his sword. His voice was low, dangerous. "I'll burn their fortress to the ground before I let them."
That night, under the broken moonlight, Elias and his allies rode hard for the northern roads. The prophecy, the eclipse, the shadow and the crown—all of it was accelerating toward a collision. And somewhere out there, Isabella was caught between two blades: the Raven's, and the Council's.
For the first time, Elias feared it might not matter which cut deeper.