The ballroom was a furnace of color and motion. Gold-threaded gowns spun like molten silk. Coats glittered with gemstone buttons, masks with obsidian lenses or filigreed silver frowns. Nobles moved in practiced circles, weaving between one another in an elegant masquerade of veiled smiles and sharpened words. Every group was a clique, every glance a silent judgment, and every step was rehearsed for maximum spectacle.

That didn't stop me from feeling like a crow in a field of peacocks.

Wallace leaned in close to my ear, his voice just above a breath. "That's Earl Corvick. Avoid him."

He nodded subtly toward a portly man in a navy brocade coat, his collar high and stiff, like it might slice the air if he turned too quickly. The earl's mask was a fat-winged bat, all jowls and sneers.

"And the one speaking to him?" Wallace continued, "That's the son of the Grenav Munitions Network's chairman. They supply both the Chancellors and most Machina infrastructure in Bast."

I followed his gaze. The younger man wore a bone-white mask shaped like a jackal, one ear broken. His suit was simple, but made from rare weaves—something understated, but so absurdly expensive only the ultra-rich would dare wear it casually. He laughed at something the earl said, but there was nothing amused in his eyes.

I muttered back, "And we're avoiding them both?"

Wallace nodded. "Unless you want to be weighed, bought, and shelved before dessert."

He wasn't joking. The ballroom wasn't just a party. It was a theater. And we'd walked into the center of it as fresh characters on a stage everyone else had performed on for decades.

Wallace proved himself invaluable. He stood just behind my left shoulder, close enough to murmur names and affiliations under his breath while keeping his posture rigidly proper. A few nobles gave him the side-eye—likely expecting him to wait by the wall—but his presence alone made people pause. It marked me as someone who brought his own protection, his own knight, his own voice of caution.

Around us, the cliques spun. Some were visibly allied, wearing matching insignias or sharing family crests on ringed fingers. Others were more discreet—eye contact over wine glasses, nods between masks, subtle signs of allegiance I couldn't begin to decipher. They were all looking at us. Not openly. But I felt it. The weight of being noticed. Catalogued.

I was surrounded by political enemies and allies alike. And the problem—the real one—was that I had no idea which was which.

Every smile aimed at me could be a dagger. Every compliment could be a test. And every question… a trap.

So I smiled back.

Let them wonder if the rumors were true. Let them see me as dangerous.

And when I couldn't tell if a noble was a friend or a predator, I did the only thing I could: I leaned just slightly toward Wallace and waited for his whisper.

The others had already scattered into the ballroom like petals tossed on a breeze—Cordelia disappearing toward the edges where the more powerful psykers had clustered, Ten already laughing too loudly near a cluster of courtiers, and Fractal twirling in place beneath the chandeliers as if she didn't notice the web of glances she attracted. Even V, for all his shadow-draped brooding, had slipped between conversations with the sort of elegance that always left me wondering whether he was gathering secrets or planting them.

But I kept Wallace at my side.

It wasn't just strategy—it was survival. The man moved like a cathedral in armor, solemn, grounded, unshakably sure of what mattered and what didn't. In this room of velvet and venom, he was the only thing keeping me from drowning in half-truths.

Technically, everyone in my party was invited. But we all knew who the attention would fall on. I wasn't just a new noble. I was the Duarte son—now tangled in Bast's power games through no small amount of force, flair, and finely woven wool. Tonight, the wolves weren't howling. They were smiling.

We made our way slowly through the ballroom, weaving between cliques draped in wealth and influence. The chamber was alive with low, polished laughter, and the scraping of crystal against gold-rimmed glasses. Music fluttered somewhere in the background, all harps and flutes, designed to lull rather than stir. Every noble here was performing. Every mask was both literal and not.

Wallace suddenly stopped. His gauntlet flexed beside me, a subtle pause before he gave a cough meant to draw only my attention. Then, a tilt of his head—just slightly rightward.

"That's Admiral Duke Ravis," he said, voice low enough not to carry. "Sun mask. Naval regalia with the crimson sash? You'll want to avoid direct discussion with him for now—he's sharp, but slippery. Too much time in the outer isles. Too many debts and too many friends in higher, colder places."

I nodded, following Wallace's gaze. The Admiral's presence was unmistakable—every line of his posture screamed power worn like armor, not privilege. His laughter didn't reach his eyes. He had the look of a man who commanded storms.

"But next to him," Wallace continued, his voice dipping further, "is the one you should meet."

I studied her. The dragon mask she wore coiled with a scaled elegance, black and bronze with silver filigree curling over the edges. Her gown was severe, a deep ash-brown that shimmered only when the light caught it, and her posture was blade-straight. She was speaking, but not smiling.

"That's Brigadier Attorney General Duchess Ravis. His sister, not his wife—don't mistake that. And currently, your most consistent buyer in the high-volume distribution contracts for wool. The Ravis accounts have already cleared three bulk shipments under the winter clause."

I blinked. "They're the ones responsible for the military line deal?"

Wallace gave a small nod. "They are. Which means their interest isn't fashion. It's field gear. Resilience. You might not be in a war yet, but your exports already are."

That hit me harder than I expected. All this time I'd pictured my name attached to merchant silks, rich scarves, noble finery. Not reinforced cloaks laced with spells for bloodstained trenches.

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"I'd highly suggest you introduce yourself," Wallace said. "Briefly. With poise. And if you can, with charm. You won't get many chances to impress her directly."

I adjusted my cuffs, straightened my stance, and breathed in slow. The mask itched against my skin, but I smiled beneath it anyway.

"Alright," I said. "Let's go make a friend."

Duchess Ravis noticed me before I was within three paces. Her dragon mask didn't shift, but I could feel her gaze rake across me.

"Lord Duarte," she said evenly. Her voice was richer than expected, deep and resonant. "I hear congratulations are in order."

I hadn't even opened my mouth. "Thank you?"

"You've tripled the employment rate in the Everis Hills within a year," she said, lifting a glass of something dark and bitter-smelling. "Impressive for someone still learning which side of a contract to sign."

"Some days I sign both," I replied, then immediately regretted the attempt at wit.

But she smiled—barely. A tight thing, but not cruel.

"I didn't come to boast," I added quickly. "Only to thank you. I wasn't aware you had any stake in Everis."

"I don't," she said. "I have stake in stability. Bast's southern corridor benefits from quiet, productive neighbors. That doesn't happen without competent management."

I hesitated. "So I'm a border hedge."

"You're a shepherd, Duarte. But sheep with clean wool and functioning infrastructure make better neighbors than starving ones. And if you stay clever, you might become more."

I couldn't tell if that was meant as a compliment or a warning.

"Still," I said, carefully now, "You didn't have to push the paperwork. And you certainly didn't have to shield my merchants from tariff penalties."

"No," she agreed. "But unlike most people in this room, you don't owe anyone here a favor you can't repay."

That landed. Heavier than I liked. Because she was right.

I swallowed the tension in my jaw and offered a bow, slower this time.

"Then allow me to earn what you've already given. I intend to make Everis Hills not just stable, but essential."

"Good," she said, setting her glass down without looking. "Because once the capital stops underestimating you, they'll start trying to use you. Best to make yourself a difficult tool to grip."

She turned without ceremony, rejoining her brother's conversation as if she hadn't just handed me a blueprint for surviving the court.

I returned to Wallace, who gave me a half-shrug of approval.

"She didn't insult you."

"She called me a shepherd."

He grunted. "That's high praise from a dragon."

"She's an actual dragon?" I asked flatly, not bothering to hide my skepticism. That made two dragons in the span of days—one was a monster in the dark, the other was sipping wine in a ballroom.

"Yes. She is," Wallace answered without hesitation. "And she's older than Bast's constitution, so mind your tone."

We moved through a slow tide of masked nobles, all perfumed and polished, their alliances worn like jewelry. I let Wallace steer us, half out of trust, half because I didn't know the rules here—only that every rule came with teeth.

He paused, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder. "That one," he said quietly, tilting his head toward a man in a deep teal suit that shimmered like starlight caught in water. His mask was sculpted into the face of a bear—solemn, stately, unmoving. "You'll want to speak with him. That's Prince Noran Bearutrick."

"I've heard the name," I replied, squinting through the crowd.

"Then forget it. Calling him that here would be rude." Wallace's voice dropped lower, serious now. "He's earned a courtesy name in court. You must use it. Hva shaynv hpts bshqrym. The Truth-Seeker."

"I know the name," I said. "And the weight it carries." Then, more quietly: "Will he use mine?"

Wallace gave a nod. "Yes. Expect it. He plays no games when it comes to titles. Or truth."

That was fine. I hadn't chosen Kevkebyem Lekvedyem Benyeyr—Star-Writer—on a whim. It was a name I had bled into existence. One I claimed the day I rewrote what the world thought was unchangeable.

I moved forward, Wallace close behind. The bear-masked man turned his head as I approached, his eyes sharp behind the gold. There was no smile. But there was recognition.

"Kevkebyem Lekvedyem Benyeyr," he greeted, voice low and smooth, like a blade sliding back into its sheath. "The ink still dries behind you."

I bowed my head respectfully. "Hva shaynv hpts bshqrym. Your insight casts long shadows."

He tilted his head, considering me for a breath. "You wear your name well. Too often, they choose words with no meaning behind them. Yours has edges. I respect that."

"I didn't choose it to be respected," I replied. "I chose it to be remembered."

"Ah," he said, a faint smile ghosting under the mask. "Then we are alike. You rewrite stories. I uncover them."

A pause settled between us—not tense, just heavy with the understanding that both of us were used to being the sharpest presence in the room. Tonight, we stood eye to eye, courtesy names and all.

"I've heard of the Everis Hills," he continued. "Land shaped by stubborn hands and improbable will. What you're building there—some doubt it will last."

I met his gaze evenly. "Then they should walk the soil. It remembers what it cost to stand."

"Good," he murmured. "If you ever grow tired of pretense, come find me. Truth rarely wears a mask."

"How unfortunate then," I said, tone mild but laced with steel, "that everyone is being forced to wear a mask."

"Indeed, Star-Writer. Indeed." the Truth-Seeker gave a slow nod, his voice like velvet stretched over iron. "It is truly the mark of a farce when fardels bear whispers beyond madness."

His words were measured, each syllable weighed, polished, and delivered like a judge's final verdict. There was a weight to the way he said madness—not fear, but familiarity. I sensed he had stood too close to it before. Maybe even stepped over the threshold.

"These masks mean nothing," he continued. "A charade for those too afraid to speak plainly. An irony, too—since all of us are garbed in full familial regalia. The colors, the brocade, the house-stitching—anyone with eyes can trace us back to bloodlines older than Bast itself."

I glanced around the ballroom as he spoke, and he was right. Masks concealed nothing when one's gait, ring, and tailor bespoke one's lineage louder than any announcement. The Lady in the hydrangea mask wore Greymarch silver; the Baron in the owl visage draped himself in Denrearian bark-dyed linens, a trade locked behind four exclusive treaties. Even the wine in the glass I held was a declaration of loyalty, harvested from Cordellan vines owned by the royal treasurer's second cousin.

"So," he said, drawing my eyes back to him, "have you figured the reason for it yet?"

"Yes," I answered, steady. "I have."

He cocked his head, silent, as if testing whether I would elaborate or falter.

"I was informed," I went on, letting the words unfold with care, "and I chose a peacock mask because—"

Before I could finish, the shrill ring of a voice cleaved through the ballroom's low thrum like a blade through silk.

"PRINCE ALEXANDER DUARTE-ALIZADE, THE STAR-WRITER! I CHALLENGE YOU TO A DUEL FOR THE RIGHT OF GOVERNANCE OVER MY TERRITORY THAT THE QUEEN REQUISITIONED ONTO YOU!"

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