---
Midnight in Veyladoris rang like a whisper through marble halls.
The Grand Ballroom of the Sovereign Palace was unrecognizable. Walls that usually held banners of war and judgment now shimmered with crystal illusions: silver-leafed vines curled across black marble, and the ceiling was charmed to mirror the stars — except tonight, the stars bled red.
The Masquerade had begun.
And with it, death had been invited to dance.
---
Nymera stood just beyond the ballroom threshold.
Clad in black silk woven with smoky silver thread, her gown moved like stormclouds clinging to shadow. A mask of violet glass and obsidian covered the upper half of her face, edged in thorn-shaped filigree.
She was faceless.
Nameless.
And hunted.
> [System Alert: Targeted Assassination Confirmed. Unknown Attacker Present. Identity Masked. Danger Level: Severe.]
---
It was a game within a game.
Everyone here wore masks — a tradition meant to protect pride and allow... indiscretions. But for Nymera, it was a battlefield without names, where allies were ghosts and enemies could hide behind lace and silk.
She stepped into the ballroom.
Laughter danced above the music — a haunting melody played by enchanted strings. Couples swirled in elegant patterns, feet silent on obsidian tiles. Magic floated like perfume: illusions, glamours, subtle charms to enhance beauty or blur scars.
But beneath it all... tension.
Because everyone here knew Nymera had returned.
Everyone had seen her survive court, survive the Queen, survive the battlefield.
She was no longer a rumor.
She was a threat.
---
She moved carefully, weaving through the crowd, memorizing masks, noting movements.
> [Suspicion Sense Activated.]
Multiple low-grade hostilities detected. One high-grade anomaly: left balcony, unmarked mask.
Her eyes flicked toward the raised edge of the ballroom — a marble balcony where courtiers sipped wine and whispered behind fans.
A figure stood apart. Still. Watching.
No drink. No company. Mask plain, featureless — matte black with no crest or jewels. A break in etiquette.
Too bold.
Or too dangerous to care.
Nymera's pulse steadied.
She moved closer to the center — where she could see all exits. Predict the dance.
Control the pace.
---
A familiar presence drifted near.
Lucien Draegaris.
She felt him before she saw him — a cold aura threading beneath the warm glamour of the room. He wore a midnight mask, sharp and angular, like carved obsidian. A deep blue cloak draped over dark military formalwear, and his blade was peace-bound at his hip.
Still dangerous.
Always armed.
"Lady Vaelis," he said, offering a gloved hand.
She hesitated — then accepted.
Their fingers touched. No sparks, no illusions.
Only calculation and heat beneath frost.
"You look... prepared," he murmured as they began a slow, gliding waltz.
"Assassins prefer elegance," she replied smoothly. "Easier to blend with the dead."
Lucien chuckled.
"And yet you smile."
"I'm smiling at the thought of disappointing them."
---
> [System Alert: High Threat Signal — Approaching from eastern entry.]
She turned with the music — and caught it.
A ripple.
A flicker.
A masked noble — red feathers, golden trim — brushing past a servant too quickly, too silently.
Their hand dipped beneath their cloak.
Nymera's vision narrowed.
"Change steps," she whispered.
Lucien, without asking why, shifted their dance just as the feathered noble lunged forward — a flash of steel hidden in a jeweled fan.
The blade missed her throat by inches.
Gasps exploded from the crowd.
Lucien intercepted the attacker mid-spin, gripping their arm and twisting hard — bone cracked, the blade fell.
Nymera snatched it before it hit the ground.
The ballroom froze.
Then shattered.
Screams. Guards. Magic flickering as nobles drew defensive sigils.
And Nymera stood at the center — holding the assassin's blade in one blood-slicked hand, mask unshaken.
---
> [Assassination Attempt Failed — Attacker Identity: Disguised House Mercenary.]
[Reward: +60 Fate Points. New Skill Available: Counterstrike Lv.1.]
[Bloodline Magic Pulse Triggered: Dominion Echo Detected.]
She stepped over the groaning assassin as guards swarmed, dragging him away.
The Queen Consort had entered during the chaos, flanked by her silent, gleaming guards.
Her gaze locked with Nymera's.
Not anger.
Not sympathy.
Curiosity.
And a grudging flicker of something colder.
Respect.
---
Later, in a quieter corner of the ballroom-turned-battleground, Lucien stood beside her, sipping from a goblet that likely held nothing.
"You drew blood at a masquerade," he murmured. "That'll cause whispers."
"Good," Nymera said, scanning the room. "Let them whisper. Fear makes excellent armor."
Lucien tilted his head.
"You keep using fear as a shield, Lady Vaelis. One day you'll need a sword."
She met his eyes beneath her mask.
"I am the sword."
---
> [New Title Unlocked: The Maskless Blade.]
[Status Update: Political Respect Increased — Court Loyalty: 32%. Public Fear: 68%. Assassination Risk: Reduced (54%).]
She walked away before Lucien could answer.
Let him think.
Let them all think.
She had survived.
Again.
And the night had barely begun.