The capital was ablaze with light.
Gold and crimson banners streamed from marble spires. Rose petals blanketed the cobblestones. Music, laughter, and bells braided together on the breeze. The Royal Festival had returned—a celebration as rare as a unicorn's tooth, held once in a generation to honor peace and the kingdom's prosperity.
From the great palace balcony, Princess Charlotte watched nobles and commoners swirl together below like clockwork dancers. Her gown shimmered with threads of starlight. Her crown, delicate in design, sat unyielding upon her brow. She smiled for the crowd—but her eyes swept the throng with a hawk's precision.
Because this was no mere festival.
It was a disguise.
Whispers had surfaced. Letters intercepted by Mira, bearing cryptic threats. Half-caught conversations Elias overheard between minor lords. And most telling of all—Amelia had discovered a vial of rare poison hidden among the festival wines.
Someone was planning something.
A performance.Or an attack.Perhaps both.
And so Charlotte and her allies moved carefully, beneath the velvet mask of celebration.
Elias, in ceremonial armor, remained at her side—though his gaze flicked often to her sash, where her fingers toyed with the hilt of a concealed dagger. Mira, dressed in plain clothes, flowed through the crowd with quiet ease, her hands flashing signs to hidden agents watching from the edges.
Amelia worked a modest healer's tent near the plaza, disguised as a festival medicine woman. Her gentle touch belied the sharp gaze she kept on wine chalices, trembling hands, and ill-timed coughs.
Even Eladin had a role to play. The young prince, dressed in a velvet tunic dark as midnight, charmed nobles and distracted guests with his antics—playing the part of a sugar-crazed child with no sense of decorum. But when the moment called for it, he would repeat what he overheard to his sister, word for word.
Still, none of their preparations had anticipated this.
Three foreign ambassadors had arrived unexpectedly. But more troubling was the dancer. Masked. Graceful. Bearing a sigil etched in silver across their back—a closed eye.
The mark of an ancient house. Forgotten by most.
But not by Charlotte.
And not by prophecy.
From across the ballroom, Charlotte's gaze locked on the figure mid-spin, her breath catching in recognition. Slowly, she turned to Elias.
"They've made their move," she murmured.
Then her smile returned—sharp, knowing.
"And now… it's our turn."