The ballroom shimmered—a golden maze of laughter and strings, gowns rustling like wind across polished marble. Chandeliers glittered overhead like captured constellations. Nobles drifted through the space in intricate masks: some jeweled, others carved from rare wood or layered with feathers.
But only one mask—plain, bone-white, etched with a single closed eye—made Charlotte's blood run cold.
She moved with a glance and a nod, and Elias followed instantly, his shadow just a breath behind. Mira emerged from the throng like a ghost from fog, her fingers flickering a silent warning:
The masked dancer has no title. Not on any list.
"I noticed," Charlotte murmured.
The dancer glided between couples with unearthly grace—partnerless, wordless, yet ever approaching the royal dais. As the orchestra reached its crescendo, the dancer halted.
Directly in front of her.
"You've grown into your crown," said a soft, androgynous voice behind the mask. "But will it survive the truth?"
Charlotte tilted her head, composed. "What truth would that be?"
The dancer extended a hand.
"Shall we?"
A hush rippled through the ballroom as Charlotte descended the dais. She took the offered hand, and together they stepped into the waltz.
Mira's gaze sharpened. Elias stiffened, but did not follow—his hand clenched around the hilt at his side.
They danced.
Not the sweeping romance of a courtly waltz, but something slower. Sharper. Each turn deliberate, each step like a word of an ancient code. And with every motion, more truth unfolded.
"She lives," the dancer whispered. "The seer who gave the prophecy."
Charlotte's breath caught. "Where?"
"In hiding. Guarded by those loyal to the old bloodlines. She awaits you."
"Why now?"
"Because the kingdom teeters on a thread. And prophecy does not seek approval."
Their steps slowed, one final turn. The dancer slipped something from their sleeve—a velvet pouch no larger than a coin—and pressed it into Charlotte's hand just as the final note rang through the air.
A last whisper:
"Tonight is not the only peril. Guard against the wine."
Then, as swiftly as a shadow at dusk, the dancer vanished—melting into the masquerade, faceless among feathers and jewels.
Charlotte stood still, fingers clenched around the pouch. Slowly, she opened it.
Inside lay a single withered sprig of ghostroot—a poison undetectable in sweet wine, fatal in concentrated form.
Across the room, her gaze locked with Elias's. No words passed between them.
He was already moving.
Mira pivoted toward the feast table, where the royal goblets glimmered like bait in candlelight. On the opposite end of the hall, Amelia dropped her healer's kit and began pushing through the crowd with surgical precision.
This was not a celebration.
It was a stage.
An ambush set behind music and masks.
And somewhere in the shadows… someone had come to finish what the prophecy had only begun.