The city of Khyronia shimmered in the distance, like a dream glimpsed through a wineglass.
Its ancient spires reached into the darkening sky, gilded by lanternlight, shrouded in thin fog and secrets. Beneath its towering arches, noble houses stirred. The masquerade was beginning — and the city knew it.
Golden carriages were rolling over cobbled streets like clockwork beasts. Velvet gowns swished against marble stairs. Invitations sealed in wax were unfurled with gloved fingers. From balconies high and low, music began to rise — soft as mist, sharp as desire.
But far from the rising music and the waiting chandeliers, within the quiet halls of Blackwood Manor, August and Elias were still dressing—two souls apart, yet caught in the same web of anticipation.
The manor stirred—footsteps soft on marble, gowns rustling like restless thoughts, and servants darting through corridors like whispers. In the dressing chambers, time stood still.
In one room, Elias faced the mirror.
His outfit was dark where August's was light—midnight blue silk fitted with brutal elegance, threaded with gold along the lapels and cuffs. The tailoring was so precise it seemed alive, each line sculpted to honor his frame without excess.
The matching mask, carved in black velvet edged with silver, echoed wings mid-flight, the inner curve traced with tiny stars like secrets stitched from the sky. He hadn't worn it yet. He just stared at it, still perched beside him, as if it would start speaking.
Behind him, the final clasp clicked into place.
The valet stepped back. "You are ready, my lord."
Elias did not reply. Not with words. His eyes remained on his own reflection—but his thoughts were in another room.
---
Elsewhere, August stood like a vision summoned from another realm.
The ensemble waited like a memory not yet lived: a fitted tunic of ashen ivory velvet, layered with diaphanous silver netting that floated like breath when touched by motion. Embroidered thorns and crescent moons traced the sleeves in white-gold thread—subtle, dangerous, and precise.
His hair had been carefully combed and gathered, soft curls pinned back just enough to reveal the curve of his jaw. Pale hands adjusted the last clasp with meticulous grace. On the mannequin's neck nearby, the mask awaited: sculpted velvet in a soft, snowy hue, resting gently atop the collarbone like a whispered secret.
August didn't move for a long while. He looked at his own reflection—and saw a ghost he no longer recognized.
A boy with no warmth left in his blood.
A man learning what it meant to feel again.
His fingers brushed against the edge of the mask.
And the silence stretched long between breath and decision.
The corridor outside the dressing chambers of Blackwood Manor flickered with candlelight, gilding the stone walls in gold and shadow. Time had slowed, stretched, then shattered—just as the double doors opened and Elias stepped out.
He looked like night carved into human form. Midnight blue silk draped across his frame, the fabric catching the light like moonlit oceans. The gold thread along the lapels and cuffs gleamed like embers from a dying fire. He adjusted the black velvet mask in his hands—its silver edges mimicking wings in mid-flight—and let out a quiet breath.
Then, from across the hall, a door whispered open.
Elias turned. And for a moment, the world stilled.
August emerged.
His tunic was ash and moonlight—a fitted masterpiece of ashen ivory velvet, layered with silver netting that floated around him like a breath not yet exhaled. Thorns and crescent moons shimmered along his sleeves in white-gold thread, each stitch an enchantment. His pale hair had been brushed and pinned just so, loose curls catching the firelight like frost catching flame. The soft, sculpted mask, snowy and quiet, rested in his hand.
Elias froze.
The silence roared.
A flush crept over his cheeks, blooming slowly, as if even his blood had to pause and admire. "Saints above..." he murmured under his breath, not for anyone else to hear. Then he stepped forward, voice slipping into something reverent. "August..."
August only glanced once, barely a flick of his smoke-grey eyes. "Is something the matter?" he asked, cool as mist.
"Yes," Elias said, his tone shameless and low. "You've murdered every last star in the sky. What's left now but you?"
A faint tinge of rose touched August's porcelain skin. He turned his head slightly, concealing the corner of his lips, which threatened to betray a smile. But Elias saw. He always saw.
The maids down the corridor were watching with wide eyes and barely-contained giggles. One nudged another, whispering, "Did you see the way he looks at him?"
"They're perfect," another replied, dreamily. "Like they were stitched from the same dream."
Meanwhile, Giles—already standing by the grand doors—was lost in his own thoughts, watching the scene with a gleam of something unspoken. Duty, perhaps. Or awe.
Then, hooves on gravel.
The Khyronia carriage had arrived.
Black as obsidian and etched with silver vines, it pulled to a halt before the front steps, its lanterns casting soft glows into the approaching dusk. The driver dismounted with the precision of ceremony and bowed low.
Elias stepped forward. And this time, when he turned to August, he did so with solemnity and something tender simmering just beneath. He extended a gloved hand.
"Shall we?"
August hesitated, just for a beat—long enough for Elias to wonder. But then he placed his hand lightly into Elias's, slender fingers resting against the calloused strength of the other's palm. It was a quiet surrender.
And a storm in Elias's chest.
Together, they descended the steps, two visions stitched from opposing skies—light and night, frost and fire. The manor behind them faded into quiet admiration as the maids, still standing near the door, murmured like a choir of distant hearts.
"They're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," whispered one.
"Even the stars will look dull beside them tonight."
Inside the carriage, velvet-lined and perfumed faintly with sandalwood and lavender, August took his seat with his usual poise. Elias followed, eyes never once straying from him.
The door shut. The world narrowed to the gentle sway of motion.
The wheels turned.
And the journey to Khyronia began.
Their reflections danced in the carriage window—two masks waiting to be worn, two hearts teetering on the edge of revelation. Neither spoke, but the silence between them was thick with possibility. In another life, it might have broken them. In this one—it only pulled them closer.
Outside, the land shifted from countryside to the ancient roads of Khyronia, where cobbled streets shimmered with torchlight and noble estates rose like forgotten palaces. Music drifted from somewhere distant, like the promise of a dream just out of reach.
The masquerade waited.
Evening draped itself in velvet shadows and scattered stars, and the city of Khyronia stirred beneath a sky of spun silver. Beyond the gilded courtyards and lantern-lit streets, in a quieter part of the noble quarter, another chamber glowed with anticipation.
Everin stood before the mirror, the last clasp of his waistcoat being fastened by a silent valet. The glass caught the reflection of a young man who was trying very hard not to smile—but failing.
He looked devastating, and he knew it. But tonight, vanity had no place in his heart. Not when something—or someone—far more consuming tugged at his thoughts.
Not when he was going to see him.
His Beauty.
His fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted the collar, the fabric a deep rosewood shade trimmed in obsidian, matching the mask beside him—crimson leather etched with fine black lace like ivy curling over stone. A quiet flame danced in his chest, lit not by pride but hope.
"Mother, Father," he said softly as he turned to the two empty seats beside the hearth, "I'll represent us well."
His mother had pressed a kiss to his forehead earlier, a farewell sweet and brief. His father, ever stoic, had only nodded. Their duties tonight were with diplomats and distant letters, not in glittering halls of dance. But they had given him leave to attend. Alone.
And he didn't mind. Because he would be there.
He couldn't say the name aloud. Not yet. It tasted too much like longing, and he didn't trust the shape his voice would make around it.
As the final touches were set—cufflinks clicked in, a velvet half-cloak draped over one shoulder—Everin turned toward the waiting carriage, his heart thudding with wild, golden anticipation.
From the towering bay window he could already see the lantern-lit carriages streaming toward the palace like veins of fire in the night.
And somewhere among them—
He exhaled slowly, a soft smile curling at his lips.
He'll be there.
Everin stepped into the night.
He was ready.
Let the masquerade begin.
Beneath the gilded spires of Khyronia, where twilight spilled like ink across marbled streets and laughter chimed like glass, there moved three who did not belong.
Not because of what they wore—but because of what they didn't feel.
While nobles glided in silks and perfumes, draped in sapphires and powdered mystery, these three slipped through the growing crowd like threads of unraveling night.
The First, assassin, was clad in a garment of woven black and garnet silk—so fine it shimmered like oil across his lean frame. His mask was jagged obsidian shaped like a raven's beak, hiding everything but the corner of his jaw where a faint scar cut like a whisper. He moved with the grace of someone who had studied music—not to play, but to kill in rhythm.
His hands never strayed far from the twin daggers strapped beneath his sleeves.
The Second, assassin, wore a flowing cloak of wine-red velvet embroidered with black thorns, its hem curling like smoke as she walked. Her mask was fashioned from burnished steel and molded to resemble a faceless doll—smooth, eerie, blank. Beneath it, her eyes gleamed like two polished mirrors, reflecting everything, revealing nothing.
Female assassin voice was said to be hypnotic. But no one who'd heard it had lived long enough to describe the sound.
The Third, assassin, was younger, quieter. Dressed in dove-grey layered silks lined with pale ivory thread, he might have passed for a shy aristocrat—if not for the serpentine tattoo curling up his neck and the chainmail barely concealed beneath his outer robe. His mask was split down the center—half gold, half charred black—like day and night pressed into one face. He walked slightly behind the others, but every step was measured, precise.
He was still earning his name among the Eclipse, but he had already buried more men than most soldiers.
They did not speak.
They didn't need to. A single glance between them was enough.
They had entered Khyronia's gates as the carriages arrived—some ostentatious, others discreet. They watched as velvet hems trailed over stone, as glittering masks turned toward one another in mirth and false charm.
But they were not here to dance.
They were here to hunt.
Sent not merely to observe—but to set the stage.
To find cracks in the crowd. Weakness in the light. Vulnerabilities among nobles too drunk on power and perfume to sense the blade behind the mask.
From a distance, The female assassin gaze followed the dark carriage bearing Blackwood's crest.
She didn't smile. But a flicker of interest passed behind her mask.
The prey had entered the maze.
And the assassins were already inside.