The carriage slowed to a gentle halt.

  Outside, the night gleamed with faint moonlight.

  Lanterns burned along the cobblestone path, their light scattering across the carriages that lined the drive. The estate ahead - The Garden of Yarrow - was alive with motion. Nobles in gilded coats and jeweled masks, their laughter weaving through the crisp air like music. White yarrow flowers spilled across the walls and gardens, glowing faintly in the moonlight.

  I stepped down from the carriage. My boots met the stone with a soft crunch, and the sound of distant strings drifted from somewhere deeper within the estate.

  For a moment, I simply stood there - adjusting my cuffs, brushing a bit of invisible dust from my black coat. The mask on my face caught a glimpse of lanternlight: a simple design of black and white, smooth and unassuming.

  Then I saw him.

  A green mask, shaped like a boar.

  The man wearing it moved through the crowd ahead, slow, deliberate, greeting others with that smug half-bow nobles loved to perform. The sight made me smirk a little.

  Found you, Arken.

  I started walking, slipping into the current of masked faces. Perfume and laughter mixed with the faint tang of wine - silks brushed against leather as the elite of Morren moved like a single, glittering organism - practiced and poised to deliver the grandest displays of decadence.

  A few nights ago, I was investigating this man.

  Now I was here to protect and watch over him.

  The Regent failed to mention what I'm actually protecting him from, though.

  I had seriously started to consider the fact the Regent may have had a personal vendetta against me. Since he gave me jobs I could only assume would be better suited for more experienced members of the Inquisition.

  As I followed Arken through the garden, a flash of gold caught the edge of my vision - two figures turning toward me just as I collided with them.

  The impact was light, but enough to draw startled gasps. The woman steadied herself, clutching at her husband’s arm.

  “Oh - my deepest apologies, sir,” the man said at once, his tone graceful and practiced. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  Despite being the one at fault, I found myself mirroring their courtesy with ease. “No, please, the fault is mine entirely. I should’ve been paying attention.”

  The words came out smoother than expected - refined, elegant, proper.

  I could almost hear Mary’s smug voice in my head.

  "Stand tall, speak low, and never let them hear the commoner in your breath."

  She’d drilled that into me over and over. Turns out it worked.

  I personally find the whole act annoying. But do as the Romans do.

  The couple smiled, bowed politely, and continued on. I caught my reflection in a nearby window - immaculate suit, polished gloves, and a face hidden behind carved black and white porcelain.

  A noble among nobles.

  The mansion doors loomed ahead - tall, white, and carved with gilded vines. Divine lanterns hung above the entrance, their light pulsing faintly with sanctified energy. A thin mist rolled down from them, blanketing the threshold.

  One by one, the guests walked through it.

  When I stepped forward, the mist washed over me.

  It felt like I was being cleansed. Like plunging into cold, mint-laced water. My lungs expanded as if they had grown. My mind felt sharper, and my muscles less stiff. I caught the faint hum of runes buried beneath the marble.

  Its not an unfamiliar feeling.

  Every time I think of blinking from rooftop to rooftop - I feel an extreme sense of excitement.

  Does divine energy release dopamine in the brain, perhaps?

  As I entered the grand hall, even I had to admit it was impressive.

  The theater was alive with candlelight. Rows of crimson seats curved around the stage like ripples in still water, each one filled with elegantly dressed masks. Above, chandeliers shimmered with crystal light, reflecting against marble columns and mirrored panels.

  Arken’s green boar mask moved steadily toward a staircase at the edge of the hall. A private booth, no doubt - high above, curtained, fit for men who were powerful enough to deserve it - whatever that really meant.

  I was halfway to following when the lights dimmed.

  A small voice reverberated in the hall - small, yet powerful.

  "Presenting, Enfin, je t'ai trouvée, mon amour."

  I recognized the dialect - one of many that flourished in the Empire's vastness despite Empiric being the standard tongue. This one originated from the Capital, as Mary had taught me

  With that final thought, the performance began.

  A single violin cried out, its voice sharp and mournful.

  Then the piano answered.

  Soft at first - delicate, almost hesitant. The notes drifted through the hall like a confession whispered into an empty room. The violin’s voice trembled in reply, as if reaching for something just out of reach.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  But the piano refused to answer.

  They played like two souls circling each other across a gulf of silence - one calling, one retreating. The audience sat in rapt stillness. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

  I felt it, too.

  So much so I sat without realizing it, mind emptied of everything but the beauty unfolding before me.

  The violin belonged to an older man, every motion of his bow deliberate, patient, measured. His grey hair and intricate movements that wasted nothing proved his experience.

  But it was the pianist who held me.

  A young girl.

  White hair that shimmered under the candlelight - whiter than the yarrow flowers outside.

  Her fingers danced across the keys like threads weaving through silk, fragile and fluid, each note blooming into the next with impossible grace. Her figure seemed frail, as though the breeze could silently take her away.

  But something else caught my attention.

  Her eyes were closed, never opening once throughout the performance.

  I didn’t realize until halfway through that she was blind.

  And yet, the music she played painted worlds the rest of us couldn’t even see.

  I heard soft sobs from somewhere behind me - women dabbing their eyes, men whispering reassurances.

  As the first song reached its crescendo, I finally rose from my seat. The applause was a heartbeat away - just waiting to erupt.

  But then, from a few rows ahead, another figure stood as well.

  Same motion. Same timing.

  For a moment, our silhouettes overlapped in the candlelight.

  Strange, who leaves at the start of such a beautiful performance?

  As I moved toward the stairwell, something on the stage caught my eye.

  A faint pulse of light - soft and steady - flickered from the pianist’s instrument. A gemstone, small and perfectly round, was embedded near the base of the piano, glowing with each note she played.

  I slowed, watching as her hands stilled for a breath. She leaned forward, exhaled softly against the stone, and turned her sightless face toward the audience as her breathe reverberated in the room.

  But this time, her eyes were open.

  Green eyes contrasting her snow white hair. Eyes that shone brightly, yet focused on nothing - like nothing in front of her existed.

  “Next. Mon regard toujours sur toi, mon amour.”

  My steps faltered. For a heartbeat, I thought she was looking at me.

  But at a second glance, her eyes merely watched the crowd aimlessly.

  I shook my head, ignoring the feeling.

  The Veils exposure has really caused my paranoia to go haywire sometimes.

  The melody started, and this time the sorrowful melody was nowhere to be found. Now, it was invigorated with intensity.

  Sharper. Faster. The violin chased the piano now, their rhythm tangled in a desperate pursuit. The sweetness of the first song was gone, replaced with something raw - urgency, conflict, the edge of a dying heartbeat. Unresolved feelings dying in the pursuit of destiny.

  I resisted the urge to stay and listen.

  Looking up, the upper booths were tucked above the crowd, private spaces for the privileged - and perfect for an assassin to strike from.

  The stairs curved along the edge of the theater. As I climbed, I caught sight of Arken through the glass balcony above - seated comfortably, watching the performance below with a glass of wine in hand. His green boar mask gleamed faintly in the stage light.

  Good. Still alive.

  Then I noticed him again - the same figure who had stood when I did.

  A red phoenix mask. Tall, steady stride, hands clasped behind his back. Heading the same direction as me.

  Awkward.

  I slowed a little, pretending to admire one of the paintings along the staircase - saints, wars, the usual imperial propaganda. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him do the same.

  Coincidence, maybe.

  By the time I reached the top of the stairs, the phoenix-masked man was there too.

  We arrived at the same door.

  He looked at me, polite through the mask. “Ah. Excuse me.”

  “After you,” I said with forced courtesy.

  He nodded once and entered first, turning left - toward the same corridor where Arken’s booth waited.

  My pulse quickened, paranoia racking my brain.

  But halfway down the hall, he turned right instead. Calm. Unbothered.

  Just another noble heading somewhere else, thank god.

  I exhaled quietly, letting the tension bleed out of my shoulders.

  The hallways twisted like a maze. Velvet curtains, gold-framed mirrors, marble busts of saints staring from alcoves - all that aristocratic grandeur meant to make simple navigation impossible.

  I flagged down a servant, lowering my voice. “Excuse me. Could you please guide me to the booth section? I seem to have lost myself.”

  The servant bowed quickly. “Down the hall, my lord, then left through the blue drapes.”

  “Thank you.”

  I followed the directions until I reached the corner - and peeked around.

  Two guards stood outside Arken’s door, arms crossed, perfectly still.

  Good.

  I leaned back against the wall, standing near the door of an unused room, and allowed myself the first breath of relief all night.

  From inside the theater, the music soared again - the piano and violin clashing, fierce and beautiful. It sounded like the middle of a conflict - as though something was chasing them both to the edge of time.

  I closed my eyes for a second, letting it drown out everything else.

  Then pain shot through my skull.

  A vision.

  The world blinked red - and I saw it: a blade sliding clean into my neck. Blood spilling over the marble.

  Shit-!

  I spun around and ducked.

  Steel flashed where my throat had been a heartbeat earlier. The knife hissed through the air, grazing my collar.

  Then came the knee.

  It slammed into my face, hard enough to throw me backward through the nearest door. The hinges snapped as I hit the floor and rolled, the sound of splintering wood filling the dark.

  I forced myself upright just as the man stepped through the ruined doorway - red phoenix mask gleaming under the hallway lanterns.

  He held the knife loosely in his hand, his stance calm, practiced.

  I groaned under my breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me. There's no way you circled back just to kill me, right?”

  He didn’t answer. He lunged.

  I slipped aside, letting the blade carve air, furniture splintering behind me. I was unarmed - pistol holstered, blade sealed. Using either would expose me. The last thing I needed was to spark panic among the nobles and blow my cover.

  I ducked behind a table, mind racing. My fingers brushed cold metal - a letter opener. Small, sharp enough to matter.

  Just as the man attacked, I slipped up. I blocked with my forearm, pain tearing across my skin as blood sprayed from a deep cut.

  But the slip was bait.

  From behind my back, with my right hand I drove the letter opener into the side of his neck.

  The sound was wet, dull.

  He staggered back, choking. I threw the weapon aside, cursing under my breath. “Damn it. You're much more useful alive, you know?”

  He dropped to one knee, blood pouring between his fingers. Instinct took over. I tore at my coat, ripping fabric into strips and pressing it against the wound.

  “Stay still,” I muttered. “Only one of your arteries are pierced. You’ll live if you stop panicking.”

  He looked up at me - eyes wide behind the mask - and whispered something in a language I didn’t recognize through bloody gurgles.

  "Teikoku... gu-sha.... ni...”

  Then he bit down on something.

  Foam bubbled from his mouth. His body convulsed violently, back arching as his hands clawed at the air.

  “Shit!” I stumbled back as he seized, veins blackening beneath his skin. Poison. A suicide trigger.

  Within seconds, he was still.

  I stood there, breath heaving, blood dripping down my arm. Another body. Another mess. At least this one chose his own death.

  "Damn it." I muttered, staring at my ruined coat. "The Regent's going to have questions."

  I stared at him for a long moment, wondering if I should feel anything at all.

  Then I heard it - a dull thud outside.

  Then another.

  My heart froze.

  I rushed to the shattered doorway, peering out.

  The two guards outside Arken’s booth were already collapsing - knives in their throats, hands twitching weakly as they were dragged to the floor.

  Three figures in masks loomed over them, silent and efficient, catching their bodies before they hit the ground - hands covering their mouths. No shouts. No struggle. Just death.

  The assassins wiped their blades, moving toward Arken’s door.

  “Shit,” I whispered again - this time not as a curse, but as a prayer.

  I snatched the knife from the ground and ran toward the men, without thinking, without planning - just moving

  As I did, the music outside reached its final act - the violin had now caught up with the piano - and the confrontation would now begin.