The sky above Redhill was the colour of a bruise — purple deepening into black. The final rays of sunlight caught the golden spikes on the walls of the estates, orange for an instant — and then nothing.
Below, the streets were filled with smoke and silence.
A scream echoed from an alley. A cat, perhaps. Nobody glanced.
Three individuals strolled through the filthy mist, as if they were home — or didn't mind if they were.
Elenya took the lead. Head held high. Steps brisk. One arm carrying a crate of wine bottles.
Asthia trailed behind. Her dull brown servant's uniform was nearly tailored. She didn't need to pretend to be a servant — she was the role.
Reth came last. Quiet. Shoulders low. His bad arm tucked under a clean cuff. He looked like the kind of servant no one noticed.
Perfect.
They reached the estate gates. Music drifted from inside — soft and sweet. Two guards glanced at them, already bored.
"You're late," one said.
Elenya didn't pause. "Outer wall slowed us down. But we've got the sweet reds. And the niece's favorite."
The guard did not smile. He waved the papers through almost without looking at them.
"Don't spill anything. Steward'll skin you."
"Not the worst that could happen," Elenya grumbled.
The gates swung open.
And they were in.
The aromas greeted them first. Roasting meat. Freshly baked bread. Perfume as thick as memory.
The floor was cool marble. Smooth enough to slip on. Every step rang out like a warning.
Then they came upon the banquet hall.
Blinding.
The ceiling arched far above them, gold and soft illumination. Chandeliers revolved with a lazy speed, dropping firelight like stars.
Laughter. Masks. Silver. Silk.
No one saw the three servants entering at the room's edge.
Good.
That was the plan.
Elenya headed for the drink tables. Reth scanned the room — stairs, exits, curtains, guards.
One beside the stairs. One by the drapes. Two by the double doors.
There was a soft pulse flashing in his head.
[ Threat Perception Lv. 2 – Active ]
Observation Level: Moderate
Hostile Intent: None
Nonetheless, he remained vigilant.
Asthia was already on the job — moving down rows of tables with a tray of empty glasses. Her expression serene, but her gaze keen. Each step fluid. Each turn sharp.
In the distance, Lord Hadran was seated.
His robe was red, weighted with gold. His face pale and powdered. His smile seemed off.
"."
What now? What next?
He despised nights like this. Too many eyes.
He sat lost in thought when a piercing voice brought him back.
A pull on his sleeve.
"…Yes?" he turned.
It was one of the caterers. A girl, maybe fifteen. Half-curled black hair. Tray of fizzy drinks clutched like a shield. She looked tired and irritated.
"Mister, why are you just standing there? You wanna get paid or what?" she grumbled. "Or are you one of those pretty ones that don't move unless someone tells you?"
Reth blinked, surprised.
Then he nodded, dropping back into character.
"Right," he said, speaking softly.
He took the tray. Not too quickly, not too slowly. The glasses rang softly.
The girl looked at him hard, then turned and vanished in the crowd.
Reth breathed out. The tray was heavier than it seemed.
Standing still for too long made one noticed. Servants were supposed to be on the move — be in motion, be unnoticeable.
He tightened his hold, straightened enough to appear like he fit in, and continued walking.
A lady laughed too loudly as he passed. A drink was spilled deliberately for attention. Reth ghosted through it all, placing down glasses, remaining silent.
One glass remained.
He saw her against the high windows. Alone. Candlelight illuminating her from one side. Her back straight. Black hair falling smooth down her back. Her dress dark, tight, beautiful.
From behind, she resembled—
No. She could not be.
He strolled over, cautious.
"Shining amber, my lady?" he whispered, holding out the last glass.
She spun about, slow and serene.
Silver mask of raven wing design. Deep red lips.
Her gaze met his.
And for an instant, time halted.
"…You," she said — soft, keen. Like a sword concealed in silk.