The golden crest of the royal family gleamed on the wax seal, pressed with brutal elegance against creamy parchment. Jiwon stared at the letter in her hand, reading the lines for the third time, though she had already memorized every word.
> "Lady Jiwon, future fiancée of Duke Drake Haint, is hereby cordially invited to attend the Royal Debutante Ball, hosted by His Majesty in honor of the Season's Opening."
Future fiancée.
A lie dressed as courtesy. A role she had never asked for, yet had no choice but to play.
The candle beside her flickered as if mocking her stillness. She traced a finger along the sharp curve of the seal.
She was going to the palace. Not as a maid. Not as a warrior.
But as the woman promised to one of the most feared dukes in the kingdom.
---
Twilight painted the sky in bruised shades of lavender and ash when a knock came to her door.
Drake entered without waiting for permission, a long box wrapped in black silk tucked beneath his arm.
"A gift," he said, placing it on the bed. "It belonged to my mother."
Jiwon's eyes narrowed slightly. "The Duchess?"
"She hasn't left her bed in years," he replied. "But she was once a symbol of pride. And precision."
"And now you want me to wear her shadow."
He smiled faintly. "I want you to outshine it."
When she opened the box, the breath caught in her throat.
The gown was midnight blue—almost black—cut from velvet so fine it glowed in the candlelight. Intricate silver embroidery crawled across the bodice like constellations. The sleeves tapered into flowing lace like dripping starlight.
Wearing it felt like wearing another woman's ghost. But Jiwon stepped into it, straightened her back, and let herself vanish into the role—just like always.
---
The Royal Glass Hall was a monument of mirrors and golden excess.
Hundreds of candles danced from chandeliers overhead, their flames reflected infinitely in the polished crystal walls. The marble floors glittered like frost. Nobles stood in elegant flocks, eyes glinting like knives beneath layers of lace and silk.
Drake offered her his arm.
Jiwon took it.
As they descended the main staircase, the music dipped. Whispers flared.
> "Is that Lady Jiwon?" "Wearing the Duchess's gown…?" "So the engagement is real, then."
She could feel the court's curiosity pricking at her skin. Judging. Measuring. Weighing.
But her chin stayed high. Her eyes cold. Let them talk.
She would listen.
And remember.
---
Not long after their entrance, a trio of noblewomen glided toward them—draped in varying shades of crimson and gold, hair pinned with jeweled combs shaped like flames.
The eldest among them stepped forward with a curtsy as poised as a blade.
"Your Grace," she said, addressing Drake. "It has been far too long. My sisters and I are delighted to finally meet the lady who has managed to tame the Wolf of Haint."
Drake's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Lady Delia Salzak. Your presence, as always, adds color to the court."
Delia's gaze slid to Jiwon, polite yet piercing. "We've heard much about you, Lady Jiwon. And what a striking impression you make."
Jiwon returned her smile. "Only striking? I must be losing my touch."
One of the sisters coughed behind a fan. The youngest looked genuinely amused.
Drake interjected smoothly. "I'm sure you'll get along splendidly. You all share an uncanny ability to turn compliments into war."
As the daughters of Duke Salzak moved away, Jiwon whispered, "Friends or foes?"
"Depends on the crown's direction," Drake murmured. "But they bite harder when they smile."
---
Soon, the orchestra began the opening notes of a royal waltz.
Drake turned to her, offering a gloved hand. "Would you do me the honor?"
His voice was velvet and suggestion. But his silver eyes, those infamous eyes, watched her like a hawk to a dagger.
Jiwon nodded, hiding her sigh.
They stepped onto the floor, swallowed by light and strings.
Their dance was fluid. Impeccable. But underneath every spin and touch was a tension thick enough to cut.
> "You wear that dress like a crown," Drake said, his breath warm against her cheek.
"And yet I feel like a pawn," she replied.
"Don't all queens begin as pawns?"
"Only until they reach the other side of the board."
Around them, the nobles twirled and laughed, lost in false elegance. But beneath the chandeliers, in the gleam of polished marble, secrets twisted with each movement.
Then—Jiwon felt it.
A vibration, soft but insistent, against her ribs.
Her modified magical tracker—hidden inside her dress pocket—was pulsing.
Faint. Calm. But unmistakable.
It shouldn't have reacted.
She had fine-tuned it to ignore Drake's cursed energy. It shouldn't hum like this unless it sensed something new.
Something dangerous.
Her gaze flicked around the room. A figure in gray stood too still near the musicians. Another guest lingered by the balcony, avoiding every reflective surface.
Drake, as always, noticed her change in posture.
"It's reacting?" he asked lowly.
"Yes. Not to you."
They broke from the dance with practiced grace, splitting into different paths around the ballroom. She moved along the rose columns, he skirted the far archways.
The tracker warmed again as she passed the buffet table. Then dulled.
Whoever it was—they were moving.
The figure near the garden turned just as she locked eyes—
And then—
A scream tore through the music.
High. Panicked. Real.
One of the tall windows exploded inward in a shower of glass.
Masked figures poured in—at least a dozen—wearing white masks streaked with black, like smudged ink tears.
Gasps rang out.
One of the attackers slashed a guard across the chest.
Another threw a glass orb into the air—an enchantment burst, fogging the room with silver smoke laced with confusion magic.
Panic bloomed like wildfire.
Servants fled. Nobles screamed. Some guards tried to fight.
Others fell immediately.
Drake's blade was already in hand. He moved through the attackers with surgical precision, parrying, slashing, leading terrified nobles to safety.
Jiwon ducked under a falling table, stripped off her shoes, and grabbed a fallen guard's shortblade.
Her mind was ice.
Her body, fire.
She moved like instinct—parrying a blow, twisting out of another. Her skirt ripped, but she didn't falter.
One attacker lunged toward a young noble girl. Jiwon stepped in, kicked the attacker's knee, and sent them sprawling.
Another charged. She turned, caught their wrist, and drove the blade up—clean through the shoulder.
As the attacker fell, another tried to flee. Jiwon chased them past the archway, cornering them beneath a shattered pillar.
The mask was cracked.
She slammed them to the floor, blade to throat.
With shaking hands, she tore the mask off—
And stopped breathing.
"The face it's, no no it's can't happen how is it possible".she whispered.
To Be Continued....