Velvet Masks & Vows
Chapter One: The Arrival
Bergen, Norway ~Late November~
The train pulled into the station with a hiss, steam curling into the night like breath from a sleeping beast. Snow fell in slow spirals, blanketing the cobblestones in silence. The air was sharp, scented faintly with pine and sea salt. Lanterns flickered along the platform, casting golden halos in the mist.
Madeline Vinter stepped down from the carriage, her boots clicking against the stone. She wore a tailored coat of deep burgundy velvet, cinched at the waist with brass clasps, and gloves of black leather stitched with silver thread. Her hair—dark as ink—was swept into a low twist, revealing the curve of her jaw and the glint of a silver chess knight ring on her finger.
She paused, taking in the view.
Above her, carved into the hillside like a cathedral of secrets, stood St. Elvar's Institute. Its gothic spires pierced the fog, windows glowing like watchful eyes. The iron gates were flanked by statues of hooded figures, their faces obscured, their hands clasped in silent judgment.
Madeline lifted her chin and walked forward.
(The Girl with the knights Ring)
She wasn't here to beg for belonging.
She was here to reclaim her name.
The Vinter legacy had been tarnished—her father, Henrik Vinter, once a revered diplomat, now a ghost whispered about in scandal. But Madeline carried herself like royalty in exile. Her silence was deliberate, her gaze unflinching. She had learned that power didn't always roar—it could whisper, and still be heard.
A woman in a sable cloak met her at the gate. "Madeline Vinter. You're late."
"I'm precise," Madeline replied. "There's a difference."
The woman blinked, then turned. "Follow me."
(St. Elvar's Institute)
The academy was a labyrinth of stone and shadow. Candles flickered in wrought-iron sconces, casting dancing light on tapestries woven with cryptic symbols. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of wax and old paper.
Students moved through the halls like phantoms—velvet coats, polished boots, murmured laughter. No one looked directly at her, but she felt their glances like static.
Her dormitory was a chamber of dark wood and tall windows. A fireplace sat cold and unused. On the desk, a single black envelope awaited her—unmarked, unopened.
She didn't touch it.
Not yet.
(The Library of Echoes)
Unable to sleep, Madeline wandered the library.
It was vast—vaulted ceilings, spiral staircases, shelves carved from mahogany. Candles floated in glass globes, casting soft light on leather-bound volumes. Snow tapped against the stained-glass windows like a metronome.
She moved toward the Restricted Section, drawn by instinct. The books here were older, darker—histories of the school, treatises on ritual, volumes bound in velvet and sealed with wax.
She reached for one.
"You're not supposed to be here."
The voice was low, amused, and unmistakably male.
She turned.
(Elias Thorne)
He leaned against a shelf, half in shadow. His coat was black wool, tailored to perfection, with a high collar that framed his jaw. A velvet ribbon was tied around his wrist—unmarked, but deliberate. His hair was tousled, his eyes a shade of stormcloud gray, and his smile was the kind that knew too much.
"Scholarship girl," he said, voice like silk over steel. "Curious already?"
Madeline didn't flinch. "And you're the one who thinks he owns this place."
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "I don't own it. I just know how it works."
She reached for the book again.
He intercepted it, fingers brushing hers. "This volume contains the original charter of the society you're not supposed to know exists."
"I didn't ask."
"But you're here. That's enough."
(The Game Begins)
He handed her the book, but didn't let go immediately. His fingers lingered, eyes locked on hers.
"You'll find St. Elvar's isn't kind to girls who think they're clever."
Madeline's gaze didn't waver. "And boys who think they're untouchable usually fall the hardest."
His smile deepened—teasing, intrigued. "You're sharp. Dangerous. I like that."
She pulled the book free. "You'll get over it."
As she turned to leave, he spoke again.
"Your father was Henrik Vinter, wasn't he?"
She froze.
"Disgraced diplomat. Embezzlement. Scandal. Quite the legacy."
She turned slowly. "And you're Elias Thorne. Legacy of arrogance. I've read about you too."
He laughed softly. "Touché."
(The Invitation)
Back in her dormitory, the fireplace still refused to light. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the book Elias had given her. Its pages smelled of wax and dust, its margins filled with cryptic annotations.
Then she saw it.
The black envelope.
She opened it.
> You are cordially invited to the Winter Masque.
> Midnight. The Hall of Mirrors.
> Wear a mask. Speak no names.
She stared at the card, her pulse quickening.
Outside, the wind howled like a warning.
Inside, the fire finally sparked.
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