The Masquerade of Dominion
The Skyspire pierced the night sky like a crystal blade, its upper tiers lit by cascading neon veils that shimmered across the smog-choked city. From far below, it looked like a temple of light, unreachable to anyone not already baptized in wealth and power.
Inside, the air was perfumed with ozone and expensive fragrances. A string quartet played in perfect synchronization with projected holograms of long-dead composers. Waiters glided between the guests like trained shadows, balancing trays of champagne whose bubbles caught the light like liquid diamonds.
Serenya Veyra walked among them with her chin raised, every step calculated. Her gown shimmered with embedded micro-lights, a subtle defiance against the whispers of decline that trailed her family name. The emerald clasp at her throat wasn't merely jewelry — it was armor, a reminder of a heritage others had already buried.
They think me ruined, she thought, scanning the glittering crowd. But ruin is only visible to those who reveal it. I'll show them something else entirely.
The Circle of Wolves
It didn't take long for the predators to find her. Power always moved in circles, and she stepped into one surrounded by sharpened smiles.
The minister, a heavy man draped in cobalt silks, raised his glass. "Lady Veyra," he drawled, "how radiant you look. I confess, we'd begun to wonder if your family had… withdrawn from Dominion's stage."
The pause after his words hung like bait. Others in the circle leaned in, eager for Serenya to slip.
She smiled, letting silence stretch until it teetered on discomfort. Then she answered softly:
"Some of us prefer to act before others finish speaking."
The circle chuckled, uncertain whether she had deflected or cut. The minister flushed.
But before the silence could settle, a woman with lips painted like fresh blood leaned forward — the socialite Veyra always dreaded. Her name was Clyra Menthis, a gossipmonger who weaponized secrets as currency.
"Tell us, Serenya," Clyra purred, her words sweetened with venom. "What's left of the Veyra fortune? Rumors abound. Should we expect to see you auctioning family jewels on the open net?"
Laughter rippled, quiet but poisonous.
Serenya met Clyra's gaze, expression unreadable. Her fingers tightened around her champagne stem, but she forced her body to stillness. She tilted her head, offered a faint smile — and said nothing.
The silence was deafening. Clyra blinked, her smirk faltering under the weight of it.
It was the minister who finally broke. "Ah, well, you know rumors," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably. "They're like smoke — more air than fire."
Serenya sipped her drink, her smile never faltering. Yes, she thought. Let them choke on their own words. My silence is more dangerous than their laughter.
The Pressure to Speak
Later in the night, she found herself cornered near a sculpted ice fountain, its cascading streams glimmering under prismatic lights. A corp vice-executive approached — lean, sharp-eyed, the kind who saw desperation as opportunity.
"Lady Veyra," he greeted with an oily bow. "Such a pleasure. TitanCorp admires resilience… and we always extend a hand to those carrying heavier burdens."
His smile was a hook.
"If you need relief," he continued, lowering his voice, "our doors are always open. Partnerships. Transactions. We could… ease your position."
What he wanted was clear: an admission. A slip. A single word that confirmed weakness, and he'd own her.
Serenya's pulse quickened. Her pride burned to lash out — to tell him TitanCorp would never buy a Veyra legacy. But her tongue pressed against her teeth. She remembered her mother's voice from long ago: Words are not wings, Serenya. They are chains. Once loosed, you cannot gather them back.
She smiled instead, her tone velvet-smooth. "How generous of you. Dominion is fortunate to have such… charitable souls."
The man froze, uncertain if she had mocked or praised him. His lips parted to reply, but he thought better of it. He excused himself, muttering something about another engagement.
Serenya exhaled slowly. Her silence had not only preserved her dignity — it had made him retreat.
The Weaving of Masks
Throughout the night, Serenya learned to wield silence as others wielded daggers. She gave no more than a few words to probing questions. When asked about her family's holdings, she only raised a brow and redirected the topic. When gossips pressed for scandal, she smiled as though she already knew secrets of theirs.
Every pause became a mask. Every withheld answer became a weapon.
And she noticed something remarkable: the less she said, the more others spoke. They filled the void with nervous chatter, revealing more of themselves than they intended. By midnight, Serenya knew of three secret affairs, two pending contracts, and one minister's crippling gambling debt — all without asking a single question.
So this is power, she realized. Not in the tongue, but in the silence that forces others to bare themselves.
The Whisper of the Oracle
Near dawn, Serenya escaped onto the balcony. The city spread below, endless rivers of neon and smoke. The night air bit at her cheeks, sharp and grounding.
She touched her console, hidden within her clutch. The screen flickered alive, displaying words that pulsed like flame:
LAW IV: Always Say Less Than Necessary.
Words are arrows; once loosed, they cannot be recalled.
The one who speaks least appears greater, for mystery breeds power.
The one who speaks too freely is already undone.
Serenya closed her eyes, the wind tugging at her gown.
"I'll learn," she whispered. "I'll master silence until they suffocate on it."
Inside, the gala roared with music and laughter. But Serenya, standing alone against the neon skyline, had already won a battle none of them realized they'd been fighting.