The Golden Court had always thrived on two things: spectacle and deception. One without the other was bland—bread without spice, wine without sweetness. A ball meant for celebration was nothing but a stage, and each mask glittering beneath the chandeliers carried whispers sharper than daggers.
Calista Thornheart knew this better than anyone. She had grown up in a house where glances were daggers and compliments were coins spent cheaply. Tonight was no different. The queen's "Festival of Masks" promised unity, but Calista recognized the truth: this was theater. A dangerous one, staged on marble floors and drenched in gold.
She stepped into the hall like she owned it, draped in obsidian silk cut close to her form, sequins catching light like starlight. A raven-feathered mask framed her face, elegant and sharp, a warning rather than a plea. She wasn't here to play among nobles. She was the storm that rattled their game boards.
At her side, Rowan muttered in his usual disgruntled baritone.
"Remind me again why we're here instead of asleep?"
Calista's lips curved. "Because, darling, rumors are like wine. They must be drunk fresh before they sour."
Rowan exhaled loudly through his nose, already regretting his life choices. "One of these days, your metaphors are going to get us killed."
"Oh, hush. You'd be bored without me."
The ballroom stretched before them, a sea of jewels and velvet. Nobles, merchants, guards, even priests crowded the floor, masks glittering in every shade—pearl half-moons, golden visages, jeweled monstrosities that caught the chandeliers' fire. To Calista's trained eye, the "unity" was laughable. A silk curtain draped over rot. Every bow hid a sneer. Every toast hid poison.
And the whispers came, rushing toward her like a tide.
"That's her—the Thornheart witch."
"Beautiful, dangerous, and cursed."
"She danced with the crown prince himself last ball. Does she mean to ensnare him?"
"Ensnare? Please. She'd sooner devour him."
Calista let the words brush her shoulders like perfume, not daggers. Every rumor added another feather to her legend. Every hiss cemented her place as both fascination and fear. She didn't have to fight for attention—it bent toward her like grass to flame.
Rowan, noticing the stares, grumbled, "If they glare any harder, they'll burn holes through your gown."
"Let them. It would save me the trouble of commissioning alterations," she said, eyes already scanning the hall.
She hadn't come for gossip tonight. She had come for Ash.
The shadowed revolutionary had insisted on this meeting. Rowan had argued it was madness to trust a stranger who sneaked into palaces and spoke of ledgers and treachery. He wasn't wrong—but Calista had never been guided by caution. She was guided by opportunity. And Ash had the look of a man carrying one in his teeth.
Her silver eyes swept the dancers. Somewhere in this masquerade, Ash lurked, hidden in plain sight. A man who made the court quake would not wear gold or jewels. He would wear a mask that was both statement and shield.
Then—too deliberate to be an accident—a hand brushed hers.
Calista turned, already smiling beneath her raven feathers. The man before her wore a wolf's mask, sleek and black, his stance alert yet controlled. He dipped his head, but recognition flickered in his posture.
"Ash," she whispered.
"Lady Thornheart," he murmured back, his voice rougher than the silks swirling around them. "Do not react. Eyes are everywhere."
"I never react," she replied, lips curving slyly. "I act."
His gloved hand extended, and she allowed him to lead her into the waltz. To the onlookers, she was merely indulging in theatrics, waltzing with yet another masked suitor. But beneath the strings and flutes, their words cut sharper than blades.
"The ledger," Calista breathed, eyes locked on his.
"I've traced it closer. Western archives. Guarded. Someone powerful is hiding it."
Calista arched a brow. "Darling, that describes everyone in this room."
"Not like this." His grip tightened, his gaze flicking over jeweled masks and laughing mouths. "These aren't bribes or stolen taxes. These records prove collusion. Treachery. A rot that starts at the very crown."
Her pulse quickened, though her smile didn't falter. Collusion meant leverage. Leverage meant power.
Across the hall, Rowan leaned against a pillar, mask askew, goblet in hand, and shot her a glare that could have felled a lesser woman. He mouthed something along the lines of You're insane.
Calista ignored him.
"You'll need me," Ash said, his wolf's mask hiding everything but the fire in his eyes.
"Oh, darling," she purred, spinning into his arms before slipping away again, "everyone needs me. The question is—what do I need from you?"
Their waltz ended as abruptly as it had begun. Ash melted back into the crowd, his wolf's silhouette vanishing among feathers and jewels.
Calista glided to the banquet table, plucking a sugared plum with delicate fingers, pretending disinterest. Inside, her mind burned with calculations. If such a ledger existed, holding it meant more than survival. It meant ascendancy.
Rowan appeared beside her, thrusting the tray of plums closer. "Eat. You're plotting too hard."
She bit into one, savoring the tart sweetness. "Plotting burns more calories than dancing."
Rowan's jaw flexed. "Do you trust him?"
"Trust?" She gave a soft, musical laugh. "I don't even trust the mirror in my chamber. But conviction is predictable, Rowan. And predictable is something I can use."
The waltz faded into another round of strings. Laughter rang out. Crystal clinked. But Calista Thornheart's mind was nowhere near the music. It clung to Ash's words—collusion, treachery, a ledger buried in shadows.
She had danced with him for barely three minutes, yet his conviction lingered like the taste of wine. Dangerous men had that effect. Conviction was rarer than honesty, and in her world, infinitely more useful.
Rowan, of course, wasn't charmed. He leaned too close, muttering, "That was either the boldest recruitment pitch I've ever seen or the dumbest suicide attempt. Possibly both."
Calista's lips curved faintly as she sipped wine. "I enjoyed the dance."
"Of course you did. You'd enjoy a duel at dawn if it came with the right gown."
Before she could retort, the ballroom shifted. A hush spread like ripples across water. Heads turned toward the grand staircase, where the crown prince descended step by step, golden mask glinting in the chandelier's fire.
He was every inch the heir of Aurelia: tall, poised, smile honed to perfection. His cloak spilled like molten sunlight behind him, his mask radiant enough to dazzle the crowd. Nobles bent like reeds before a storm, each bow rehearsed, each smile hungry.
Calista curtsied, her silver eyes never leaving his. And he looked at her. Longer than he should have.
Whispers hissed.
"The prince lingers on her."
"Scandalous."
"Dangerous."
Perfect. Let them choke on the tension. Calista thrived on it.
But then—movement caught her eye. Subtle, almost invisible. A servant slipping through the crowd with a tray of goblets, his posture too stiff, his grip too tight. Calista's attention sharpened. His hand shifted beneath his sleeve, fingers twitching with a precision no servant would dare.
Poison.
The thought struck her with certainty.
The goblet closest to the prince gleamed under candlelight, brimming with golden wine. Calista's smile didn't falter, but her fan slipped from her hand, striking the servant's tray with perfect clumsiness. Crystal shattered. Wine spilled across marble like sunlight bleeding into shadow.
Gasps filled the hall. Nobles recoiled. The prince's guards sprang forward.
"Oh, how graceless of me," Calista purred, dipping her head with feigned embarrassment. "Do forgive me, Your Highness. I am dreadfully clumsy this evening."
The prince laughed lightly, smoothing the moment with charm. "No harm done, Lady Thornheart."
But the servant's mask had slipped, and his face was ashen with panic. He bolted.
Rowan cursed. "I knew it." He was already moving, sword hand twitching as he shoved through the crowd.
Calista followed, skirts sweeping marble, the startled cries of nobles fading behind them. The servant tore through a side passage, knocking over a candlestick, sending sparks scattering across the floor. His breathing was ragged, frantic.
Rowan caught him at the corridor's bend, slamming him against the wall with brutal efficiency. The dagger hidden in his sleeve clattered to the ground.
"Talk," Rowan snarled, his arm pressing across the man's chest.
The servant spat blood instead, eyes flashing with something like triumph. "The Court will burn. Your games won't save you."
Calista stepped closer, her fan still dangling from her wrist, her voice silken but sharp. "And who lights this fire?"
The man's lips twisted into a smile that chilled her. Before Rowan could restrain him further, the servant bit down. Glass crunched. A vial hidden in his cheek shattered. Foam flecked his lips, his body convulsing before collapsing in Rowan's grip.
Dead.
Rowan swore under his breath, lowering the corpse with rough hands. "Damn zealot."
Calista crouched gracefully, tugging at the dead man's sleeve. A hidden seam tore under her fingers, revealing parchment stitched inside. Not a map this time, but a symbol—an ouroboros, a serpent devouring its own tail.
Her silver eyes narrowed. The mark was older than myth, whispered only in fragments by those who dealt in secrets.
"The Circle," she breathed.
Rowan frowned. "What in all the hells is the Circle?"
Calista rose slowly, the parchment pinched between her fingers, the torchlight catching the faint curve of her smile. "Why, Rowan…a new game, of course."
Above them, music swelled again. Nobles returned to dancing, oblivious to the venom in their veins. The Golden Court glittered on, its foundations quietly rotting beneath the weight of secrets, symbols, and whispers.
And Calista Thornheart? She stood in the shadowed corridor, heart racing, eyes gleaming.
For the first time in years, she felt not like a villainess in their story, but like the author of her own.