The three days passed with the agonizing slowness of a dying man's breath.
Ciro moved through the castle like a specter. By day, he played the fool, tumbling and juggling for the Southern soldiers who threw scraps of food at him. By night, he was a shadow, greasing the hinges of the cellar doors, stashing supplies in the drainage tunnel, and ensuring the small wooden boat was hidden beneath the weeping willows at the riverbank.
Every smile he forced, every bell that jingled on his cap, was a lie. He was winding tight, a coiled spring ready to snap.
On the eve of the Masquerade, the atmosphere in the castle was electric. Servants scurried like ants, hanging silk banners and polishing silver. But inside Princess Elara's chambers, the mood was funereal.
"It is beautiful, Your Highness," the handmaiden whispered, fastening the laces of Elara's dress.
It was a gown of deep midnight blue, embroidered with silver thread that looked like constellations. It was meant to match the starry night of the ball. To Ciro, watching from his post by the door, she looked like a goddess.
But Elara's eyes were dull. She stood like a doll being dressed for display.
"Leave us," a heavy voice commanded from the hallway.
The handmaiden curtsied hurriedly and fled. Prince Kaelen stepped into the room, filling the space with his suffocating presence. He was already dressed in his finery—a tunic of gold and crimson velvet.
He circled Elara slowly, like a wolf inspecting a trapped deer.
"Blue," Kaelen mused, touching the fabric of her sleeve. "It suits you. Cold. Distant. Just like the North."
Elara didn't flinch. She had practiced her mask well these past few days. "I aim to please, my Lord."
"Do you?" Kaelen smirked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, rectangular velvet box. "Then wear this. Consider it a wedding gift. A day early."
He opened the box. Inside lay a necklace—a heavy gold chain encrusted with blood-red rubies. It was magnificent, expensive, and undeniably gaudy.
But Ciro saw it for what it truly was. It wasn't jewelry. It was a collar.
Kaelen stepped behind Elara. He placed the cold metal against her throat and clasped it tight. Too tight.
"There," Kaelen whispered into her ear, his hands lingering on her shoulders. "Now everyone will know who you belong to. The red matches the Southern flag. You are mine now, Elara. Body and soul."
Elara's breath hitched. She looked into the mirror. The rubies looked like drops of blood slit across her throat.
"Thank you... Kaelen," she forced out.
In the corner, Ciro's fingers twitched towards his belt. The urge to sever Kaelen's hands from his wrists was overwhelming. He visualized the arc of his blade, the spray of blood, the silence that would follow.
Tomorrow, he reminded himself. Just wait until tomorrow.
Kaelen caught Ciro's reflection in the mirror. The Prince's eyes narrowed.
"You," Kaelen barked. "Why are you always hovering? Do you enjoy watching your betters?"
Ciro stepped forward, bowing low, his bells giving a pathetic little jingle. "I am simply admiring the view, Your Highness! The Princess shines like a star, but you... you shine like the sun! It blinds my poor eyes!"
Kaelen scoffed, his ego stroked enough to ignore the Jester's presence. He kissed Elara's neck, right above the heavy gold chain.
"Rest well, my bride," Kaelen said, pulling away. "Tomorrow, we dance. And then... we consummate."
He strode out of the room, leaving the door open.
As soon as he was gone, Elara clawed at the necklace. She gasped, trying to find the clasp, her fingers trembling violently.
"Get it off," she sobbed, panic setting in. "Ciro, get it off! I can't breathe! It burns!"
Ciro was there in an instant. He brushed her hands away gently and undid the clasp with practiced ease. The heavy gold chain fell into his palm with a heavy thud.
Elara collapsed into his arms, shaking.
"He marked me," she wept into his chest. "Like cattle."
Ciro held her tight, staring at the ruby necklace in his hand. The red stones glinted in the candlelight, mocking him.
"Let him mark you with gold tonight," Ciro whispered, his voice cold as the grave. "Tomorrow, I will mark him with steel."
He threw the necklace onto the vanity table.
"Sleep, Elara. When the sun rises, the game begins."
Outside, the first heavy drums of the celebration began to beat. The Masquerade was here.