Kent lounged beside me as if he'd lived here his whole life, the amber light tracing the slick black fabric of his clothes until it looked alive. I sat a few inches away, the edge of the couch pressing into my leg, trying not to breathe too loud. The chandelier whispered each time the room moved. I could still hear the echo of laughter from the party somewhere beyond the curtain, but in here, it was sealed off—too soft, too golden, too quiet.
I hated being in that kind of quiet. It gave thoughts too much room.
Kent's presence filled the space easily. His arm rested along the back of the sofa, hand relaxed, fingers gloved in black satin. He looked at me as if studying the space between my words. The longer I sat there, the more I felt like I'd walked into something that didn't have exits.
Who was he? A guest, a host, someone who worked for Patrick Swanson? The costume and the way he carried himself didn't match any of them. I couldn't tell if he was dangerous, or just drunk on his own strangeness. Every sentence he spoke felt like a question hidden inside another question. He knew too much—about the performance, about me. Even the things he didn't say seemed to imply he already knew.
It wasn't safe to talk here. Not with someone like him. Not with someone who smiled too easily.
And there was no map for this kind of conversation. I didn't know what the rules were. Was I allowed to curse? Could I walk out? Could I hit him if he tried something—if he crossed a line? What were the lines? He'd said earlier that here, people came to be "free." Free of judgment. Free of consequence. Free of everything but murder, apparently.
He turned his head suddenly, eyes catching mine through the shadows. "Do you know the card game Kent?"
I blinked. "Kent, the one you play with a group?"
"That's the one." He smiled, but it wasn't playful this time. It was quiet, deliberate. "It's an interesting game, don't you think?"
I hesitated, not sure if it was a real question or one of his tricks. "I've seen people play it. It's not really about the cards, right? It's about reading the other players."
Kent nodded slowly. "Exactly." He set his glass down on the table, the sound soft but sharp in the stillness. "It's all about signs. The trick is that you have to speak without speaking—move without being seen to move. Every pair of players has their own language. A twitch of the finger, a shift of the mouth, a glance too long." His voice lowered until it brushed against a whisper. "You win when the rest of the table doesn't notice what's happening right in front of them."
He smiled, eyes glinting in the lamplight. "That's what I like about it. It's about pretending not to understand. Everyone's lying, but the good ones make it look like honesty."
There was something in the way he said lying—soft, almost affectionate—that unsettled me.
He leaned closer, enough that I caught the scent of his perfume, something dark and sweet that made me think of bruised flowers. "The funny thing is," he murmured, "most people who lose don't even realize they've been playing."
I felt my throat tighten. "You make it sound like a threat."
"Not at all." He laughed, sitting back again. "It's a compliment. I think you'd be good at it."
The chandelier flickered once, briefly dimming the room. His face seemed different in the shadow—still smiling, still calm, but hollowed in the light's absence, as if the skin didn't quite belong to the shape beneath.
I looked toward the curtain that led back to the hall, calculating the distance, and for the first time that night I wondered if Corvian had left me on purpose.
I watched him in silence, the light folding over his sharp profile, gold catching in his lashes. The room smelled of candle smoke and something older, like varnish and velvet worn by too many years of sitting still. His words about the game circled in my head—signs, unspoken cues, lies that looked like truth. I didn't know if he was explaining the rules or confessing something.
"So that's why you chose the name?" I asked. "Kent. Because of the game."
His eyes flicked to me, then softened. A slow smile curved his painted mouth. "Touché," he said quietly, almost pleased. "You're catching on."
He leaned back, letting his arm stretch along the sofa again. "Yes, that's why. I like the game. I like watching people. Reading them. You can tell everything by how someone breathes, how their eyes move when they lie. You don't need cards, not really. The world itself is the table. And some tables are bolted to the floor."
He turned his wrist lazily, the candlelight running down his glove like liquid amber. "In Kent, you and your partner build a secret between you, right? A gesture, a signal, a little language of your own. Everyone else is trying to steal it. That's the thrill—having something invisible that only two people understand."
His gaze slid to mine, steady and unblinking. "It's the same here. You and I, for instance. We're talking, but we're not really talking. The words are one thing; the meaning lives somewhere else. You can feel it, can't you? The tension between what's said and what's meant."
I didn't answer. The way he spoke made it hard to move—like I'd stepped into a net I hadn't noticed being cast.
Kent smiled wider, as if he'd won something small but satisfying. "That's the trick I like best," he said. "You speak in plain sight, but only one person knows you're playing. Everyone else just laughs and claps, thinking it's part of the show."
He picked up his glass again and took a slow sip, eyes still on me over the rim. "You should try it sometime. Once you learn how to listen, words start sounding unnecessary."
The chandelier above gave a faint crack, one of its crystals trembling against another. It was almost nothing—a whisper of sound—but Kent's eyes flicked upward, sharp for a second before his smile returned, smooth as ever.
"See?" he said softly. "Even the house knows how to listen."
He was still talking about the game, his voice trailing into something softer, when the space between us thinned. His tone lowered, the words slowing until they weren't words at all but breath, the kind that carries warmth and suggestion. I felt it before I understood it—his nearness, the air shifting, the glow of the chandelier slipping into a quiet blur.
Kent's hand rested against the sofa, close enough that I could sense the heat from it brushing my sleeve. His eyes found mine, and for a moment there was no pretense left in him. The smile he gave me wasn't the painted one he wore for the party—it was something smaller, almost tender, the kind that hides itself until it's too close to stop.
He leaned in.
I didn't move. The air between us filled with the scent of wine and wax and something sweet beneath it. The bow around his throat brushed my collarbone, and then his lips were on mine. It was slow, careful, deliberate—the kind of kiss that asked nothing and took everything all the same.
For a heartbeat, I didn't think. My body followed before my mind caught up, responding to the warmth, the pressure, the soft pull of it. His painted mouth tasted of fruit and heat, of something theatrical made suddenly real.
When I finally drew back, my breath came out uneven. "You'll get paint on my face," I said quietly.
Kent smiled against the corner of my mouth, unbothered, his voice a low murmur that felt like it belonged inside the room's golden hush. "I can clean you up well."
He didn't wait for me to reply. His fingers brushed the side of my jaw, thumb tracing the edge of the mask still clinging to my cheek, and then he kissed me again—deeper this time, slower, like he wanted to see how far he could push before I remembered to stop him.
The chandelier flickered once, its light bending across the portraits on the wall. I thought I heard one of them sigh, the room tilting with quiet disapproval, but Kent's hand on my neck drew me back.
There was no sound left but breath and the distant echo of a violin, playing a song that no one in the house had asked for.
His mouth was still on mine when instinct took over. The world had shrunk to the warmth of breath, the quiet sigh between us, the soft drag of his painted lips against my skin. Yet underneath it—beneath the taste of wine and the dull rush in my ears—something stirred. A reflex. A defense. I reached inward, the way Corvian had shown me, drawing that blur at the edge of thought—the soft veil that could make a person forget.
Corvian once said the quickest way to test a mask is with touch—pulse, breath, then blur.
While kissing him, I pressed my hand to the back of his neck, fingertips seeking the pulse. His skin was warm, smooth, too smooth, almost waxen. And then beneath that—something moved. Not a muscle, not a vein. Something deeper.
I froze. My eyes opened.
Kent's were already open.
I pulled back so fast the air between us cracked. My chest tightened as I stood, trying to find the door, the air, anything that wasn't him.
He reached out, caught my wrist, and with a surprising strength, pulled me back down beside him. His fingers wrapped around mine—not cruel, not soft, just absolute. His voice, when it came, was low and measured. "I don't like what you just tried doing."
My breath snagged. "You—" I could barely form the word. "You have a companion?"
Kent smiled. A slow, satisfied curve. "I am the companion." His eyes glimmered with the kind of calm that only something inhuman could have. "You just tried to blur my memory, Hugo. I could punish you very badly for that. House rules," he said, almost bored. "Not here.""
The way he said my name made my spine tense. My name in his mouth felt wrong. I hadn't given it. "But how—why—what are you—"
He smirked, leaning back like a man with all the time in the world. "You're here with one of those, right? That friend you were looking for."
My pulse stuttered. "I'm leaving."
"Don't be so brash." His tone was indulgent, even affectionate. "I'm not half as bad as Corvian. Whoever gave you that pact really hated your guts."
"You're lying." My voice came out quieter than I meant it to. "Of course you'd be lying. You're a devil."
Kent tilted his head, fingers tracing my cheek, almost tender. His eyes burned steady gold. "Actually," he said softly, "I'm much more interesting than a devil." He paused, as though tasting the weight of his next words. "And it's funny you assume Corvian could ever be any good. He's one of us too."
"I said I'm leaving." I stood again, this time wrenching free of his grasp.
He didn't follow. He only smiled, that same patient, knowing smile. "You'll know where to find me."
"Why would I ever want to see your face again?"
"Because Corvian will drive you to your death." His voice lowered to something silk-thin, deadly calm. "And when he does, you'll want someone to save you. I can be that. In return for something."
I stared at him—at the still curve of his painted mouth, at the precise calm that made his every movement seem rehearsed. The light gathered on his skin as if it, too, were drawn to him. He didn't chase, didn't speak. He simply existed, patient and terrible, waiting for me to understand something I did not want to name. My mind thrummed like a wire pulled too tight.
What is it with everything in this world asking me for something in return—divine or human, blessed or damned—it's always the same bargain wearing a different face. Every hand that offers help already knows what it wants to take.
I turned, though the air seemed to resist me. It clung to my sleeves, pressed against my throat, as if the room itself wanted to hold me in place. The gold of the chandeliers dimmed as I moved, the walls sighing under the shift of shadow. The portraits watched in silence, their eyes gleaming with old, painted judgment.
When I stepped beyond the door, the corridor closed around me like a throat. The laughter from the distant hall had turned brittle, distant. My thoughts would not quiet; they dragged his words behind them, heavy as chains, the echo of his smile burning through each step I took.
Why did nothing in this world come without a toll? Why did every promise feel like a ledger being written in secret—every kindness a debt already owed? Even the light in this house seemed borrowed.
The corridor seemed longer on the way out, its silence denser, the light folded in gold and dust. My steps barely made a sound. The laughter from the main hall bled through the walls, muffled and unreal, like music remembered from a dream. My pulse hadn't settled; it still raced somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
And then I saw him.
Corvian leaned against one of the marble poles at the corridor's end, arms crossed, mask gleaming pale beneath the chandelier's light. The shape of it was sharp and serene—ivory painted with dark gold lines that traced the eyes and lips. Even behind the disguise, his stillness gave him away. No one else in the world could occupy space like that, quiet yet consuming it entirely.
He tilted his head slightly, and though his tone was soft, it carried through the air with unnerving precision. "I smell something… What could it be?"
The words struck the air like smoke finding its way into an open wound.
I fidgeted with my sleeve, adjusting it though it didn't need fixing, and reached up to steady the mask on my face. "I don't know." My voice came out smaller than I wanted, stretched thin between guilt and fear.
Corvian smiled. It was small, but I saw it—the curl of his mouth under the mask, the way the light slid over his jaw like acknowledgment. "Fine," he said at last, his tone turning almost indifferent. "Come. Your next set is beginning."
I hesitated. "Corrin—"
"Yes?"
"I feel very uncomfortable."
He straightened, the shift barely visible but enough to fill the corridor. "Wipe your mouth," he said quietly, "and follow me."
For a moment, I didn't understand. Then I did.
Heat rushed up my neck. I wiped my mouth quickly, almost panicked, as though the gesture could erase more than it did—the taste, the guilt, the tremor still trapped between my teeth. His eyes followed the motion, and though his mask hid his expression, I could feel the weight of his knowing.
He turned away first, walking toward the main hall. I followed, unable to tell if I was ashamed, afraid, or both. The back of his coat brushed against the marble light as he moved, and I found myself wishing, absurdly, that I could vanish into it.
As we moved toward the main room, the air thickened with perfume and laughter. Every step drew us closer to the pulse of the party—the music swelling, the chatter breaking like waves against chandeliers. I tried to steady my breath, tried to pretend my skin didn't still carry the warmth of what had just happened.
And then someone brushed against my arm.
A woman in red.
Her gown shimmered as she turned to face me, the fabric alive with movement, like it was catching the light on purpose. Her mask covered only half her face; her lips were dark and deliberate, her smile soft but practiced. When she spoke, her voice slipped under my skin, quiet, honeyed.
"Do you remember me?"
I stopped. "I'm sorry," I said, still off balance. "I don't recognize you."
"Not even my voice?"
Something in her tone made the back of my neck prickle, but I couldn't place it. "No," I said, stepping back slightly. "Doesn't ring a bell. Excuse me, I have to go."
I turned before she could reply, her perfume—rich and floral, almost decaying—following me for several steps.
The name Stobbs crossed my mind. That meeting. Her voice, calm and precise, warning about a lady in red. You'll know her when she finds you.
A cold ripple passed through me. I looked around—the masks, the colors, the laughter that never quite sounded real. It all blurred together, every face smiling too wide, every gesture rehearsed. Was this all a game? Was anyone here real?
These were people who ran cities, companies, governments. They moved money, signed decrees, had faces on billboards and portraits in boardrooms. Tomorrow, they'd walk out of here and put on their tailored suits, shake hands, make policy, order others around like tonight hadn't happened.
How? How could they do this—play gods by night and saints by morning?
I almost laughed. A small, hollow sound that barely escaped my throat. Who am I to talk? I made a pact with a devil. I live on borrowed divinity. The only difference is that I haven't yet cashed it in for money. Give it time.
Before the thought could rot any further, a hand seized my arm.
"There you are!"
It was the woman from earlier—the one who'd announced me at the beginning of the night. Her eyes were sharp, efficient, unbothered by masks or pretense. "We need you now," she said briskly.
I blinked. "Now?"
"Yes. The guests are gathered in the garden. It's time for your next set."
Her grip was firm as she pulled me toward the glass doors at the back of the hall. The noise of the party swelled behind us, the air inside growing warmer, heavier, as though the house itself exhaled us into the open night.
The doors opened, and I caught the scent of jasmine and firewood. The garden was alive with candlelight—crowds gathered in semicircles, their shadows long and soft across the grass. The wind carried the distant murmur of waves, the sea beyond whispering like something restless and alive.
My pulse steadied. This was mine—the stage, the trick, the heat. Whatever haunted this house, whatever I'd just left behind in that room—it would burn the moment I called the fire.
The night had teeth.
It bit at the edges of the garden, wind moving through the trees with a sound like whispering silk. The guests clustered around the marble fountain where the lights had been dimmed to a low, amber glow. Their masks gleamed like ghost faces in the dark. The air smelled of wax, salt, and the soft sweetness of burning jasmine.
I stood before them, the grass damp under my shoes, the stillness so deep I could hear my own pulse in it. Beyond the garden walls, the ocean murmured—a quiet reminder of something endless and waiting.
When I raised my hand, the torches bowed.
It began with a breath. Just air, shaped, pulled, then set alight at the tip of my palm. A thread of fire twisted upward, delicate as smoke. It curled, folded, and split into two, then four, then ten small tongues of flame—each one hovering in the air, trembling like candlelight caught mid-dance.
The crowd gasped softly. The torches flickered as if startled. I moved my fingers, slow and deliberate, and the flames obeyed, spiraling into a circle around me. They rose higher, stretching thin, joining into an arch above my head until I stood inside a halo of fire. The light drenched everything gold—the guests, the water, even the shadows.
I exhaled, and the ring collapsed inward.
The flames became birds.
They burst outward in sudden flight, wings made of burning lace. They soared low over the audience, weaving between them, leaving trails of red smoke that shimmered and faded. The heat brushed their cheeks, close enough to feel real, too controlled to harm. Someone clapped once, then stopped, unsure if it was allowed.
I opened both hands toward the sky. The birds scattered upward, their bodies breaking apart midair into a rain of sparks that fell without burning, each ember turning to a tiny glass bead before it touched the ground. They rolled over the grass like seeds of light.
And then, with a flick of my wrist, the beads rose again—thousands of them—lifting slowly, silently. They drifted above the guests, gathering in patterns: constellations, shapes that moved and breathed like something ancient remembering itself.
A woman whispered, "Stars…"
They weren't stars. They were memories—tiny reflections of the guests themselves, their faces flashing in the glass orbs for the briefest moment before dissolving. A murmur spread through the crowd as each person caught a glimpse of their own eyes, their own mask, staring back from a hundred little lights.
I could feel the heat behind my ribs now, alive, pulsing, asking for more.
I pressed my hands together, and all the orbs turned crimson at once. The garden blushed with color—the grass red, the marble red, the sea beyond reflecting red. For a breath, it looked like the whole world was bleeding.
Then I opened my palms, and everything went dark.
No fire. No sound. No light.
Only silence.
A beat passed. Two.
Then a single flame appeared on the tip of my finger—small, golden, innocent. I blew on it, and it scattered into a gentle wave of sparks that floated through the air like fireflies returning home.
The applause came slow, uncertain at first, then rising, breaking the quiet open.
I lowered my hand, breath unsteady. Somewhere behind the crowd, I felt Corvian watching. I didn't have to see him. I could feel the weight of his gaze—the approval laced with warning, the kind of pride that always comes before a punishment.
And beyond that, somewhere deeper in the dark, I swore I heard Kent laugh.
The silence after the last ember died felt enormous, like the air itself had stopped breathing. Every eye was on me. Every mask tilted toward the same spot, waiting for whatever came next. The sea wind moved through the garden, stirring the candles and making the shadows tremble across the grass.
Then a sound split the sky.
The first firework went up in a streak of gold so bright it painted the faces of the crowd in light. It burst open above the estate—an explosion of fire and ash that scattered across the heavens like burning glass. The audience gasped. More followed, each one louder, blooming higher, the sky unfolding into red, blue, white, and gold until the night became a moving ceiling of color.
I didn't move.
The light behind me burned through the air, warm against my back, and I turned my head slowly until my eyes found him.
Corvian stood near the stone steps at the edge of the garden, apart from the rest. The mask he wore caught the reflection of the firelight, smooth and pale as bone, eyes dark behind it. His posture was effortless—hands clasped behind him, expression unreadable. But even from here, I felt it: that still, deliberate power of his presence pressing against my skin like a quiet hand.
We held each other's gaze through the storm of light.
Each firework carved the darkness open behind me, but his eyes didn't follow the sky. They stayed on me, steady, unblinking, as if the world's noise was an inconvenience between us. For a moment, I forgot the crowd, the applause, the glittering rain of sparks. The sound of everything blurred—the shouts, the music, the thunder of the fireworks—until there was only that invisible line between us.
The light of the explosions washed over my face in waves, and I could see the faintest tilt of his head, the smallest curve of his mouth—a smile, restrained, almost imperceptible, yet heavy with meaning. Approval. Possession. Something darker.
Another burst of color illuminated the garden—white this time, searing enough to turn every figure into a ghost. I stood there, caught between shadow and brilliance, my body outlined against the sky's fire, and Corvian watching as though he were witnessing something he'd both created and condemned.
When the next explosion came, it filled the air with a rain of gold, the fragments drifting down around me. I didn't move to wipe them away. They clung to my coat, my hands, my hair, settling like blessings that burned.
Still, his gaze did not break.
And beneath all that color and noise, beneath the applause and music rising again from the garden, I could feel something deeper—his voice, quiet as a thought not yet spoken, saying without sound: You are mine to perfect.