"Suck it in, Kaia. You look like a potato sack attempting to smuggle grain."
Lady Kaia Taryn gripped the bedpost until her knuckles turned white, sucking in a breath that felt like breathing through a straw. Behind her, the maid gave the corset laces a violent yank that nearly rearranged Kaia's internal organs.
"I am breathing," Kaia wheezed, her voice tight. "It's just… distinctively optional at this point."
"Don't be dramatic," Lady Victoria said smoothly from the vanity.
Kaia turned—slowly, because turning quickly risked snapping a rib—to look at her sister. As always, Victoria was irritatingly perfect. Her prismatic silver hair, a trait of the Taryn bloodline, was swept up in an architectural updo so intricate it defied gravity. Her posture was erect, supported by a high lace choker that she wore not for fashion, but as a rigid reminder to never, ever slouch.
Victoria was the Phoenix of the family. Kaia was the pigeon that had flown into a window.
"Tonight is the Emperor's Victory Masquerade," Victoria lectured, checking her reflection for flaws that didn't exist. "The Crown Prince will be there. The entire court will be watching. You represent House Taryn, Kaia. Do try not to look like you'd rather be in a stable."
"I like stables," Kaia muttered under her breath. "Horses don't ask you about your needlepoint."
"What was that?"
"I said, I'm overcome with joy, sister."
Kaia smoothed the front of her empire-waist gown. It was a pale, innocent blue—a color chosen by her mother to suggest a purity that Kaia had mentally abandoned three years ago. It was suffocating. The silk, the lace, the weight of the Taryn name.
She glanced down at her ankle. Beneath the layers of expensive muslin, strapped securely to her thigh with a lace garter, was a small, flat flask of amber whiskey.
It was unladylike. It was scandalous. If the Arindale Whisper found out, she would be ruined before the first quadrille.
But God, she was going to need it.
"Gloves," Victoria commanded.
Kaia snapped her white silk gloves on, hiding her hands. "Ready. Can we go? Or do we need to recite the family tree backward first?"
Victoria narrowed her icy blue eyes. "Just… try to be invisible, Kaia. For once."
Kaia smiled, a sharp, dangerous curving of her lips that didn't reach her eyes. "Don't worry, Tori. I plan on being a ghost."
Across the city, in the gilded cage of the Imperial Palace, Prince Aeron Valdamar was contemplating defenestration.
"My Lord, please," Caspian hissed, darting around him like a nervous squirrel. "If you frown like that, the wrinkles will set. And then the Empress will have me executed for allowing the Paragon to age."
Aeron stared into the full-length mirror. The man staring back was objectively perfect. His hair, a pale, sun-kissed gold, fell in a calculated sweep across his forehead—just messy enough to look dashing, just neat enough to look regal. His skin was marble-pale and flawless. He looked like a statue carved by a god who had a lot of free time.
He looked like a lie.
"I hate this coat," Aeron said, his voice a low, bored baritone.
"It's velvet, Your Highness. It cost more than my village," Caspian retorted, adjusting the gold epaulettes on Aeron's shoulders. "You look like the sun itself. A beacon of virtue."
Aeron snorted. "I look like a confectionary decoration."
He reached for the final piece of his armor: the white silk gloves.
He hated the gloves. The court whispered that he wore them to preserve his saintly purity, that he deemed the touch of common flesh beneath him. In reality, he wore them because if he didn't, he might accidentally strangle the next Duke who asked him about trade tariffs.
Or worse. He might touch a woman's bare arm and realize just how starved he was.
"Do you have the… item?" Aeron asked quietly, his grey eyes flashing to Caspian's reflection.
Caspian froze. He looked left, then right, checking the empty dressing room for spies. "My Lord, you cannot be serious. Tonight? At the Emperor's ball?"
"Especially tonight, Caspian. If I have to dance with Lady Victoria Taryn and listen to her discuss the moral implications of harp music for three hours, I will need a distraction."
Caspian groaned, a sound of deep, spiritual exhaustion. He reached into his pocket and produced a small, silver case. It didn't contain snuff. It contained dark, strong tobacco cheroots imported from the southern isles.
"And the mint water?" Aeron asked.
"In my pocket. Next to my resignation letter," Caspian muttered. "If the Empress smells smoke on you—"
"She won't. Because you are excellent at your job." Aeron pulled the white gloves onto his hands. He smoothed the silk over his long fingers, the fabric acting as a barrier between him and the world.
The mask was in place. The Saint was ready.
"Let's go, Caspian," Aeron said, turning toward the door with a cold, practiced smile. "The sheep are waiting for their shepherd."
The ballroom was a kaleidoscope of nauseating opulence.
Crystal chandeliers the size of carriages dripped light onto the floor. The air was thick with the scent of heavy perfume, beeswax, and desperation. Hundreds of masked nobles swirled in a sea of pastel silks, posturing and preening.
Kaia stood by a pillar near the refreshment table, trying to make herself one with the architecture. Victoria had already swept off to the center of the room, holding court like the Queen she intended to be.
Kaia tapped her foot. She was bored. Her corset was digging into her ribs. She needed air. She needed a drink that didn't taste like sugar water.
She scanned the room. The guards were stationed at the main doors, stiff in their iron uniforms. But the terrace doors… the terrace doors were unguarded.
Escape.
She began to edge along the wall, slipping behind a group of gossiping dowagers.
Meanwhile, on the dais, Aeron sat beside the Emperor, wearing a golden mask that covered the upper half of his face. He nodded politely as a Baroness droned on about her daughter's piano skills.
Bored.
He felt a physical itch under his skin. The "Saint" persona was suffocating him tonight. He needed darkness. He needed silence.
His eyes, sharp and predatory behind the mask, scanned the crowd. He wasn't looking for anyone specific. He was just looking. Watching.
Then, he saw it.
A flash of silver hair, wild and unpinned, disappearing behind a heavy velvet curtain near the terrace doors.
It wasn't the polite, pinned-up silver of the Taryn heir. It was messy. It was reckless.
Aeron felt a spark of interest for the first time in months.
He leaned toward the Emperor. "Father, if you'll excuse me. I believe I need to… inspect the security of the gardens."
The Emperor waved a dismissive hand. "Go, go. Be righteous, Aeron."
"Always," Aeron lied smoothly.
He stood up, adjusted his white gloves, and followed the silver hair into the dark.