The carriage rattled over the cobblestones, the rhythmic clatter of hooves doing little to drown out the thunderous beating of Maena's heart. She sat rigid in the dark interior of the hackney coach, her fingers gripping the velvet seat until her knuckles turned white. Through the grime-streaked window, she watched the Callahan crest on her sister's carriage bob and weave through the fog of the harbor district.
They were far from the polished marble of the palace now. The air seeping through the cracks smelled of brine, tar, and old fish—the scent of the lower city.
"Where are you going, Zira?" Maena whispered to the glass, her breath fogging the surface. "And why must you drag our name into the mud with you?"
After twenty agonising minutes, the carriage ahead slowed. It turned sharply into a gated drive, disappearing behind a high stone wall covered in overgrown ivy. Maena signaled her driver to halt a safe distance away.
"Wait here," she commanded, her voice dropping the sweet soprano she used for court and adopting a steelier edge. "If I am not back in an hour, leave."
She stepped out into the damp night air. The mansion before her was a hulking shadow against the moonlight—an old estate, likely belonging to a fallen noble house, now repurposed for something clandestine.
As she crept closer to the gates, Maena watched her sister descend from the carriage. Zira had changed. Gone was her ballgown; she now wore a fitted crimson dress, darker and more daring than anything their mother would permit, and a domino mask obscured the upper half of her face.
Maena looked down at herself. She was a beacon of moonlight in her pale blue silk. It was too bright, too recognizable, too Crown Prince's Fiancée.
"Think, Maena," she hissed.
With a surge of adrenaline, she grabbed the heavy tiered overskirt of her gown. The fabric was worth more than a peasant's life earnings, but she didn't hesitate. She found a seam and pulled. The sound of tearing silk was like a scream in the quiet night. She ripped away the voluminous layers, the pearls scattering onto the dirty cobblestones like hail, until she was left with the simpler, darker blue slip dress beneath. It was scandalous by court standards, but in the shadows, it made her look like just another woman of the night seeking entertainment.
She scrambled back into the carriage for a frantic search. "Please," she muttered, opening the small compartments under the seats. "A fan, a veil, anything."
Her fingers brushed against cold papier-mâché. She pulled it out—a plain black half-mask, likely left behind by a previous reveler during masquerade season. She blew the dust off and tied the ribbons tight, obscuring her famous blue eyes.
She walked to the gate. A burly man with arms the size of tree trunks stood guard, his arms crossed over a chest that strained his waistcoat.
"Invitation," he grunted, not even looking her in the face.
"I seem to have misplaced it," Maena lied, her voice smooth as glass. She tilted her chin up, channeling the imperious aura of a future Empress. "Surely a woman of my standing doesn't need a scrap of paper?"
The guard stepped forward, blocking her path. "No paper, no entry. Boss's orders. Scram, little lady."
Maena didn't flinch. She reached into the hidden pocket of her torn dress and withdrew a heavy velvet pouch. She loosened the strings, revealing the glint of gold—enough coin to feed a commoner family for a year, perhaps two.
She took the guard's rough hand and pressed the pouch into it. The weight of the gold made his eyes widen, the greed instant and palpable.
"I have a terrible memory for invitations," Maena purred, "but I have an excellent memory for faces who assist me. Are you willing to overlook a clerical error for... compensation?"
The guard weighed the pouch, glancing left and right. He grunted, stepping aside and opening the heavy iron door just a crack. "Keep your mask on. Don't cause trouble."
Maena slipped inside, the heavy door thudding shut behind her like the lid of a coffin.
The interior was a sensory assault. The air was thick with smoke, cheap perfume, and the metallic tang of spilled wine. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but they were dimmed, casting long, distorting shadows. Maena navigated the crowd, keeping her head down. She recognized the faces beneath the masks immediately—Baron Leto, who claimed poverty to avoid taxes; Viscountess Vane, who was supposedly on a pilgrimage; Count Aris, known for his gambling debts.
It was a congregation of the desperate and the depraved.
She spotted the flash of crimson near a darkened corner. Zira.
Maena grabbed a glass of wine from a passing tray to blend in, her eyes locking onto her sister. Zira was standing with a man. He was older, perhaps thirty, with a jagged scar running along his jawline, yet dressed in the finery of a wealthy merchant.
Maena drifted closer, turning her back to them as if admiring a tapestry, straining her ears to catch their voices over the low hum of the crowd.
"—promised it would be here by tonight, Henderson!" Zira's voice was a harsh whisper, lacking her usual composure. "My brother is growing impatient. Do you know what Aven is like when he's kept waiting?"
"Now, now, my dear," the man, Henderson, replied. His voice was oily, sliding over the syllables. "Acquiring a Unicorn isn't like buying a horse at the market. The transport from the Elven border is... delicate. The beast has high magical resistance. It requires mass amounts of mana just to keep it sedated."
Maena's blood turned to ice in her veins. She nearly crushed the stem of her wine glass.
A Unicorn.
Mythical beasts were protected by Imperial decree. To hunt, capture, or sell them was high treason. It wasn't just illegal; it was a crime against the natural order of the world. And her family—her foolish sister and her arrogant brother Aven—were trafficking them?
"I don't care about your mana issues," Zira snapped, stomping her foot petulantly. "We paid for a spectacle. If you can't deliver, Aven will have your head. Or perhaps he'll just beat the coin out of you himself."
Henderson chuckled, a low, dark sound. He stepped closer to Zira, invading her space. "You act so fierce, Lady Zira. It's intoxicating." He reached out, his hand brushing her cheek, his fingers lingering near her ear.
Maena shuddered. Zira froze but didn't pull away.
"You wouldn't, darling," Henderson murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Zira's ear. "You need me. Your family needs my connections. Without me, you're just rich children playing with fire."
Maena felt a wave of nausea. The intimacy was grotesque, transactional. But as Henderson turned his head slightly, the light from a sconce hit his face. Maena froze.
Red hair. Violet eyes. Pale, almost translucent skin.
He looked... familiar. Not Henderson. That was a fake name, she was certain of it. But the features stirred a memory deep in her mind, something from the history books or the royal portraits? She narrowed her eyes beneath the mask. Who was he really? A servant wouldn't dare touch a noblewoman like that. He carried himself with the arrogance of someone who knew he was the most dangerous thing in the room.
"Maena?"
She jumped, nearly spilling her wine. A man had stepped in front of her, blocking her view of Zira. He was swaying slightly, his breath reeking of brandy.
"A lonely flower in a place like this?" the drunk slurred, reaching for her waist. "Come now, let me show you the private booths upstairs."
"Remove your hand," Maena said coldly, stepping back. "Or you will lose it."
The man laughed, stumbling forward. "Feisty. I like that. You got a price? Everyone here has a—"
Suddenly, a gloved hand clamped onto the drunk's shoulder. It wasn't a violent grab, but the pressure must have been immense, because the drunk yelped and buckled to his knees.
"I believe the lady asked you to step back," a deep, baritone voice resonated from behind the drunk.
The drunk scrambled up and fled without a word, terrified by the aura of the newcomer.
Maena looked up. Standing before her was a man of imposing height. He wore a suit of charcoal grey, impeccably tailored, and a mask that covered nearly his entire face, leaving only his mouth and jaw visible. His hair was black as a raven's wing, and through the eyeholes of the mask, golden eyes burned with a terrifying intelligence.
Maena straightened her spine. She knew power when she saw it. This man was a predator among sheep.
"Thank you," she said, her voice steady. "Though I had the situation under control."
The man tilted his head, studying her. "You were going to stab him with a hairpin? Effective, perhaps, but messy. I prefer to avoid stains on the carpet."
"It was merely out of courtesy, then?" Maena asked, arching a brow.
The man let out a short, dry chuckle. "Courtesy? Perhaps."
"Your mother taught you manners to some degree, hm?" Maena said, her blue eyes sharp behind her black mask. "To protect a lady, but not to be kind to her. There was no warmth in your rescue, sir. Only efficiency."
The golden eyes narrowed, a flicker of amusement dancing in them. He took a step closer, and the air around him felt charged, like the sky before a storm.
"Kindness gets you killed in places like this, Little Spy," he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Efficiency keeps you alive."
Before Maena could decipher the "Little Spy" comment, the room went pitch black.
A spotlight slammed onto a circular pit in the center of the mansion's great hall, which Maena had mistaken for a sunken dance floor. A man in a ringmaster's coat stepped into the light, his arms spread wide.
"Ladies and Gentlemen! Corrupt and condemned!" the ringmaster bellowed, his voice amplified by magic. "We apologize for the delay with the main event, but we have a substitute that will satisfy your bloodlust!"
The floor of the pit began to grind open. The smell of sulfur and rotting meat wafted up, choking the air.
"Tonight, we present a battle of titans!" the ringmaster screamed. "In the red corner, the Sky-Terror, the Griffon! And in the blue corner, the venom of the deep, the Three-Headed Serpent!"
The crowd roared with bloodthirsty delight. Maena felt the blood drain from her face. It wasn't just a market; it was a slaughterhouse. She looked for the man with the golden eyes, but he had vanished into the darkness, leaving her alone as the roar of the beasts shook the floorboards beneath her feet.