"You look absolutely radiant, Jade! The moons themselves are sulking in your shadow!"

  I glanced up at Viera’s beaming face. Had she been dabbling in poetry? Draped in a lavish lavender gown, she looked every bit the birthday girl—because, well, she was. The ball was hers, after all. I returned her smile, polite but measured.

  "And yet, every constellation bows to your spotlight tonight," I volleyed back, playing along. Her scales flushed a gleaming rose-gold.

  "Ancestors above, must you weaponize flattery?" She snorted, talons fidgeting with her pearl choker. "Knew you’d slither your way into this pit of pageantry, though."

  Had to. Someone had to stop this disaster before it spiraled—and maybe even get back at the bastards pulling the strings. Vor’akh. My fingers ghosted over the hem of my dress, where the dice rested. A little trinket built under Lotte’s meticulous, half-mad instructions.

  Weird thing, though—it felt like nothing. Not a flicker of magic, despite being woven from enchanted materials. The symbols must’ve been feasting on the energy, masking it completely. Just another layer of strange in an already ridiculous night.

  And yet, a part of me was thrilled. Lotte always had these oddball, brilliant solutions, but this time? This time, she was personally invested. Something about the Vor’akh made her angry, and that only stoked my anticipation higher.

  Now, all that was left was the waiting game.

  Oh, Thalador, never in my life had I looked forward to a catastrophe quite like this. I couldn’t wait to watch those bastards get absolutely, spectacularly ruined.

  For now, I had to play along. Let Viera parade me around, introduce me to her friends—not that I was paying much attention. A girl. A guy. Surface details barely registering.

  Rhys—a tall Rakari with a lion-like mane, sharp features, and crimson eyes. Viera had mentioned he was training for the Iron Pact. He also looked like a complete buffoon, nearly choking on honeycakes and swiping crumbs off his doublet with the grace of a concussed manaroe.

  Kara was... more composed. Another Drakkari, her scales a darker shade over olive skin, sleek black horns, and a dress to match—black and red, striking.

  Rhys pelted me with questions, radiating the enthusiasm of an overgrown child. Something about the ball, my time at the alchemy tower—probably more, but I wasn’t really listening. I wanted to be a good friend to Viera, wear the right mask, play my part.

  But my thoughts kept drifting. To the ball. To what was about to happen.

  Viera had already flitted off to greet other guests, as expected. It was her night, after all, and half the room probably had their sights set on her. Even Sasha, who I thought she’d introduce me to, was trailing after her now, helping her navigate the social chaos. I had to appreciate that.

  And yet—

  My pulse was hammering. Loud. Too loud. The kind of loud that made me want to bite down on something just to silence it. My gaze trailed up the length of Rhys’ neck—he was tall enough that I had to tilt my head slightly.

  And for one wild, unhinged second, I wanted to clamp my jaws around his throat and shake him like a ragdoll.

  "Uh... you good? You're staring kinda hard."

  Oh, shit.

  Awareness crashed back into me like a slap, and my face heated as the vivid image of me, in my dragon form, using him as a chew toy dissolved. I shook my head, forcing a smile through the sudden spike of panic. “It’s nothing. Just had a question.” No way I was admitting that.

  "Ooh, ask away!"

  "What exactly happened at the fountain earlier? It was too far for me to see, but I heard a commotion."

  A lie. I knew exactly what happened. That was Lysska’s handiwork, a little disruption designed to pull the attention of Lord Veyan—the cold, unreadable Saryn I’d spotted earlier, watching from his perch atop the stairs.

  Not gonna lie, just being in his vicinity was setting off every survival instinct I had. Maybe it was the fact that he was a low-gold. And gold ranks—hell, even low-golds—weren’t just a step above reds. They were in a whole different realm. Some might as well be called demigods. The sheer power they wielded was enough to keep entire rooms in check. And here Lysska was, poking at him for fun. It made me reconsider this whole damn plan.

  Rhys shrugged, honeycake glaze clinging to his sleeve. “Rune blew a fuse, I guess. Probably some underpaid artisan botched the glyphwork.” He flexed, knuckles popping. “Deserves a knuckle sandwich.”

  Admirable, his devotion to solving life’s puzzles with fists. Before I could mock him, he jabbed a finger toward the dancefloor. "By the way, you know that lady dancing with Lord Veyan right now?"

  Of course I did. She was my boss. Well, sort of. The one currently trying to save all of our collective asses.

  "No idea," I lied.

  "Weird," he muttered. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. Maybe she’s one of Lord Veyan’s friends."

  "Or maybe," Kara chimed in from behind, "she’s his secret lover."

  Rhys blinked. "You think so?"

  Kara just shrugged, arms crossed. "Just look at them. Every other lady in this hall has been straight-up rejected by Lord Veyan, but her? He’s actually dancing with her. And you can see the tension between them."

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  She sounded... weirdly invested. Like this was the most excitement she’d had all night.

  "Oh, you're just projecting those trashy romance novels you’ve been reading lately," Rhys teased with a laugh.

  "I don’t need those novels to see the obvious," Kara shot back. "It would help if you had any brains instead of all that muscle."

  Muscle does make him a prime-grade stress ball, I mused, fangs itching.

  …What.

  Down, dragon-brain. We’re professionals.

  Anyway, whatever they were going on about completely flew over my head. Tension? The only thing I saw was Lord Veyan trying not to kill Lysska.

  Couldn’t they see it? The waves of metal mana snapping around her like a coiled blade, the kind of warning only an idiot would ignore?

  Maybe it was because she’d altered his daughter’s dress with those weird runes. Lysska had said it might attract his attention in the wrong way, and judging by his reaction, it seemed like she’d been right. I still wasn’t sure exactly what she had planned, but seeing them together now—communicating, even if it wasn’t obvious to outsiders—I could only assume her plan was working.

  I knew Lysska could deliver her voice directly into someone’s ears. They weren’t just standing there, staring at each other.

  While Rhys and Kara continued bickering, my gaze flicked toward the ceiling, just for a second. A blurred shape was already skittering across the void-like surface of the mirrored panels. Most people wouldn’t notice. To the average eye, it was just part of the grand enchanted décor, something ornamental and charming.

  But if you really focused, if you strained your vision just right, you’d spot the faintest flicker of movement. Like an insect you didn’t notice until it was already too close.

  I carefully lowered my gaze.

  I didn’t know which stage of the ritual this was, but the fabric of reality hadn’t been breached yet. It would happen soon. And when I got that first feeling—just like Lotte had told me—I’d be ready.

  At least those clown-like entities were gone now. It made sense. The Sablethorn Patriarch was here, and his perception had to be leagues sharper than ours. If we could detect them, he definitely could. And the last thing those Vor’akhs wanted was to alert him.

  My eyes landed on the musicians tucked away in the corner of the grand hall. Their melody was hypnotic, enticing. But that’s where the chant was. Disguised in the music. Hidden in plain sight.

  These people were clever.

  A small part of me wanted to applaud them for it.

  How long had they been planning this? To orchestrate something like this right under a Gold’s nose—without him even catching on?

  Absolute lunatics. The clever kind.

  One architect stood inches from Viera now—Sasha’s “mentor.” A drakkari with bronze scales buffed to a liar’s shine, horns gilded like trophies. My claws itched.

  He had to be a red core. I could feel it.

  But every single one of them would get what was coming. They’d invoked Lotte’s wrath. And I didn’t feel sorry for them. Not one bit.

  I was mentally flaying him scale by scale when a meat-slab hand eclipsed my view.

  Rhys. All puppy-dog bravado. “So, uh…wanna dance? You’ve been eyeing the floor like it owes you coin.”

  I smothered the delightful image: dragon-me punt-kicking him through a stained-glass window.

  “Why not?” I took his palm, ignoring Kara’s “ancestors spare us” eyeroll.

  Anything to settle my nerves right now.

  I didn’t know how to dance, not in the traditional sense. But I had exceptional control over my body. And after watching the others move, I had a pretty good idea of how to follow the beat.

  I was far from an expert and definitely made a few mistakes, but Rhys seemed to pick up on my inexperience. He offered pointers whenever I moved too violently or lurched too far off rhythm.

  “You’re… surprisingly decent at this,” he muttered, narrowly avoiding my bootheel.

  “And you’re surprisingly good at leading.”

  He laughed. Clueless. Adorable. Chewable.

  It was a good distraction while I waited for time to pass. And pass it did.

  It happened the moment Lysska and Veyan stopped their dance. A frown creased his face, as if he were hearing some distant voice.

  Then—he simply vanished.

  No sound. No ripple of movement. Just gone.

  Yeah, no shit, I couldn’t even track him with Air Sense.

  Spatial magic. Had to be. Nothing else could explain how he disappeared without disturbing the air around him. But Veyan had a Metal Affinity, not the Light-and-Dark combination that gave rise to Spatial Affinity.

  Unless…

  Maybe he did have triple affinity. That would explain a lot.

  I couldn’t step outside to check, but I knew. It had started.

  The Vor’akh elder had finally made her move. The other house heads were probably already clashing with her in the lower district.

  Lysska turned to me, grinning. Subtle, sharp, satisfied.

  Everything had gone according to her plan.

  So… Lord Veyan had disappeared as a smokescreen, tricking the traitors into thinking he was out of the picture. But he had to still be here, watching. Waiting.

  His absence should push the ritual into its final stage.

  And it happened faster than I expected.

  Rhys was the first.

  A grimace twisted his face as his hands slowly slipped from mine.

  “Something wrong?” I asked, feigning concern. I already knew.

  The infected resonance was reacting.

  Above us, the abyss in the mirror deepened, swallowing the reflections into its maw. The lights of the grand hall flickered and dimmed. The lively chatter faded, voices growing distant and hollow.

  Then, Rhys collapsed.

  I caught him before he hit the ground, easing him down carefully.

  There was no panic. No screams.

  Just silence.

  The Vor’akh had planned this too well. One by one, people began to topple over—wherever they stood. No rush. No violent struggle. Just grimaces of pain, a slow, numbing descent into unconsciousness.

  The guards. The nobles. Even the Iron Pact enforcers, the ones who were supposed to protect this place.

  And those who remained standing?

  Their allegiance was now very clear.

  Sasha’s mentor smirked, scales polished with treachery.

  The lights of the hall dimmed further, as if something unseen was drinking them dry.

  The only thing still going was the music.

  The musicians. The pianist.

  Playing with an almost religious fervor.

  What’s my role here? Method acting, apparently. I swooned like a stage tragedian, collapsing inches from Lysska.

  Her voice echoed in my ears, though her lips didn’t move.

  "I managed to convince him, but something about this still makes me uneasy."

  Maybe it was my unimpressed expression, but she caught my unspoken response.

  "Oh, hush. I’m not underestimating a Gold Rank’s power—" her eyes darkened, "but I’m also not underestimating whatever these bastards are about to summon."

  She studied me, sharp and searching. "You said you had a secret weapon, but you’ve been awfully secretive about it. Any estimate on how effective it’ll be?"

  Before I could answer, I felt it.

  That foreign mana.

  A sudden rush, thick and wrong, like something had torn a hole in the world.

  The abyss in the mirror deepened. The blur within it twisted, racing with frantic glee.

  An invisible pressure gnawed my skull like termites.

  I grinned wider.

  Without a word, I pulled out the dice.

  Lysska’s eyes narrowed.

  I flicked it skyward—casual, effortless. Like tossing a lit match into a fireworks warehouse.

  Lotte’s little “gift” spun, symbols flaring.

  A casual toss—like flicking a piece of lint.

  Or setting off a bomb.

  Showtime.

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