CH. 8 The Palace of Masks
We arrive at nightfall. My obsidian locks fall into my lap, and I angrily flip them away. The ride is anything but comfortable; heat crawls into my skin like a bored serpent. I wish for my bed in the Dark Forest. I have to get back to Leonardo as soon as I can to feed him.
Finally, the palace comes into view.
If I had known humans built houses this big, I would have brewed a potion to shrink their egos before ever setting foot here.
Gazaar, capital of Resan, is disgustingly beautiful—towers of ivory and marble gleam like fangs in the sun, gold-threaded banners flutter from every parapet, and fountains shaped like saints vomit crystal water. Every brick screams, We're rich. You're not. Bow down.
I squint through the carriage window. "Does it always sparkle this much, or is it trying to blind me?"
Hegar, riding beside me, doesn't look up. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to."
"I wasn't speaking to you," I say sweetly. "I was speaking to the architecture."
He gives nothing back, but I swear his jaw tightens. Victory.
We pass through enormous gates flanked by armored guards who salute as Sorien rides past. He doesn't wave—he never does.
The people of Gazaar kneel as his horse's hooves clip the polished road.
A few brave children fling flowers; Sorien ignores them.
His face could be carved from moonstone: perfect, unreadable, infuriating.
I reach for my hood and draw it low, thinking how unfair it is that I spent years avoiding humans only to be dragged straight into their lair of pretense.
The palace courtyard is worse than the outside—it's a full-blown performance. Crystal chandeliers drip light; walls are painted with cherubs; perfume thickens the air till my eyes water.
Women in silks shimmer like fish scales. Men drip with jewelry. Everyone wears masks.
Not figurative masks—actual glittering things that hide half a face: gold, silver, feathers, and ridiculous beaks. I tug Hegar's sleeve. "Is there a plague?"
He looks at me. "It's custom. Nobility wear masks during daylight hours."
"Why?"
"So they can be ugly without consequence."
I burst out laughing. "That's brilliant. I knew I'd fit right in."
He exhales. "Do me one favor. Don't speak."
Inside the Great Hall the Queen sits on her throne—tall, radiant in a way that feels wrong. Her mask is white and delicate, like lace frozen into porcelain. Courtiers bow so low their wigs nearly fall off.
"Your Majesty," Sorien says, kneeling. He looks dutiful—except for a faint smirk when he tilts his head.
The queen's voice is honey and iron. "You return sooner than expected."
"There were... complications at the parade."
Her sharp eyes flick to me. "I can see that."
Slowly, the queen removes her mask.
My stomach flips. She's terrifyingly beautiful—not like my night form, but sculpted, flawless, the kind of beauty that feels like a bargain made with a god.
"And who is this creature you've brought?" she asks, eyes narrowing, distrust written in the tilt of her chin.
I open my mouth to introduce myself, and Hegar connects with my ankle under his breath. "A servant, Majesty," he says smoothly. "Separated from her caravan."
The queen hums. "Strange. She doesn't look like any servant I've seen."
Her gaze lingers far too long. My heart hammers. If she asks me to remove my hood, I'm done.
Sorien steps in. "She's harmless. Send her to the lower quarters."
"See that you do," the Queen says, and her attention slides away like sunlight over water. The audience disperses like mist.
In the corridors Hegar leads me down halls lined with mirrors. My reflection sneers from every surface—pale, perfect, false. He glances at one and murmurs, "Mirrors lie."
We pass whispering servants and skulking courtiers; the palace hums with secrets. By the time we reach the servants' wing, I feel more claustrophobic than in my hut.
"Stay here," Hegar orders. "Don't talk to anyone. Don't draw attention."
I salute his order with mock severity. "Oh yes. I'll just blend in—perfectly ordinary, no social skills, zero moral restraint."
He smirks—the tiniest thing—and leaves. Progress.
At last, alone, I flop onto a narrow bed and exhale. The sun is still high; my beloved ugly face sits under its blanket for now. I resent it. The mask of beauty is heavier than any chain.
Humans are full of jealousy. Many of my clients want curses stitched from envy alone. This cursed face—the one I wear by night that I never asked for—will cause nothing but trouble.
Outside the window the city shimmers: noblewomen gossiping about dresses, lords plotting over wine, and the dull throb of a kingdom obsessed with its own reflection.
"Palace of Masks," I whisper. "They built this place for me."
I grin.
"Let's see how long it takes before I break something."