Chapter 43
The cold mask clung against her skin.
Ilys fastened the silk ties at the back of her head, adjusting the fit until it sat perfectly in place. It was a foolish thing, ornate, gilded, and shaped in the likeness of a bird. The beak curved downward, elegant but severe.
A ridiculous tradition.
On the Eve of the Bargain, the nobility masked themselves in reverence.
The reasoning was simple, or so the priests had always said: on this night, when the King reaffirmed his covenant with the Veil, the dead could see the faces of the living more clearly.
And the unnatural, those who had escaped fate’s grasp, could recognize those who had sent them to their deaths.
So, they masked themselves. They concealed their faces, dispelling recognition, believing that a simple covering could shield them from vengeance.
Superstition. Theater.
The dead did not linger here.
But Ilys still wore the mask. Not for tradition. Not for the sanctity of the celebration.
For anonymity.
The Eve of the Bargain was a spectacle, a night of reverence wrapped in indulgence.
A night where the court bathed in wine and excess while pretending at holiness.
She had never been invited before—Veilwalkers did not belong at the King’s joyous table—but she had always known the traditions.
She had always known where the nobility would be.
And she had always known how to enter unseen.
The tunnels beneath the Sanctum were older than the castle itself. Dug long before stone was laid, before the first King had ever set foot in Annon. They ran deep, winding beneath the palace like veins, a hidden web of passages few still remembered.
Grim had taught her.
Ilys walked them now, her footsteps soundless against the drenched stone, the candle in her hand flickering against the low ceiling. At the tunnel’s end, a ladder led up to the undercroft of the castle, a forgotten corridor leading directly to the western wing, where the grand ballroom awaited.
She extinguished the candle. Climbing swiftly, she emerged into the dim corridor, the scent of incense and aged stone filling her lungs. The murmur of distant voices reached her ears in the form of laughter, conversation, the hum of revelry.
She slipped from the shadows, masked and unseen, following the sound.
The ballroom was a sea of gold and crimson, the flickering glow of candelabras casting long shadows across marble floors. The scent of spiced wine and burning myrrh curled through the air, mingling with the warmth of too many bodies pressed close in whispered conversation.
Every guest was masked. Plumes of peacock feathers, velvet and satin, and porcelain molded into delicate visages of saints and spirits covered the crowd.
Some faces were painted into sharp, inhuman grins, others blank and expressionless, eyes obscured behind dark lenses.
The anonymity was suffocating and freeing all at once.
She passed through the throng, unseen and unnoticed.
Wine flowed into gilded goblets while laughter danced between the notes of a hidden string quartet. The whole room gleamed—luminous, shimmering with excess.
The King had not arrived yet.
He would come when the revelry had reached its peak, when the room was flushed with wine and indulgence, when the nobles were at their most pliant. He would stand before them, recite his hollow prayers, reaffirm his holy duty.
And they would cheer, would raise their cups, would bow their masked heads and thank him for his sacrifice.
Ilys’s hands curled into fists beneath the folds of her silk skirts.
She moved deeper into the ballroom, closer to the head of the hall.
A woman passed her, perfume clinging to the folds of her gown, her laughter muffled behind a silver fox mask. A man in deep navy silk bowed low to another, his mask adorned with golden filigree. Everywhere, faces blurred into a faceless sea, identities discarded for the sake of spectacle.
It was strange, to move so freely. To be here, unrecognized, unburdened by her title. She could be anyone.
A hand extended before her, a man’s gloved fingers hovering in invitation.
“May I have this dance?”
She turned, lifting her gaze to the figure before her. The fox’s golden grin hid his expression, its curve subtle, knowing. Black silk framed his height, every line of him marked by the ease of one who leads without asking.
She inclined her head, placing her hand in his.
The music shifted, the steps beginning, and he drew her in.
“You are light on your feet,” he complimented as they fell into step.
She offered a coy tilt of her head, voice measured. “You are too kind.”
He spun her once, bringing her close, his breath warm against her temple. “I have been watching you.”
She did not falter. “How fortunate for me.”
The room spun around them, the gilded columns of the ballroom blurring as they turned, the faces of the masked dancers indistinct. But she saw what she needed.
The King had arrived.
A tall figure in white and gold, his mask shaped like a sunburst, the rays sharp and gleaming. He moved through the crowd, surrounded by his men, his presence commanding, effortless.
“The King,” Fox observed against her ear, his tone laced with admiration. “You must be honored to be in his presence this night.”
She turned her face, the edge of her lips curving beneath her mask. “More than you know.”
The dance continued, a gentle push and pull, bodies gliding and parting, the revel a sea of color and movement. The King had begun to greet his guests, pausing here and there to exchange words, nodding graciously, lifting goblets in recognition.
Ilys let her partner lead, let him twirl her, let the music fold over them like a tide.
But her eyes never left the King’s presence.
Every movement of the sovereign awoke a fresh anxiety in her limbs.
When he stood, his guards following, that same anxiety drove her to abandon the dance prematurely.
She was irrational. The entirety of her plan derailed before her eyes.
She was eager for his blood. Childlike in her mission.
Ilys moved like a shadow, weaving between clusters of revelers, masked faces flickering past her peripheral as she followed the King’s retreat.
He walked calmly, too calmly, his hands folded behind his back, his golden robes trailing over the marble floors. His guards flanked him, their black-clad forms cutting through the revel like wolves through a flock, clearing a path through the confusion.
Ilys quickened her steps, her heart hammering against her ribs. He could not leave. Not yet.
A hand caught her wrist.
She moved on instinct, twisting, wrenching free, pivoting into a strike. Her elbow connected with the masked man’s throat—one of the guards. He stumbled back, choking, reaching for his blade.
More followed. She had been seen.
Ilys did not hesitate. She lunged, sweeping a blade from the folds of her gown, the silver glinting once before it found the nearest throat. A gurgle, a gasp, warmth spilling over her fingers, darkening the fine fabric of her gloves.
The next guard came fast, sword swinging. She ducked low, feeling the whistle of the blade part the air above her. She drove her dagger upward, catching the space between his ribs, twisting. His breath left him in a ragged exhale, and she let him drop, already turning to face the next.
Steel clashed.
She caught the edge of a saber against her dagger, the force of the blow vibrating up her arms. The guard loomed stronger, taller, but she moved faster.
Dropping her weight, she drove a kick into his knee, sending him stumbling.
His balance broke for half a breath—just enough.
Her blade struck deep, tore free, and another enemy closed in.
A fist cracked against her jaw, white bursting behind her eyes. She reeled, tasting blood, her body lurching sideways.
A hand wrenched into her hair, dragging her back. Another caught her wrist, twisting her blade from her grasp.
No.
She struggled, wild and feral.
A blow to her ribs, the breath driven from her lungs. She kicked out, connected with a shin, and heard a grunt of pain. A shift in her grip, dagger slipping into her palm from the slit in her dress.
She plunged it blindly, feeling it sink deep.
A strangled cry. The grip on her hair loosened. She twisted free, gasping, stumbling.
There were too many.
Another guard caught her from behind, pinning her arms. She thrashed, teeth bared, her head snapping back against his face. A crunch. A curse. She slipped free, dropping into a crouch, reaching for another blade.
And then—a voice she knew.
“Ilys.”
The King.