CHAPTER 175: [175] THREE MASKS, THREE MISSIONS

The Grand Ballroom of Hearthome defied every expectation Xavier had formed about this volcanic fortress. Rivers of molten lava coursed beneath reinforced crystal floors, their orange glow painting everything in warm, dancing light. Towering ice sculptures—each one a masterwork depicting scenes from Frostfall’s history—rose like frozen guardians throughout the space. The contrast between fire and ice created an otherworldly atmosphere where steam rose in gentle spirals, and the air itself seemed to shimmer.

Xavier adjusted his silver mask, the metal cool against his skin. The servant’s uniform Margaret had procured fit well enough, though the formal black jacket felt foreign after weeks of travel clothes. Around him, the most powerful people in Frostfall moved through the ballroom like exotic birds, their masks ranging from simple elegance to baroque nightmares of gold and gems.

Look at them all, Xavier thought, watching a woman in peacock feathers glide past. Playing their little games while children’s souls hang in the balance.

The King’s Gaze stirred in the back of his mind, offering tactical assessments of guard positions and social hierarchies. Xavier pushed the alien presence away. Tonight, he needed his own instincts, not cosmic calculations.

Across the room, Naomi moved between clusters of guests with the easy confidence of someone born to wealth. She’d traded her purple hair for an elegant black wig that swept across her shoulders, and her emerald gown—one of several "borrowed" from the temple’s donation stores—made her look every inch the minor nobility she pretended to be. Her jade mask covered the upper half of her face, leaving her lips free to deliver carefully crafted poison to anyone who’d listen.

Margaret had chosen a different approach entirely. Dressed as a healer’s assistant in modest blue robes, she carried a leather satchel and moved through the crowd like a ghost, noting guard rotations and mapping exit routes. Her simple wooden mask marked her as working class, rendering her invisible to the aristocrats around her.

Three different masks, three different missions. Xavier watched Duke Haverford work the crowd near the main dais, his silver hair catching the volcanic light. The Duke’s black and gold mask depicted a stylized sun, appropriate for someone who fancied himself the center of the universe. Time to remind him that even suns can be eclipsed.

Xavier began his approach, weaving between dancers and political conversations. He caught fragments of discussion—trade routes threatened by winter beasts, concerns about the strengthening cold, whispered theories about the Winter Court’s movements. The fear was real, even among these powerful people. Fear made them vulnerable.

"Excuse me," Xavier said, sliding up to a portly man whose mask resembled a golden boar. "Lord Aldric, isn’t it? I couldn’t help overhearing your concerns about the northern trade routes."

The man turned, his small eyes suspicious behind the mask. "Do I know you?"

"Garrett Blackwood," Xavier replied smoothly, using the identity Margaret had crafted. "My family has holdings near the Thornwood Pass. We’ve lost three caravans this winter."

"Three?" Lord Aldric’s eyebrows rose. "That’s worse than the reports suggested."

"Much worse." Xavier lowered his voice conspiratorially. "The Duke’s intelligence network seems to have some... gaps. My sources suggest the Winter Court has been testing our defenses for months, but somehow that information never reaches the right ears."

Across the ballroom, Naomi had cornered Lady Morwyn Ashford, a thin woman whose rivalry with Duke Haverford was legendary. Naomi’s voice carried just enough to be overheard by nearby guests.

"...curious timing, don’t you think? The Thornslayer arrives with tales of unprecedented attacks, yet the Duke seems remarkably well-informed about events he should have had no knowledge of." Naomi’s laugh tinkled like broken glass. "One might wonder if someone has been... coordinating with the very forces threatening our people."

Lady Morwyn’s fan snapped open with a sharp crack. "Are you suggesting—"

"Oh, nothing so dramatic," Naomi said airily. "Merely observing that the Duke’s rise to prominence has coincided remarkably with the escalation of threats from the north. Correlation isn’t causation, of course. Usually."

Meanwhile, Margaret had positioned herself near the servants’ entrance, her healer’s training providing perfect cover for her surveillance. She noted the positions of the twelve guards stationed around the ballroom’s perimeter, the location of secondary exits, and most importantly, the heavily warded door behind the dais that led to the lower chambers. Two guards flanked that entrance, their hands resting on sword hilts.

That’s where they’ll take her, Margaret realized, watching the guards’ subtle glances toward the main entrance. When the ceremony begins, that’s the path to whatever Haverford has planned.

The great doors at the ballroom’s far end swung open with theatrical timing. Conversations died mid-sentence as every head turned toward the entrance. Even the musicians paused, their instruments falling silent.

Lord Torval Flameheart entered first, resplendent in robes of deep red and gold that seemed to capture and hold the volcanic light. His mask was a work of art—carved obsidian inlaid with veins of molten amber that pulsed like a heartbeat. But beneath the finery, Xavier could see the man’s exhaustion, the way his shoulders carried an invisible weight.

Then Calypso appeared on his arm, and Xavier’s breath caught in his throat.

She wore white silk that seemed to glow with its own inner light, the fabric flowing around her like liquid starlight. Gold thread traced intricate patterns across the gown—spirals and geometric shapes that hurt to look at directly. Her mask was a masterpiece of white gold and diamonds, crafted to resemble a stylized flame that framed her face like a halo.

But it was her eyes that stopped Xavier’s heart. Behind the mask, Calypso’s purple gaze swept the room with the cold fury of a goddess in chains. For just a moment—a single, electric instant—their eyes met across the crowded ballroom.

The musicians recovered first, launching into a waltz that filled the ballroom with sweeping melody. Conversations resumed, but at a lower volume, as if the assembly sensed something momentous approaching.

Duke Haverford moved toward the dais with predatory grace, his sun-mask catching the light as he bowed to Lord Torval. "My lord. Lady Selene." His voice carried perfectly across the room. "You honor us with your presence."

Calypso inclined her head with regal composure, but Xavier caught the slight tremor in her hands, the way her fingers tightened on Torval’s arm. She was terrified—not of death, but of whatever binding Haverford had planned for her divine essence.

"The honor is ours," she replied, her voice carrying the trained cadence of nobility. "Though I confess, I find myself somewhat... overwhelmed by the grandeur of the occasion."

Haverford’s smile widened behind his mask. "The evening has only just begun, my dear. I believe you’ll find the true festivities quite... unforgettable."

Lord Aldric was still talking beside Xavier, something about trade agreements and defensive alliances, but Xavier’s attention remained fixed on the dais. Haverford extended his hand to Calypso, a gesture that looked courtly but felt like a claim of ownership.

"Might I have the honor of the first dance?"

Calypso hesitated for just a heartbeat—long enough for Xavier to see the calculation behind her eyes. Then she placed her hand in Haverford’s with the grace of a queen accepting tribute from a subject.

"Of course, Your Grace."

As they moved onto the dance floor, other couples joined them, creating a swirling pattern of silk and jewels. Xavier watched Haverford’s hand settle on Calypso’s waist, noted the way the Duke’s fingers pressed against the golden threads of her gown. Each touch seemed to dim her inner light slightly, as if the dress itself was draining her power.

The gown isn’t just ceremonial, Xavier realized. It’s a prison. Every thread, every pattern—it’s all part of the binding.

Naomi appeared at his elbow, her jade mask glinting in the volcanic light. "Making friends?" she asked quietly.

"Planting seeds," Xavier replied. "You?"

"Lady Morwyn is now convinced that Duke Haverford has been corresponding with Winter Court agents for months. She’s sharing that theory with anyone who’ll listen." Naomi’s smile was sharp as winter steel. "Amazing how quickly rumors spread when they confirm people’s existing suspicions."

Margaret materialized on Xavier’s other side, her healer’s robes making her nearly invisible among the servants. "Twelve guards, four exits, and one very heavily warded door behind the dais. Whatever they’re planning, it’s happening down there."

Xavier nodded, his gaze returning to the dance floor where Calypso moved through the steps with mechanical perfection. Even from across the room, he could see the strain in her posture, the way her divine nature fought against the suppression enchantments woven into her clothing.

"How long do we have?" he asked.

"The dance will last another ten minutes," Margaret replied. "After that, Lord Torval will make his announcement about the betrothal. That’s when they’ll move her to the lower chambers."

Xavier’s jaw tightened. Ten minutes to create enough chaos to cover their assault on the ritual chamber. Ten minutes to save a goddess and seven displaced children from a madman’s ambition.

No pressure at all.

The music swelled around them, beautiful and terrible as the dancers spun through their choreographed patterns. In the center of it all, Calypso danced with her captor, her white gown flowing like liquid light while golden chains tightened around her divine essence.

The masquerade had begun in earnest. Soon, it would be time to remove the masks and reveal the true faces beneath.