Cerys stood before the tarnished mirror, candle-flame trembling along the silver trim of her borrowed gown. The bodice hugged the leather corselet beneath, hiding most of the plates but none of their weight. When she breathed in, the fabric made a faint creak that sounded too delicate for battle. She shifted her shoulders, testing reach. Good—she could still draw, still pivot.

Rain clicked against the wagon boards outside, steady and patient. In the cramped space, lamplight painted soft gold over rough timber and the dusting of crushed lavender someone had scattered to mask damp straw. The scent mixed with oil from her greaves, an odd marriage of ballroom and barracks.

Behind her, Serelith's deft fingers moved like spiders weaving silk. She parted the red hair, twisted, pinned, then coiled again. Each loop tightened with a tiny tug that pricked Cerys's scalp—gentle warnings of the thorns Serelith threaded among the strands. Small onyx pins glinted whenever the candle flared.

"You know," the mage murmured, voice dropping so low the wagon walls seemed to lean in, "I used to braid Elowen's hair. Before she wore a crown." A final tug secured the last coil. "She never flinched when I pulled too tight. You don't either."

Cerys's reflection offered no reply; only her eyes moved, tracking Serelith's smile in the mirror's edge.

Serelith slid a rose-shaped comb just above Cerys's left ear—black metal petals, tips sharpened. "You remind me of her. Right before she cut down her uncle in the citadel courtyard." A soft laugh, wistful and wicked at once. "History adores the unexpected blade."

Rodion chimed, calm as a physician in a warzone.

Temp shield installed. Blink absorption threshold: three strikes. Recommend evasion after second contact.

The faint glow of the interface haloed the mirror for a heartbeat, then dimmed. Cerys flexed her wrist where a thin rune-etched cuff nested under lace. The metal hummed, ready to drink light if someone hurled it at her.

Boots tapped on the wagon step. Mikhailis ducked inside, one brow lifting at the cramped salon they'd fashioned from hay and lamp smoke. He carried a cedar box no longer than a loaf of bread. The lid bore delicate lilies burned into the grain—oddly gentle for the grim cargo inside.

"Twelve brooches," he said, voice low to keep from startling the nervous mare hitched outside. He opened the box with ceremony. Inside, golden pins gleamed—sunbursts, crescents, tiny doves. Harmless, unless you knew the cavities within each held a sleeping chimera ant. "Totally innocent-looking," he promised with a sideways grin. "Until someone tries something impolite."

Cerys lifted one pin—shaped like a fox leaping through ivy—and felt the faint vibration of life inside. She fastened it at her shoulder, the metal kissing chainmail beneath the silk like a secret pact.

"Thank you," she said.

Mikhailis winked. "Only fair. Borrow my bugs, borrow my luck." And please give them back alive, the unspoken tail of the joke fluttered in his thoughts. I grow attached.

Across the cramped floor, Lucien stood before a cracked shaving mirror nailed to a post. He clutched a folded script in both hands, knuckles pale. Words spilled in a whisper: "My name is Lucien Arundel. I was framed. My sister—" The line tangled. He sighed, shoulders drooping.

"Too stiff," Serelith told him, gliding across the planks. The hem of her midnight coat whispered over straw. "Again, but this time remember you speak to Cerys, not a marble bust."

"I'm trying," he muttered.

Serelith took the script, rolled it tight, and thumped him gently on the forehead with it. "Don't memorize. Feel." She tapped his chest. "Here."

Lucien closed his eyes, inhaled, exhaled. When he spoke again his voice quavered but rang truer, as if he'd poured it straight from cracked ribs. "My sister risked everything," he said. "I merely stand." The line floated in the dim air, simple and clean.

"Better," Serelith pronounced, handing the scroll back. She turned to Cerys. "You like?"

Cerys nodded once. "He'll be fine."

A rap on the wagon wall signaled the driver's impatience—time to leave. Outside, the Ivy Tower waited, glowing above the fog like a promise or a warning. Cerys gathered the skirts in practiced fingers and stepped into the night.

_____

The ballroom of Ivy Tower glittered like a jewel box cracked open to moonlight. Hundreds of candles burned inside blown-glass blossoms suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Each flame danced within petals tinted rose or sky, scattering prism flecks across polished marble. The floor reflected it all, turning every step into a ripple of color.

Musicians, half hidden behind sculpted lilac trees, coaxed a gentle waltz from harp and viola. The melody crept along the walls, urging shoulders to relax, feet to sway—anything but fight.

Aldric Calderon stood beneath the central chandelier, ivory coat impeccable. Black embroidery climbed his sleeves in thorn scrolls, delicate but dangerous. His silver rapier hung at his hip, decorative tonight yet very sharp. When he saw Cerys, his gray eyes widened in mock awe, then softened into a practiced warmth.

He offered his gloved hand. "You are radiant in chains," he said, voice low enough for only them and the nearest gossiping duchess to hear.

Cerys placed her fingers in his, cool and steady. She bowed her head a fraction—gesture of submission, or perhaps only calculation. Around them, nobles leaned closer, the hush of silks like distant surf.

Rodion pulsed in her ear, a measured heartbeat against the music's swell.

Blackout sequence armed. Leyline surge in ten seconds.

Cerys's lips curved. Just enough to pass for a demure smile. In her palm, beneath the lace glove, the fox brooch twitched—ants waking to silent order.

Aldric guided her toward a dais draped in white. Petals littered the steps, every bloom a flawless crimson thorn-rose, bred on Calderon estates to bloom even in winter. He squeezed her hand, gentle but firm. "You'll thank me for this, one day," he murmured, the words sliding under the music like an eel beneath reeds.

Cerys tilted her head, letting candle-glow gild her lashes. "Perhaps."

Five seconds. Rodion's voice sharpened.

The officiant, robed in silver cloth, cleared his throat. "Honored guests, we gather tonight to witness—"

Three.

A murmur fluttered through the balconies overhead. Servants hovered with trays of crystal goblets, each drink sparkling intimidatingly pure.

Two.

Cerys exhaled, slow. Her thumb brushed the fox pin. Tiny mandibles flexed beneath gold.

One. Initiating surge.

Far below the tower, ley currents twisted, shoved by an unseen hand. Candles guttered, music hiccupped, and every crystal light winked out. Darkness slammed into the ballroom like a black tide. Gasps rose—some frightened, some delighted by the drama.

In the thick gloom, Cerys felt Aldric's fingers tighten. "Remain calm," he started to say.

But she was already moving.

One step back. Her free hand darted to his belt, blade flashing in the dark. Leather parted with a sigh; his rapier slid useless to the floor. Ants spilled from her brooches, tiny shadows racing along guard boots, jaws finding rune fuses with murderous precision. A pop of severed sigils cracked like quiet fireworks.

Somewhere a guard cursed—the muffled thud of a man hitting marble followed. Another hissed as his lantern spell fizzled mid-spark.

Aldric grabbed for Cerys's wrist. She twisted, hooking her foot behind his ankle. He lost balance, stumbled against the dais rail. The officiant squeaked like a cornered mouse.

"Stand down," Aldric growled, voice stripped of velvet.

Cerys leaned close, breath brushing his ear. "Watch the stars fall," she whispered.

Light snapped back. Crystals blazed. Music aborted mid-note.

Every pane of stained glass high above flickered to life, images superimposing over saints and heroes. Aldric's own face filled them, lips curved in cruel delight, voice echoing through hidden amplifiers: "I don't need truth. I need obedience. Let her kneel."

Gasps became shocked cries. A duke's monocle shattered on marble. A countess pressed gloved fingers to her mouth. Elders exchanged looks that smelled of panic.

Aldric stared open-mouthed at his preaching doppelgänger. Color drained from his cheeks. "Stop this," he barked, but his voice drowned beneath his own amplified arrogance.

Cerys slipped the signet ring from a pocket. She held it between thumb and forefinger for him—and the crowd—to see. Then she flicked it. The band skittered across the marble and spun to a stop at the officiant's feet.

"My answer," she said, words clear as bell chimes, "is no."

Aldric's eyes blazed; yet around them, the hush fractured into buzzing outrage. Court masks fell away. Some nobles edged back, suddenly allergic to thorn crests. Others whispered calculations of new alliances.

Rodion whispered only to Cerys.

Primary objective complete. Retreat recommended before order collapses.

She let herself smile—barely. The ballroom smelled of rose petals, hot wax, and a predator's fear. In the tidal wave of whispers, she felt the world tilt—just enough for a lone wolf to slip between shadows.

Then the world went dark.