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### **Chapter 5: Masques and Mirrors**
The Grand Masquerade Ball was not merely an event. It was theater. Illusion. A curated night of secrets dressed in silk and wine.
By dusk, the imperial palace blazed like a jeweled lantern, chandeliers lit with starfire crystals casting aurora-like reflections across marble floors. Music drifted on perfumed air—haunting violins and murmuring flutes—and laughter rang hollow beneath golden masks.
Every noble house was in attendance.
Even Seraphina.
She descended the crystal staircase like the final note of an overture. Her gown shimmered in deepest indigo, embroidered with silver crescent moons and falling feathers. A dark swan among doves. Her mask—obsidian, shaped like a mourning butterfly—hid little, and she preferred it that way.
Eyes turned. Whispers began.
"Didn't they say she wouldn't come?"
"She dares—after what happened to Lady Mirelle?"
"She's dancing on a knife's edge…"
Exactly where she wanted them.
---
The Crown Prince stood at the center of it all—resplendent in white and gold, his mask lion-shaped and gilded. He laughed too easily, his charm too polished. When his eyes met Seraphina's across the ballroom, something flickered there.
Recognition.
Regret.
Fear?
She tilted her head in greeting. He did not return it.
Interesting.
A servant approached her bearing a wine glass. Tucked beneath the rim was a card: fine parchment, scented faintly of cloves.
**"Behind the mirror at the stroke of ten. Come alone. —F."**
Felix's code. No flourish. Just facts.
Her mask hid the smile that tugged at her lips.
The game continued.
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The night unfolded like a performance. Dances came and went—waltzes, court quadrilles, flirtations laced with double meanings. Nobles whispered lies and traded glances, cloaked in anonymity they didn't deserve.
But Seraphina danced only once.
With a man whose mask was carved of bone and whose touch was colder than moonlight.
"You know," he murmured, "you're already dead in the right circles."
She laughed. "So are ghosts, and yet they linger."
The man bowed out before the song ended.
Wise.
---
At exactly ten, she slipped away through a mirrored corridor. Behind the third pane—the one with the faintest smudge of ash—was a hidden latch. She pressed it.
The wall opened like a sigh.
Inside, a narrow room. Gilded from floor to ceiling, but empty. Almost.
Felix leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"News?" she asked.
"Two," he said. "One useful. One personal."
"Start with the useful."
He stepped forward and held out a sealed envelope. "The assassin's employer."
She took it. Broke the wax. Read.
**Duke Ordell of Varemaine.** A traditionalist. Loyalist. Royal puppet.
She nodded once. "That tracks."
Felix hesitated. "The personal one, then."
She raised an eyebrow.
He handed her a second parchment. Thinner. Torn from a diary. The ink was smudged but legible. A copy, from one of her former handmaidens who now worked in the palace kitchens.
> *"They say she's cursed. That Seraphina knows things she shouldn't. The Prince avoids her gaze now. As if she's already seen the end."*
She exhaled, slow and steady. "And yet he invites me here."
"He didn't," Felix said quietly. "It was forged. By someone else."
Seraphina froze.
"…Who?"
"The Queen Mother."
Now that—*that*—was unexpected.
Seraphina's mind raced. The Queen Mother, known for her silence and fading health, had not interfered in court affairs in over five years. Why now?
And why *her*?
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Back in the ballroom, the final dance began. Lanterns flickered low. The violins wept their last sonata.
Seraphina returned just in time for the unmasking.
It was tradition. At the twelfth chime, all masks fell.
She pulled hers away with practiced grace. Her eyes met the Prince's across the hall.
His mask remained.
Coward.
But as her gaze drifted to the gallery above, a new figure appeared. Older. Regal. Dressed in velvet and pearls, face half-obscured by a black lace veil.
The Queen Mother.
Watching her.
Seraphina's blood turned to ice—and fire.
So. The throne was not so asleep as she had thought.
She bowed, slow and deliberate. And the Queen… *inclined her head in return*.
Not a greeting.
A challenge.
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**End of Chapter 5**