If there was one thing Sylas Vermund had mastered in the last few weeks, it was pretending.
Pretending to be a noble. Pretending to be cruel. Pretending to be the kind of villain who didn't flinch at the word "blood sacrifice."
But now, standing in front of the ballroom's towering doors in a tuxedo that cost more than his moral compass, Sylas realized something tragic.
He had no idea how to dance.
And this was a royal event.
Which meant one thing.
He was about to humiliate himself. Spectacularly.
Earlier that week, Dean Elwood had said, "All highborn students must attend the King's Restoration Gala. Mandatory. Attendance will reflect your academic enthusiasm."
Sylas, being someone whose "academic enthusiasm" lived somewhere between drowsy and comatose, had no choice.
Caelan looked like he was born for this. Eren actually smiled when he saw the invitation. But Sylas?
Sylas wanted to die. Or fake a cold. Or fall into a time portal.
He considered all three.
"Do you even own formalwear?" Eren asked.
Sylas gestured vaguely to the tattered curtain he called a cloak. "Does this count?"
"No."
He ended up borrowing one of Caelan's spare suits.
Which was tailored. Perfectly cut. Midnight black with silver trim. The kind of outfit that screamed I pay taxes and manipulate people for sport.
Sylas wore it with the grace of a drowned rat.
The ballroom was pure opulence. Crystal chandeliers. Gold-gilded pillars. Tables overflowing with delicacies Sylas couldn't pronounce.
He took one look at a spoon with five prongs and whispered, "Why does this look like a weapon?"
"You're embarrassing us," Caelan muttered.
"Correction: I'm embarrassing me. You were already a lost cause."
Caelan's jaw twitched.
Eren, bless his traitorous soul, smirked. "You know, I think I'm starting to enjoy these parties."
"You enjoy torture," Sylas said. "This is just your kink."
A noble girl walked past. Sylas nodded politely. She did a double take. Whispered something to her friend. Giggle. Glance.
Sylas blinked. "Did she just—?"
"She thinks you're mysterious," Eren said.
"She thinks I'm unstable.
"Same thing."
The night dragged on. Dancing, drinks, fake smiles.
Sylas tried to blend in, leaning against a marble pillar like a brooding romantic lead. He probably looked like he was trying to remember if he left the stove on.
Then came her.
Lady Vivienne Argell.
Fourth daughter of Duke Argell. Top student. Deadly with a fan. Famous for rejecting three marriage proposals in one week.
She walked up to Sylas with a grace that could kill a man.
"You're not dancing," she said
"Observant," Sylas replied. "Most people think I'm just sulking."
"Are you?"
"Always."
Her lips twitched. "Dance with me.
Sylas panicked.
Because this was not in the script.
"I have… two left feet," he said.
"Good. I have two sharp heels.
"Charming."
She held out her hand. "One dance. I promise not to stab you."
"That's a lie."
"Of course."
He took her hand.
Mistake number one.
They moved to the center of the ballroom.
Eyes turned.
Sylas felt the weight of a hundred noble gazes and exactly zero dance lessons.
Lady Vivienne took the lead.
Sylas followed.
Sort of.
It was less dancing and more a coordinated attempt not to step on her toes.
"You're tense," she whispered.
"I'm a fraud."
"I know."
"…You do?"
"Everyone does. But you wear it well."
Sylas blinked. "That was either an insult or the highest compliment I've ever received."
Vivienne smiled. "You're amusing. Dangerous. Unpredictable."
"I'm tired and hungry."
"Still counts."
She spun him.
He tripped. Slightly.
A gasp echoed.
Sylas caught himself. Regained rhythm. Smiled like he meant it.
The crowd relaxed.
Vivienne leaned closer. "We should talk sometime. In private."
Sylas stiffened. "Why?"
"Because I'm curious what game you're playing."
Oh no.
She knew.
Not everything. But enough.
Enough to make her dangerous.
He nodded once. "Soon."
She left the dance floor without looking back.
Sylas wiped imaginary sweat from his brow.
And immediately walked into a waiter carrying ten glasses of wine.
They both went down.
Ten minutes later, Sylas sat behind a pillar, shirt damp, pride broken, sipping something vaguely purple.
Caelan appeared.
"You danced."
"I survived."
"Barely."
"She wants to talk," Sylas muttered. "Vivienne. She knows something."
"She always knows something."
"Do you think she's—?"
"Spying? Blackmailing? Plotting?" Caelan smirked. "Yes."
Sylas groaned. "I hate nobles."
"You are one."
"Fake news."
Caelan offered a hand. "Come. Toast with the others. Pretend you're still important."
"I'm not."
Caelan's eyes gleamed. "Exactly."
Later that night, back in his dorm, Sylas found a note on his bed.
No name. No seal.
But familiar handwriting.
You're not the only one wearing a mask, Jester.
Let's see who cracks first.