The Welcome Gala shimmered with a deceptive tranquility. Hundreds of crystal candelabra cast a golden, wavering light across the grand ballroom of the Sunken Palace. Silks whispered, jewels gleamed, and the air was thick with the scent of imported orchids and an undercurrent of ambition. Olesia, a ghost in a gown the color of twilight, stood beside Casmir, whose tailored blazer seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. His smile, when he offered it to a passing Baroness, was a masterclass in detached charm. Olesia, however, saw the tight cord along his neck, the way his gaze continually mapped the exits and guards rather than potential conquests. “The Volante are known for their exquisite taste in partners, Lady Vancour,” a voice slithered from behind them. Tevin Rostova. He moved with a practiced grace that almost made Olesia forget the brutal ambition that fueled him. His silver-threaded jacket shimmered, complementing the arrogant glint in his eyes. He stopped inches from Olesia, his gaze dismissive, yet possessive. Casmir’s hand, resting lightly on Olesia’s lower back, tightened almost imperceptibly. “Rostova. How kind of you to grace us with your presence, rather than simply lurk.” Tevin chuckled, a low, oily sound. He ignored Casmir, his focus fixed entirely on Olesia. “A shame your… *alliance*… with Volante prevents us from sharing a dance. I had a small token prepared for you, a traditional gesture of welcome.” He extended a gloved hand. Nestled in his palm was a floral wristlet, a delicate arrangement of deep purple petals and glossy, dark leaves, fastened by a silver clasp. It was elegant, deadly. Her ribs hitched against her stays. Hemlock. Not the ornamental kind, but the true, potent variety, freshly harvested. Her father had died with the faint, sweet-bitter aroma clinging to his last breath, a courtesy poison delivered in a drink, meant to look like a heart attack. “My family’s bespoke florists are quite adept,” Tevin murmured, his thumb brushing the dark leaves. His eyes, devoid of warmth, met hers. “They ensure the petals are always… *vibrant*. A single prick from these thorns, and the venom would seep into your veins before you finished the first verse of the Vancour Requiem.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “Just like your father. An unfortunate accident, wasn't it? Such a sudden collapse, mid-toast.” Casmir’s posture stiffened. His gaze, usually playful, sharpened to a razor edge. He stepped forward, subtly positioning himself between Tevin and Olesia. “The lady prefers roses, Rostova. Preferably without your personal brand of morbid poetry.” Tevin’s smile didn't falter. He simply took Olesia’s left wrist, ignoring her flinch, and with a swift, practiced motion, clasped the hemlock wristlet around it. The thorns, though tiny, pricked her skin, a phantom burning sensation. “A custom of the families, Volante. You wouldn’t understand. This is a reminder. The Morvane Aristocracy is not a place for sentiment, Olesia. It’s a garden where even the most beautiful flowers hold secrets… and poisons.” He gave her wrist a slight squeeze, then released it, his eyes lingering on the stems. “Do try not to bruise it.” As Tevin melted back into the crowd, Casmir immediately reached for her wrist, his fingers gentle as they probed the silver clasp. “Are you alright? Does it burn?” Olesia shook her head, pulling her wrist away. The poison wasn't about the thorns; it was a psychological weapon, a public declaration. “It’s fine. He just… enjoys making a point.” Her voice was colder than she intended. The casual facade Casmir usually wore had vanished, replaced by a steely intensity. “And you enjoy allowing him to. Why did you not slap him, Olesia? Or cut off his hand?” His eyes, usually a light, careless amber, had deepened to a molten bronze. “He touched you. He threatened you.” “I am not some fragile ornament, Casmir. I don’t need you to fight my battles.” The lie tasted bitter. She *wanted* to fight, but she needed to be rational. The hemlock was a message, not a direct attack. Not yet. She needed to move, to act. Tevin had just shown his hand. She needed leverage, an insurance policy against his next move. The keycard. “Excuse me. I need a moment. My head aches from all this… civility.” Casmir watched her, his expression unreadable, as she navigated through the throng, her gait purposeful. She slipped into a less frequented corridor, away from the main thoroughfare of the gala, her eyes scanning for staff. She located a maintenance closet, its door ajar, and quickly pilfered a master override tool, a simple magnetic strip used by the Palace stewards to access guest suites for servicing. Reaching Tevin’s suite, she used the override, the lock clicking open with a soft thud. Inside, the suite was opulent, yet sterile, mirroring Tevin himself. Olesia moved with practiced stealth, her focus entirely on her objective. On a sleek obsidian console beside the bed, Tevin’s personal data slate was docked, its light a soft blue pulse. Next to it, casually discarded, was his keycard. Perfect. She retrieved a small, flat cipher-slate from a hidden pocket in her gown, its surface designed to mimic a mirrored compact. As she brought it close to Tevin’s keycard, preparing to skim its data, a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom of the room. A hand clamped over her mouth, rough and calloused, pulling her back against a solid, unyielding chest. Her teeth clattered against the coarse leather of his glove. Before she could even consider her hidden stiletto, another hand grabbed her wrist, twisting hard, prying the cipher-slate from her fingers. Two of Tevin’s elite guards, clad in dark, unadorned livery, had been waiting. Their faces were grim, their movements precise. The guard holding her wrist twisted it further, a sharp agony shooting up her arm. He intended to break it. A blur of motion. A low growl, animalistic and fierce, ripped through the air. The guard’s grip on Olesia’s wrist vanished, replaced by a searing pain. A sickening crunch echoed in the silent room. He screamed, a guttural sound of pure agony, as Casmir Volante materialized from the shadows, his face a mask of terrifying, cold fury. He still held the guard’s wrist, twisted at an unnatural angle, bones protruding beneath stretched skin. “No one,” Casmir whispered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the room, “touches what is mine.” He shoved the broken guard away with a disgusted snarl, who crumpled to the floor, gasping. The other guard, who still had Olesia trapped, froze, paralyzed with sudden, stark panic. Casmir’s gaze, now fixed solely on the second guard, was a promise of brutal pain. His hand, still stained with a faint trace of the first guard’s blood, reached out. Before he could strike again, a piercing, insistent wail tore through the Sunken Palace. The sound was an ear-splitting, metallic shriek that echoed off every gilded wall, every polished floor. The lockdown sirens. They were blaring. A full day early.

The Hemlock Corsage