The thick parchment crackled in Tavio’s trembling hand, a stark contrast to the thrumming silence that fell over the lavish dressing room. Corelia let out a slow, measured sigh, her fingers tracing the hem of her sleeve while Roccano’s grip on the dressing room vanity tightened until the wood groaned. The single gas lamp reflected off the dark stone of his signet ring. Tavio stood by the doorway, clutching his knees as his breathing slowed. “The Chief Inspector, Corelia,” Tavio said, holding up the seal. “She filed charges of high treason with the city magistrates. She requested immediate execution orders.” Corelia dropped her shoulders an inch. “Execution, you say?” Her voice drifted without a hint of hurry. “Such effort. Imprisonment usually suffices for embezzlement charges. Madama Celli is showing her hand.” She drew the parchment from Tavio’s fingers and ran her thumb across the wet ink. A tiny smirk touched her mouth. “A theatrical stroke. We should meet it in kind.” Roccano did not look away from the doorway. “We will attend,” he said, his tone flat and level. “Not as her targets, but as Montavi and Di’Veltro.” He stepped beside Corelia, looking down at her bare shoulders. “You are not cornered. She simply believes you are weak.” Corelia met his gaze with a faint nod. “Being dismissed is the most restful advantage one can ask for.” She smoothed the emerald silk over her hips. “Tavio, lead us to the private gallery stairs.” Minutes later, the Grand Masquerade Hall within the estate grounds hummed with strings, brass, and the low chatter of several hundred masked guests. Crystal chandeliers, each larger than a carriage, dripped with light, illuminating a sea of silks, velvets, and exotic feathers. The air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and rare floral perfumes, a deceptive sweetness masking the usual cutthroat machinations of Orolucce’s elite. Madama Celli, wearing midnight blue satin, presided from the dais with a serene smile, flanked by private estate sentries in blue enameled breastplates. Her gaze flickered toward the grand archway every few seconds. They entered instead through the southern gallery arch, quietly sidestepping the sentry line at the main threshold. Corelia leaned heavily on Roccano’s arm, her head tilted slightly, giving the impression of exhaustion, even fragility. Her scandalous gown, a cascade of emerald green, clung to her frame, contrasting sharply with the innocent, almost childlike way she clung to Roccano. Her mask, a simple filigree of silver, hid only her eyes, leaving the curve of her lips and the faint flush on her cheeks visible. Roccano, a formidable figure in a tailored black suit and a severe, unadorned obsidian mask, was a pillar of controlled power. His presence seemed to absorb the light around him, casting his immediate surroundings in a perpetual shadow. Tavio, a small, determined shadow himself, melted into the fringes of their approach, his keen eyes scanning the masked faces around them. The music seemed to falter, then swelled again, but a ripple of recognition, then apprehension, spread through the crowd. Murmurs, like disturbed pigeons, fluttered through the hall. Corelia Montavi, the rumored traitor, the kidnapped heiress, here? And leaning on Roccano Di’Veltro, the untouchable titan? Corelia, playing her part with lethargic brilliance, allowed Roccano to guide her deeper into the hall. She swayed slightly on her slippers, affecting the posture of someone faint from grief. Her gaze, when it met anyone’s, was distant, traumatized. She was a delicate blossom, clinging to the only solid trunk in a raging storm. This carefully crafted illusion was for Celli, for the Chief Inspector, for all the vultures watching. “Corelia! My love, you’re here!” The sickeningly familiar voice cut through the air, causing Corelia to wince, not out of pain, but sheer annoyance. Cervan Loxari, unmasked and red-faced, pushed through the crowd, his gaudy purple suit clashing violently with the refined elegance of the hall. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot, a shadow of the man he once was. He looked like a cornered rat, desperate and dangerous. He lunged towards her, arms outstretched, clearly intending to embrace her, to beg, to reclaim his lost status. Corelia kept her languid pace. As Cervan closed the final yard, she shifted her balance, catching her slipper against the floor as if tripping over her hem. She dropped an inch, grabbing Roccano's sleeve with a practiced sigh. Her extended toe caught Cervan’s shin. Tripping headlong, he plowed into a circulating server, sending a silver tray of sparkling wine clattering across the tiles. Crystal broke into dozens of shards, wine drenched the floor, and Cervan skidded on his stomach to the foot of Madama Celli’s dais just as she raised her hand to address the hall. A collective gasp rippled through the hall, followed by stifled laughter. Celli’s face, moments before serene, contorted into a mask of pure rage. Her grand entrance, her carefully planned speech, shattered by Corelia’s ‘accident.’ Corelia, meanwhile, leaned into Roccano, her eyes still distant, as if the chaos was merely a minor inconvenience. “Oh dear,” she murmured, her voice just loud enough for Cervan to hear. “So clumsy of me. Are you quite alright, Cervan? You look… drenched.” Roccano’s grip on her arm tightened, his body subtly shifting to shield her. He had seen it. A flicker of movement from the higher balcony, a glint of metal. Before Corelia could even register the danger, a whisper-thin dart, tipped with an ominous green, sliced through the air. It aimed for Corelia’s exposed collarbone, a lethal trajectory. Roccano moved with blinding speed, not pushing her away, but twisting, intercepting the projectile with his own arm. The dart grazed his forearm, tearing a shallow line in his suit fabric, then clattered harmlessly to the marble floor. He didn’t flinch, didn't so much as acknowledge the sting. His obsidian mask turned, his head lifting slowly. His eyes, burning with an infernal intensity, locked onto a figure melting back into the shadows of the highest balcony. He took a single, deliberate step, his boot crushing the poisoned dart into powder. The sniper shrank beneath that stare and slipped back into the rafters. The message was clear: *try again, and die.* The collective shock of Cervan’s fall and the unacknowledged attack hung heavy in the air. Madama Celli, seizing the moment, her benevolent smile replaced by a venomous snarl, snatched the microphone from its stand. Her voice, amplified and ringing with manufactured outrage, cut through the murmurs like a knife. “Sentries! Seize her!” She pointed a manicured finger directly at Corelia Montavi. “Arrest the traitor!”

The Grand Masquerade