The scream outside the salon was followed by another, closer this time, high-pitched and raw with terror. Inside the Grand Masquerade reception floor, the crystal fixtures flickered erratically, casting sharp, jagged shadows across the polished parquetry. The music, a lilting waltz, had died abruptly, leaving behind a ringing silence that amplified the distant thuds of heavy boots. Then, the grand entrance, fortified moments ago, splintered inwards with a thunderous *crack*. Black-clad figures, their faces obscured by steel visors, poured onto the floor. Each held a heavy sidearm, its copper muzzle glowing with a steady amethyst charge. The lead officer, Kresimir, his voice amplified by a sonic charm, boomed, “The Crimson Purge has begun. All patrons of the Crystal Salons are now subject to the emergency wealth levy. Present your coffers, or face the Tribunal’s immediate judgment.” His sidearm swiveled, its glare momentarily glinting off a fleeing socialite’s emerald necklace. Panic erupted. A woman shrieked, tripping over the hem of her gown. Men bellowed, their faces contorting from aristocratic disdain to primal fear. Sabina, her pearl mask askew, pupils dilated, spotted Radovan near the shattered doors of the salon annex. Her face twisted into something ugly and desperate. “Him! It’s him!” she shrieked, pointing a trembling, manicured finger at her husband. “He’s the traitor! Radovan, the Vice-Marshal! He has secret accounts! He’s been funneling funds to the insurgents, I swear it!” She shoved Radovan with surprising force, propelling him towards the encroaching Inquisitors. “Take him! His family’s vaults are packed, far past whatever tribute you demand!” Radovan stumbled, his face a mask of utter devastation, all traces of his former pride dissolving into abject horror. “Sabina! What are you doing?!” he choked out, but her eyes, usually sharp with calculating ambition, were glazed with pure, unadulterated self-preservation. One of the tribunal guards, responding to Sabina’s frantic cries, detached from the main unit and leveled a carbine at Radovan, who dropped onto his knees. Before the trigger engaged, a blur of motion surged from the salon annex. Vasek, his coat torn, moved with the speed of a cornered predator. He tore open a large storage chest Otylia had pointed out earlier, filled with bolts of their newly manufactured, acid-proof silk. With practiced efficiency, he ripped off several long strips of the dense, dark material. “Everyone, down!” he roared, his voice cutting through the cacophony. He tossed the silk strips like bolas, not at the troopers, but at the glowing aether-sconces along the paneled walls. The heavy, insulated fabric, designed to repel almost anything, smothered the volatile aether-crystals, plunging entire sections of the room into immediate, disorienting darkness. Cries echoed through the darkened gallery. Only the glow of the tribunal squad's sidearms and the faint glimmer from the central chandeliers remained, cutting hard geometric beams through the smoky air. Otylia, still inside the annex, her smile impossibly wide and cheerful even as her eyes darted to every corner, clapped her hands. “Oh dear! What a fright! But don’t worry, everyone, it’s just a little game of hide-and-seek! Follow me, quickly, quickly!” She pointed to a small, unassuming door tucked away behind a heavy velvet curtain, almost invisible in the gloom. “This way for the delightful midnight snacks! No need to bother the stern gentlemen with the bright lights!” Her voice, an unnatural beacon of chipper optimism amidst the terror, cut through the panic for a moment. Zofia, clutching her reporter’s notepad like a shield, saw the cold, calculated intelligence behind Otylia’s blinding grin. Her survival instinct, honed by years of manipulating society’s elite, kicked in. “The Duchess Otylia is right!” she shrieked, her own voice surprisingly strong. “The kitchens! They’ll have back entrances! Follow her, if you want your tea and reputations intact!” She began herding a cluster of bewildered, terrified nobles—the ones who had always been too timid to openly side with Sabina, but too cautious to fully embrace Otylia—towards the small door. Lady Evrarda, Baron Darian, and even the perpetually flustered Count Lysimir found themselves being shoved gently but firmly by Zofia’s surprisingly strong hands. Chaos reigned around them. The tribunal guards, momentarily disoriented by the gloom, discharged wildly into the gloom, hot pulses searing through plaster and brocade panels while patrons ducked. One stray discharge scorched the hem of a dowager's silk train. “This way, my dear! Such a lively evening, isn’t it?” Otylia chirped, holding the small door open, gesturing with a hand that trembled almost imperceptibly as she waited for Zofia’s group. She felt Vasek’s hand on her arm, rough and urgent. “Otylia, we have to go!” he hissed, his face grim. He was dragging Radovan, who had been on the verge of being apprehended, by the collar. Radovan’s eyes were vacant, his body limp and unresisting, a dead weight in Vasek’s grip. “Just leave me,” Radovan mumbled, his voice hoarse, head lolling. “It’s over.” “Nonsense, Radovan,” Otylia said, her smile not wavering. “A little midnight stroll will do us all good! And look, Vasek is being such a good friend, guiding you through the darkness!” She stepped through the door, into the labyrinthine servant passages, the clatter of her heels eerily cheerful. The air grew cooler, smelling of cold lye and grease, a stark departure from the perfumed salon. They navigated the narrow, dimly lit corridors, Otylia somehow knowing every turn, every twist, as if she’d spent years memorizing the hidden routes of the Crystal Salons. Vasek, still half-carrying Radovan, followed closely, Zofia and her small flock of trembling nobles scrambling behind them. The distant shouts and rifle clatter slowly faded, replaced by the damp rhythm of scuffing boots. Just as the faint promise of starlight became visible through a grimy iron grate, indicating the alleyway exit, Otylia pushed open the final, heavy service door. A breath of cool, crisp night air rushed in, carrying the distant wail of a city in chaos. Freedom, for a fleeting moment, felt tangible. Otylia stepped out, her face still wearing that unsettlingly bright smile, only for the smile to freeze on her lips. From the deep shadows of the narrow alleyway, a figure emerged, stark and menacing. Kresimir, his visor lowered, raised his cold iron muzzle and pressed it directly to Otylia’s forehead.

The Panic of the Peacocks