The stench of claret and fear hung heavy in the Blood-Gallery, a miasma Veska had come to associate with the Sunken Court’s most prestigious—and lethal—social gatherings. Tonight, the annual Feast of Crimson Tides. She burrowed deeper into the voluminous folds of her moth-silk cloak, its iridescent threads glinting like trapped nebulae, a perfect camouflage for invisibility, or so she hoped. The fabric, spun by the blind weavers of the Undermire, was notorious for its light-absorbing qualities, and Veska, as the matriarch, currently resembled a particularly well-draped gloom. Her real identity, a stuttering handmaiden, remained safely interred beneath layers of costly silks and the calculated frost of her new persona. Her elbow dug into the yielding flesh of Baron Yulog, who swayed beside her like a forgotten banner. His breath, a rancid cocktail of fermenting blight-wine and stale lamentations, was a constant, if unpleasant, reminder of their shared charade. “M-my apologies, Baron,” she murmured, her voice pitched to an apologetic rustle. “Did I p-prick you?” Her carefully cultivated stutter, a remnant of her true self, often resurfaced under duress. “Nngh,” Yulog grunted, his gaze fixed on a silver goblet held by a passing servitor. “My dear Lady, you could skewer me with a carving knife, and I’d barely notice it over the current, ah, *absence* of refreshment.” He fumbled, nearly toppling a tray of chilled lachrymae berries, before catching himself with a dramatic flourish that sent ripples through the small cluster of minor nobles they had strategically positioned themselves near. Perfect. They looked pathetic, ignorable. Veska mentally ticked a box on her internal spreadsheet, an intricate document she’d meticulously compiled since magically swapping identities with the dying noblewoman. *Objective 3a: Maintain low profile, appear desperate and unthreatening.* She adjusted the tiny wire clip that linked her to a courier network of informants, then consulted her parchment ledger tucked within her corset. The coded ink detailed the systematic ruination of the dynasty's four elders, cell by cell. Each tyrant was destined to fall. The timeline, the prophecies of the Obsidian Ledger, were absolute. And so was the one fate she *had* to avoid: her own execution by Lord Commander Drastan at the Winter Culling. The Ledger, a contraband chronomantic novel, recorded political executions before they happened. Her name was etched beside Drastan’s. She scanned the crowd, her gaze darting past the ostentatious displays of blood-magic and the simmering undercurrent of aristocratic feuds. Where was *he*? She’d reviewed every avoidance strategy: blend, deflect, misdirect, become a non-entity. The Ledger had warned her. A dream, a few nights ago, had shrieked at her: *Stay away from the Collar-Bearer, lest his dark silhouette claim yours.* Drastan, the empire’s most lethal predator, voluntarily wore a collar, a symbol of his unwavering loyalty to the Crown, and a brutal warning to all who crossed him. He was a force of nature, a walking storm, and her death sentence. A flicker of movement near the towering basalt pillars caught her eye. Not Drastan, but something else. A ripple in the air, a distortion in the dim, perpetual twilight of the Sunken Court. A cloaked killer, veil-woven, moved with unnatural speed. Her hand, hidden in her voluminous sleeve, instinctively reached for the hilt of a small, poisoned misericorde. She was no fighter, but her instincts, honed by a lifetime of servitude and fear, screamed danger. The target was Drastan. He stood near the entrance to the Gilded Archives, a solitary, imposing figure, his obsidian-dark uniform absorbing the scant light. Even from this distance, the iron pressure of his stance commanded the corridor. The killer, now a barely discernible blur, was closing in. Too fast. Drastan hadn't moved. He was either unaware, or he was waiting. The latter seemed more terrifying. Veska's carefully constructed composure shattered. The spreadsheet in her mind, with its rigid revenge schedules and meticulous contingency plans, offered no protocol for saving her prophesied executioner. *Panic!* her mind shrieked. *He's supposed to kill me, not get killed! What if he dies? Does the prophecy shift? Does *I* die sooner?* Her legs, suddenly unreliable, tangled in the moth-silk hem of her cloak. A low, pathetic squeak escaped her lips as she pitched forward, a cascade of fabric and flailing limbs. Baron Yulog, lost in a sudden vision of a refilled goblet, remained oblivious, a limp anchor. Veska crashed, not gracefully, but with the full, uncoordinated force of a terrified moth-silk-draped meteor. Her enormous cloak billowed, a vast, silken net, and by some insane, cosmic misfortune, it snagged. It didn't just snag, it *entangled*. The stalker, mid-lunge, his umbral blade aimed at Drastan’s neck, became a victim of the moth-silk. The fine, nearly invisible threads caught the hilt, wrapping around his arm, twisting his momentum. He gasped, a sound of utter disbelief, as his attack veered wildly off course, the blade scraping harmlessly against Drastan's cheek instead of finding purchase. From her pocket, a wriggling, multi-eyed form launched itself. Slitch, her venomous cave-salamander, had had enough of being jostled. With a hiss, he latched onto the assassin's exposed ankle, sinking needle-sharp fangs into flesh. The assailant cried out, a guttural rasp of pain, his dusk-weave unraveling to expose pale, sweating skin. That was all Drastan needed. He moved with a terrifying economy of motion. A blur of black, a hiss of steel. The killer, still flailing against the moth-silk and Slitch’s fangs, lacked the seconds needed to parry. A wet crunch echoed, and the body crumpled, dissolving into a puddle of inky muck and sulfur. Veska, still sprawled on the polished obsidian floor, looked up, her stutter now a violent tremor. Drastan stood over her, his expression a mask of chilling composure. He glanced at the dissolving remains of the assassin, then down at the moth-silk-entangled chaos, and finally, his gaze settled on her. He knelt, his silhouette falling over her like a shroud. A gloved finger, impossibly gentle, brushed against her cheek, wiping away a smear of the assassin's blood. “No one is that clumsy, Lady Marova,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble vibrating through flagstones beneath her. His irises, the flat slate of frostbitten iron, locked onto hers. “What exactly are you hiding?”

The Moth-Silk Misfire