“My squad trailed the ledger’s courier here an hour ago.” Roksana’s fingers tightened around the withered amber orchid. Volkov’s gaze, sharp as obsidian, held hers, dissecting her composure. She met it with a calculated blankness, allowing only the faintest tremor to show in her wrist as she tucked the flower into her lace cuff. The dried petals scratched her skin, a physical anchor to the impossible truth she’d unearthed. “Indeed, General?” Her voice, though a touch softer than her usual society lilt, remained steady. “Then you must know what lies within this estate. A library, dust-choked and neglected, full of the ramblings of a man desperate to save the realm.” She gestured to the surrounding shelves. “A man whose work was stolen and twisted. My sire, Volkov. Not some anonymous ‘V’ conspirator.” He stepped further into the chamber, his heavy boots stirring more dust. The air grew thick with the scent of aged paper and something else, something metallic and sharp, like the edge of a newly honed blade. “A convenient narrative, Vereska. You hold the very instrument of the plague in your hand, found in a concealed cavity, moments after my agents report House Vereska as the source of the weaponized catalyst.” His eyes flicked to the burnt patch on the wainscoting, then back to her. “Tell me, which part of that is meant to absolve you?” Roksana forced a slow, elegant smile, though her insides coiled with a cold fury. “Absolution? I seek truth, General. Just as you do.” She pulled her hand from her cuff, presenting it empty. “That withered bloom was a relic, a failed prototype from a patriot’s fevered dream. A dream twisted into a nightmare by the very people he sought to protect the city-state from.” Her gaze hardened. “The true conspirator won’t be found clutching a dead flower in an abandoned archive. They’ll be thriving, masked in plain sight, pulling strings.” Volkov considered her, his expression unreadable. “And where might this thriving serpent be found, in your estimation?” “Where else but at the center of power?” Roksana’s smile widened, brittle and bright. “Tonight, at the Masquerade Ball in the Azure Spire. Every corrupt merchant and ambitious noble will be there, their faces hidden behind masks, their true intentions behind silken words. Perfect hunting ground.” He watched her for a long moment, then a slow, dangerous curve appeared at the corner of his mouth. “You intend to bait them.” “It’s what a flighty socialite would do, wouldn’t she? Stumble upon a family secret, too foolish to keep it hidden, too vain not to boast.” She raised an eyebrow. “What better way to draw out a viper than to offer it a fresh, plump mouse?” “A dangerous game, Vereska. Do you possess the fangs for it?” “I’ve learned to adapt, General,” she replied, her voice low. “And I have a proposition for you. Allow me to play my part. If I draw out the true 'V', then your suspicions can shift from a grieving daughter to a true traitor.” *** The Azure Spire gleamed against the inky sky, its windows pouring forth the golden light of a thousand lanterns. Inside, the Grand Salon hummed with the murmur of a hundred conversations, the rustle of silk, and the lilting strains of a string ensemble. Roksana, cloaked in a gown of midnight blue that shimmered like spilled starlight, wore a delicate, silver filigree mask that obscured her eyes but left her lips free to smile. She moved through the throng, a glass of spiced wine in her hand, planting seeds of rumor with surgical precision. “Such a shame about my elder’s notes, isn’t it?” she confided to Lady Varos, an aging gossip with an ear for scandal. “He was so close to something… extraordinary. A way to turn the very blight against itself. I’ve only just started to make sense of his scribblings.” Later, to the portly syndic Bronislav, a man known for shady dealings in contraband goods, she murmured, “Did you know my sire’s research wasn’t merely about an alchemical catalyst? It was about *control*. Imagine, directing the very essence of the plague!” The bait took hold. Rumors spread, amplified by the wine and the lure of a buried House Vereska secret. Roksana felt eyes on her, not just the usual envious glances, but something colder, more appraising. She sensed the hook being swallowed. Her target, a tall, imposing figure in a mask of dark wood carved with the image of a raven, detached himself from a circle of merchants. He moved with a practiced, almost predatory grace. Roksana knew him instantly by his build and the way he held his head: Pavlo, Volkov’s trusted advisor, a senior figure on the ruling council, revered for his intellect and strategic mind. In her previous life, he had been a stern but fair presence, a pillar of the community. Now, she saw the viper. He approached, his voice a low, melodious baritone. “Mistress Vereska. Your father’s legacy is a topic of much discussion tonight.” “Indeed, Pavlo.” Roksana inclined her head, her smile carefully neutral. “A legacy I am only now beginning to comprehend.” “We might discuss it further, in a more… private setting.” He gestured subtly toward a secluded terrace overlooking the city’s twinkling expanse. “I always admired his vision. And I can offer some… insight.” Roksana felt a chill, not from the open air, but from the cold calculation in his quiet offer. “It would be my pleasure, Pavlo.” As she followed him, she saw a flicker of movement by the servant’s entrance—Kazimir, in the livery of a catering aide, giving a swift, almost imperceptible nod. He had recovered, his stride now even, though a faint pallor still lingered beneath his skin. His dissidents were ready. The flagstones lay deserted, bathed in the cool light of a crescent moon. Pavlo turned, his masked face unreadable. “A potent secret, the bloom. Your kin was a brilliant man, but too… idealistic. He believed it could be contained, controlled for the good of Krosnia. A fatal flaw, wouldn’t you agree?” “Possibly,” Roksana said, her voice dropping low. “Or he simply lacked the… ruthlessness to wield it effectively.” Pavlo’s masked head tilted. “A fascinating perspective. One I would be eager to cultivate. Imagine, Mistress Vereska, the power we could wield, together. The true architects of Krosnia’s future.” His hand, strong and unyielding, reached for hers. Just as his fingers brushed her skin, a piercing shriek echoed from below. Not a human scream, but something far more dissonant – a cacophony of breaking glass and splintering wood, followed by a chorus of panicked shouts. The carefully orchestrated diversion had begun. Kazimir had struck. Pavlo cursed under his breath, his composure momentarily fracturing. “What in the Abyss…?” A shadow detached itself from the ornate pillar beside them. Volkov, his own face masked in stark, unadorned iron, stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sabre. “Indeed, Counselor. What in the Abyss are you doing, offering an alliance behind my back?” Pavlo froze, his hand still suspended in the air. The mask on his face seemed to shrink, revealing the sudden, raw fear in his eyes. He slowly turned to face Volkov, his baritone now a strained gasp. “Zorian? What is the meaning of this?” “The meaning, dear counselor,” Volkov’s voice was cold steel, “is that my agents traced the 'V' seal of the conspirator not to the Vereska archives, but to a series of offshore accounts under your purview. Accounts funding the import of catalyst orchids disguised as rare botanical specimens. Accounts linked to the very laboratories cultivating the Blighted Ash.” He took another step, his presence dominating the narrow stone ledge. “You were the one who convinced the guild oligarchs to invest in the project after Roksana’s sire ‘died’. You were the one who then had his work stolen. You are the ‘V’.” Pavlo’s mask clattered to the floor, revealing a face contorted in a mask of betrayal and terror. “This is a misunderstanding, Zorian! A trick of this… this girl!” He pointed a shaking finger at Roksana, his voice rising. “She has misled you!” Volkov’s expression did not waver. “No, counselor. She laid a trap. And you walked into it.” Before Pavlo could respond, before Volkov could act, a horrifying sound ripped through the night. The party below had dissolved into chaos, but this sound was different—a high, keening wail that seemed to tear at the fabric of reality itself. A monstrous silhouette emerged onto the grand terrace below, its form vaguely humanoid but twisted, its limbs elongated, its head crowned with antler-like growths. The Weeping Chanter. It had found the party. A chorus of pained rasps emanated from the creature’s maw, rattling with despair. It slowly raised a clawed hand, its gaze sweeping over the terrified crowd, past the frozen figures above. Then, its head swiveled. Its multi-faceted eyes, each glowing with an unnatural, sickly luminescence, fixed on Roksana. And from its throat, the rattling hiss coalesced, hardening into a single, guttural sound, echoing across the panicked salon for all to hear: “Pavel Orlov!”

A Dance of Lies