The cold eased by degrees as the days wore on, until winter loosened its grip altogether.

  By the time the caravan crested the last ridge, the world ahead of them looked like it had never heard of snow.

  Green unfurled across the slopes below—too vivid, too sudden. Trees dripped with blossoms in colors Elowen didn’t have names for. Vines climbed pale stone walls in neat, deliberate patterns, flowers opening like jewels along their lengths. The air itself felt… styled. Soft, warm, threaded with a sweetness that lingered pleasantly at the back of her throat.

  On the horizon, a city rose out of the green like something carved from a dream.

  Domes caught the light in bands of gold and silver. Slender towers climbed the sky, their roofs crowned with glass that shifted colors as the sun moved. Between them ran ribbons of bright silk, banners snapping lazily in a wind that didn’t seem nearly strong enough to be moving them.

  For a moment, Elowen forgot to brace herself.

  “It doesn’t look real,” she said, mostly to herself.

  Roderic rode beside her, his horse matching her white mare’s pace. “That’s the idea,” he said quietly. “Miralys prefers its beauty curated.”

  As the caravan descended, the scents thickened. Not just flowers—though there were plenty of those—but smoke from braziers, something spice-sweet and unfamiliar, and beneath it all a honeyed trace of resin, warmed so gently it felt intentional.

  Even the beetles along the roadside flashed with jeweled shells. Birds darted between branches, their feathers edged in metallic sheen.

  Everything glittered.

  Elowen’s shoulders tightened.

  “Does it always look like this?”

  “Not always,” Brandt said from her other side, grin easy, eyes sharp on the city. “Sometimes it’s worse.”

  She huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh. Might not have.

  Roderic’s gaze slid to her and lingered, as if weighing something he didn’t say.

  “You’ll have time to adjust,” he said at last. “And you won’t be here alone. Alenya knows how to navigate this court better than most—and I’ll be with you for the formal introductions.” His voice dropped. “If at any point you want to leave,” he added, quieter, “say the word. I’ll make it happen.”

  The promise settled warm between them.

  Elowen lifted a brow. “And if I say it halfway through a dance?”

  His mouth tipped, not quite a smile. “Then I’ll clear a path.”

  The gates of the city loomed—onyx set into pale stone, flanked by tall spears bearing banners of deep blue and mirrored silver. As they passed beneath, torches flared to life along the walls, their flames catching and multiplying in polished metal plates. Perfumed smoke drifted down, kissing her skin with something that smelled faintly of citrus and something sharper she couldn’t place.

  By the time the caravan reached the inner streets, Elowen had given up on tracking every color and detail. It was like walking into a painting where every brushstroke insisted on being noticed.

  People filled the thoroughfares—merchants calling out from their stalls, musicians playing on corners, dancers weaving between baskets and crates. Silks fluttered from balconies overhead. Masks already hung around some necks, ready to be pulled up at a moment’s notice: feathers, metal filigree, painted porcelain.

  The air felt thick with anticipation, as if the city itself was holding a breath.

  “Is there a festival happening?” she asked, the question low, almost reluctant. “Or is this… normal?”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “That,” Brandt said, he stretched in the saddle, one hand resting on the horn as they moved. “depends on how you define normal.” His grin edged sharper. “You’ve arrived in Veilnox—the Month of Masques. The city-wide excuse for the Eastern Court to do what it already does every other day of the year: dress up and lie prettily.”

  “Veilnox,” she repeated under her breath, the word a soft slide of consonants. Fitting. Everything here felt like a veil—lovely, opaque.

  Roderic’s expression tightened just enough for her to notice. “The king of Miralys invited us to the opening masquerade at court,” he said. “He wants to meet you. To present you to the Court properly.” His eyes met hers. “There are no trials here, Elowen. Not the kind you’ve faced in the North.”

  She shifted in the saddle, a faint ache pulsing in the memory of frost and stone beneath her palms. “But?”

  His brow lifted, acknowledging the question.

  “But,” he said, “the East tests in other ways. Just… differently.”

  “Reassuring as always,” she muttered.

  Brandt chuckled. “Think of it this way: no one will make you run up a mountain in a blizzard.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “They might try to make you trip over your own skirts in front of half the Court, but that’s survivable.”

  She didn’t look at Roderic, but she could feel his patience fray at the edges.

  They rode on.

  Her assigned chambers sat in one of the inner wards of the palace—a place of light and reflection.

  Elowen stepped through the doors and stopped short.

  Nothing in the room was simple. Every surface seemed determined to catch the eye. Tapestries in rich jewel tones lined the walls, each one telling scenes she didn’t recognize—kings crowned in mirrored light, dancers in masks, rivers flowing upward into the sky. Low tables of polished black stone gleamed beneath delicate glass lamps. Cushions, throws, and curtains in layered fabrics shifted with the slightest movement of air—sheer over heavy, dark under light.

  It was beautiful. It also felt like standing inside a question.

  She moved farther in, running her fingers along the nearest tapestry. The threads shimmered faintly, catching light where there should have been none.

  “Everything competes with everything else,” she murmured to herself.

  A maid standing near the bathing room dipped a quick curtsey. “The Court favors abundance, my lady,” she said in accented Central. “We’ve prepared your bath. The king has requested your presence at the first masquerade tonight.”

  Requested. As if that were a thing she could decline.

  Elowen thanked her and stepped into the adjoining chamber.

  The bath steamed, perfumed with a scent she recognized only in pieces—hyacinth, maybe, and mint, and something floral. Bowls of oils and powders lined a nearby table, each labeled in looping Eastern script. A dress waited on a padded bench: pale gray layered with blue, silver thread curling along seams like captured wind.

  She brushed her fingertips over the fabric. Fine. Cool. Almost too smooth to be real.

  In the mirror, her reflection watched with wary eyes. Wind-chapped skin, the faint shadows carved beneath her cheekbones, a scattering of pale scars… all of it looked wrong next to the softness of the dress. Wrong—or true, and the dress the lie.

  “You’re staring at it as if it has offended you,” the maid said gently from the doorway.

  Elowen startled. “I’m not used to…” She gestured at the room. At the dress. “Any of this.”

  The maid’s mouth softened into a small, sympathetic smile. “That is why Veilnox is the best time to arrive. Everyone wears something that isn’t quite theirs.” She inclined her head toward the bath. “May I help you prepare, my lady?”

  There was no malice in the offer. Just habit.

  Elowen nodded.

  Warm water loosened knots she hadn’t noticed in her muscles. The perfumed steam curled around her, intoxicating and a little suffocating. She sank lower until only her face remained above the surface, watching the flicker of lamp light along the ceiling. For a brief moment she let herself drift, letting the weight of travel, of cold, of storms melt away.

  Then Roderic’s voice threaded through her memory.

  If you want to leave, say the word. We go. Together.

  The thought steadied and unsettled her in equal measure.

  By the time she stepped out, skin tingling, the maid had laid out the rest of what the Court expected her to become.

  The dress slid over her like poured moonlight. The bodice hugged without pinching; the skirts fell in layered gossamer, catching every slight turn of her body as though the air itself wanted to play with them. When she moved, silver thread along the seams flashed like lightning traced through cloud.

  The maid’s hands were deft in her hair, taming wild gold into an elaborate crown of braids. Pins slid in; strands twisted and folded until Elowen’s familiar curls became something regal, deliberate. A stranger’s.

  Kohl lined her eyes, silver powder kissed her cheekbones and eyelids, turning her gray irises into something stark and storm-bright. The mask—the final piece—was a smooth sweep of storm-gray, edged in the same curling silver pattern as her dress. When she lifted it and settled it over her face, the woman in the mirror ceased to be Elowen Caerthwyn, thief of Hollow Walls, survivor of frost rings.

  She became something else. Something the Court had requested.

  The realization made her stomach dip.

  “Breathe, my lady,” the maid said softly, stepping back. “You are meant to be seen tonight.”

  That, Elowen thought, was precisely the problem. Being seen had never ended well for her.