The grand ballroom was a spectacle of opulence and intrigue. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting warm, flickering light over the lavish oddities. The air was thick with the mingling scents of exotic perfumes and the delicate aroma of fine wines being served by attentive waitstaff in crisp uniforms.

  A who's who of the realm's most influential nobles, moved gracefully through the room, their identities concealed behind elaborate masks adorned with feathers, jewels, and intricate designs. This masquerade lent an air of mystery to the evening, as whispered conversations and hushed negotiations filled the gaps between clinks of glasses and bursts of laughter.

  Hana Mortiana, the enigmatic hostess, glided through the room, her presence commanding. She wore a mask crafted from gold filigree, its delicate patterns framing her eyes, which gleamed with intelligence and a hint of mischief. Her gown, a light pink, swept the floor as she moved, drawing the attention of all who passed.

  As the evening unfolded, alliances were forged and plots were hatched. Nobles exchanged veiled barbs and compliments, each word carefully chosen to conceal true intentions. Some sought to climb the social ladder, others to secure lucrative trade deals, while a few aimed to discreetly sabotage rivals.

  In one corner of the room, a cluster of young lords discussed rumors of an impending royal decree, their voices low and conspiratorial. Nearby, a pair of duchesses pretended to admire the intricate tapestry adorning the wall, their eyes darting around the room, assessing potential allies.

  The ballroom was alive with the dance of power, each noble a player in a grand game where fortunes could be made or lost with a single word or gesture. As the night wore on, the stakes grew higher, and the mask of civility began to slip, revealing glimpses of the ruthless ambition that lay beneath.

  Free from rules, one can do as one wishes and establish one's social status. Anything is fair game, from exploitation to assassination. Magnus Ludus, the Vailians called it, built upon a single rule: don't be caught. It's a complicated game of espionage that The Ivory Vale lusts for.

  Items were lined up from wall to wall, each a testament to the wealth and ingenuity of the nobles who brought them to showcase their status. The grand hall was abuzz with excitement as guests moved from one display to another, marveling at the eclectic array of inventions and artworks. In one corner, a bronze contraption ingeniously powered by water played an enchanting melody, drawing a small crowd with its mechanical precision and melodic charm.

  Nearby, an intricate device projected vivid illustrations onto a screen, accompanied by scrolling text that narrated tales of distant lands and ancient legends. A noble, dressed in opulent silks, eagerly cranked a shaft to keep the spectacle alive, enjoying the admiring glances from fellow party-goers. The room was filled with the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses as servants moved discreetly amongst the guests, offering refreshments.

  Elsewhere in the room, other strange contraptions captured an audience, each more curious and imaginative than the last. Mechanical birds flapped their wings, mimicking the flight of their real-life counterparts, while a clockwork dragon puffed tiny clouds of steam, its eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. Amidst the laughter and awe, subtle nods and knowing glances were exchanged, hinting at the undercurrent of clandestine negotiations taking place.

  Change of Season, one of the many servants, despised these political games since she had learned of them. Her species, the Kabit, held an irresistible allure for the Valiens. Her sleek black fur, elegantly marked with striking white patches, made her stand out prominently among the other servant races, particularly the Orcs. The Orcs and their olive hides and robust, muscular forms with pig-like snouts, were a stark contrast to the Kabit's lithe and agile physique.

  As she moved through the crowded palace, her ears twitched at the sound of cups clinking together, a subtle reminder of the lively gathering around her. Her master had brought her along as a living trophy to all who attended the Magnus. Where appearances spoke volumes, her presence was intended to elevate her master's standing within The Ivory Court.

  For her, this was absolute torture. A calculated strategy to secure her master's influence and social position without the need for bloodshed or conflict. Her mere presence, mesmerizing and enigmatic, served as a powerful statement—a testament to her master's wealth and ability to command respect and admiration in a society that thrived on subtle power plays and unspoken rivalries.

  Change sighed as another group passed her.

  "It's so hideous."

  "Look how it squirms in proper Valein clothing."

  Change shuffled her posture, rolling her shoulders back in a subtle attempt to find a comfortable position. The formal attire of nobility felt restricting, and she found little amusement in its fashion or elegance. An unwanted itch developed under her skin, a constant irritation caused by her black fur brushing against the silken garbs that enveloped her.

  Her master had adorned her in the traditional male attire of the Vale, a sartorial choice that only added to her discomfort. Every element of her attire was meticulously chosen to reflect her master's prestige, leaving her to bear the weight of her ambition.

  Beneath the layers of silk and embroidery, she longed for the freedom of movement and simplicity that her natural form afforded her. Despite the constraints, she maintained her poise, knowing that her role in this spectacle was as much about survival as it was about status.

  "Velsha, dear?" Her master waved her hand, motioning for her to heel. "Come mingle with my guests."

  Hana managed a wide grin beneath her gaudy designed mask. It was as much a part of the evening’s showmanship as the event itself. As the host, she was playing the game with a notable handicap: her identity was an open secret, a fact that she skillfully wielded to her advantage.

  Change of Season was a mere tool to subtly gain the upper hand. Guests were particularly attuned to shifts in power and favor, making them more receptive to her charms and propositions. Her ability to navigate these waters with grace and cunning, almost amazed Change.

  Hana’s eyes sparkled with both amusement and the thrill of the game. She was in her element, fully aware of the impact she was having on each guest.

  Cautiously, Change of Season adhered to her master's call, letting go a lengthy, exaggerated sigh. "Yes, Mother."

  Gasps spread among the observing nobles. Other Vailens wandered closer to see what the commotion was about.

  A man with a sparkling purple peacock mask spoke. "The savage talks? This is quite intriguing."

  His counterpart, wearing a feathered black pig mask, added, "Did you teach it to talk?"

  "I did, but," Hana turned to Change with a heavy brow. "He still needs to learn manners."

  A knot developed in the pit of Change's belly, her muscles instinctively contracting into a tight ball of tension. Her claws extended and droplets of blood began to drip from the pressure of her grip. A technique she observed from other servants to calm their rage. Her eyes, however, couldn't hide her emotions as she glared daggers at her 'mother,' a term she used with bitterness rather than affection.

  Hana knew exactly how to set Change off and she stumbled into that carefully laid trap. It was a calculated move on Hana's part, a way to provoke a reaction and measure its intensity. She thrived on the tension, using it to gauge the boundaries of her influence and the effectiveness of her control over Change.

  She was determined not to give Hana the satisfaction of an outburst. Her restraint was an act of rebellion, a refusal to play the role that had been scripted for her.

  "Undoubtedly. At least it is dressed accordingly. How did you instruct such an unnatural creature to dress themselves, or perhaps you had a servant dress it?" asked one noble.

  "Rather simple, really. I raised him since he was a young thing. The language was the exceptionally challenging part. Their natural dialect is a series of growls and grunts. I could not break him rolling his r's for the longest time." chuckled Hana.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The group laughed in unison carrying a chilling undertone that gnawed at Change’s nerves. Their amusement seemed rehearsed, almost like a code spoken between glances, it made her stomach twist. Just as she tried to dismiss the feeling, a towering guard in full plate armor approached Hana, his face obscured by a helmet save for a faint glint in his eyes. Leaning down, he murmured words meant for her ears only. His breath was warm, yet his words were cold as iron. Hana recoiled, her lips twisting into a grimace as her eyes instinctively scanned the room. Her cheek twitched, a flicker of her discomfort.

  Change’s gaze darted to the grand double doors where guards had been stationed. But the doors now stood unguarded, ominously abandoned. Instead, she could see those same guards moving through the crowd, their expressions unreadable, their steps almost predatory as they threaded through clusters of oblivious nobles.

  She watched as one by one, nobles vanished, pulled away from the glittering light of the chandeliers and into the recesses of darkness. She could barely catch the shadows that crept up behind them, hands reaching and pulling without a sound. Suspicion turned to dread as she realized these disappearances were anything but random. This wasn’t just a gathering—it was a trap.

  "If you would pardon me and my servant. I had some unpleasant news that I must attend to." Hana respectfully bowed.

  Hana led Change of Season through the crowd with graceful ease, pausing here and there to exchange a few hushed words with the nobles. Each comment she made held subtle undertones, and Change noticed the way some nobles nodded with a hint of unease as Hana left them. Once they reached the edge of the ballroom, Change felt a sense of relief, only for her eyes to fix on something even more unsettling by the exit.

  A suit of armor stood there, but it was far from ordinary. It moved with an eerie, sinuous motion, as though it were alive, aware. This was no standard human armor—where one would expect plain, blunt steel, the edges of this armor were almost fluid, tapering into pointed, organic shapes. Intricate filigree in gleaming gold wound across the chestplate, forming delicate patterns of rocky landscapes and swirling dunes, a tribute to some foreign, perhaps mystical land. The craftsmanship was unmistakably Elven, but the crest on the armor was unfamiliar—a swirling design that felt ancient and powerful, evoking both wonder and dread.

  As Change peered closer, she noticed something else: a thin, smoky haze seeped from the joints and gaps in the armor, rising like soot from a fire long forgotten. The dark smudges left behind dirtied the pristine gold filigree, giving the armor a haunting, tainted look. It was as though it had crawled from the shadows themselves, bearing the scars of battles in realms untouched by light.

  Hana stepped forward, unfazed, while Change felt a chill slide down her spine. The figure in the armor shifted again, moving almost too smoothly, too fluidly for anything forged of steel. It tilted its head slightly, as though observing them, and Change caught a glimmer behind the helmet’s narrow visor—something alive, calculating, and ancient beyond words.

  "Leave no one alive. Burn the evidence."

  A harsh whisper responded under the obscured visor. "Ondosnaad."

  The knight withdrew from Hana's side, its movements both methodical and unsettling, as though it were something more than armor and metal. It stepped into the heart of the ballroom, and a few nobles glanced over with mild curiosity, mistaking it for an intricate, automated display meant to entertain. They murmured their speculations, chuckling at the apparent novelty, until the knight lifted a massive claymore from its back and, without hesitation, drove the blade into the marbled floor.

  A deep, resonant tone rippled outward from the impact, filling the room with a haunting, metallic hum. The marble tiles splintered beneath the force, cracks spreading out like jagged webs from the sword’s edge. The sound wasn’t merely loud; it vibrated through the walls, into the very bones of the nobles, snuffing out all chatter and laughter as effectively as a hand clasped over a mouth.

  The nobles froze, horrified, their faces reflecting a mixture of awe and terror as they stared at this imposing figure. The knight stood silent, its face obscured by shadow and soot, but its presence commanded every eye in the room. An expectant stillness settled over the gathering, each guest now utterly silent, watching the knight in rapt attention, dreading but unable to look away from whatever would happen next.

  "What is the purpose of this?" A noble sought.

  The crowd stood in stunned silence, their breaths held as they awaited an explanation—or, at the very least, a gesture that would clarify the knight’s intent. Low murmurs of confusion and fear rippled through the assembly, amplified when, without warning, the grand doors behind them slammed shut. The booming echo of heavy bolts locking into place reverberated through the room, sealing them inside. The nobles exchanged wary glances, the first tinges of panic beginning to surface in their expressions.

  The knight raised a single, armored gauntlet, a faint shimmer of arcane energy tracing along its fingertips. It began to speak, the words low and guttural, resonating with a strange, ancient cadence that no one in the room recognized. The language had a sharp, primal sound, and it sent a chill down the spines of all who heard it. With each syllable, sparks of electric-blue energy shot from the knight’s hand, swirling into a vortex that twisted in hues of deep crimson and violet, an unnatural storm of color spinning counterclockwise above the knight’s open palm.

  Then, from the churning depths of the vortex, thick droplets of dark sludge began to drip. One by one, six in total, each drop struck the ballroom floor with a sickening splatter before slowly coalescing, expanding and shaping into tall, humanoid figures. Their forms solidified into lanky shapes with unnaturally long, pointed ears and eyes that glinted with a feral intelligence. Their skin was as transparent as a shadow and their clothing ranged from tattered leather breastplates, cracked and aged, to filthy, rotting navy garments that hung loosely from their skeletal frames.

  As their shapes took form, they exchanged brief, guttural words in the same eerie dialect, casting glances around the ballroom as if assessing prey. Their mouths twisted into sneers, revealing teeth that were sharp. The knight’s helmet tilted slightly as it observed them, and with a measured, authoritative gesture, it pointed its armored finger at the crowd. The creatures turned, eyes narrowing with a predatory gleam, and began to advance, some licking their lips, others rolling their shoulders in preparation for whatever command had been issued. The nobles were frozen, caught between fear and disbelief, as they realized this was no spectacle—it was the beginning of something far darker.

  Change of Season looked at her mother in horror. "What have you done?"

  "For The Ivory Vale to survive, someone with an iron will must step up. The nobles are inadequate, stilted. The rot must be dug out. In time, you will understand, Velsha." Hana replied.

  "Why do you keep calling me that name?"

  Hana grinned, ignoring the question. "We have much work to do."

  Change slumped her shoulders and averted her gaze as she fell in step behind her master out into the cool night air. The palace behind them was now a cage of echoes, its ominous silence fractured only by distant murmurs and the faint, eerie hum of the magic that had overtaken it.

  A broad gravel road stretched out before them, winding down the slope of a hillside, its pale surface illuminated faintly by a sliver of moonlight. The stones crushed underfoot as they descended, a harsh contrast to the stillness of the night, and the faint chill of an encroaching mist sent shivers through the air. Shadows clung thickly to the trees that lined the road, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers.

  As they neared the gated entrance at the road’s end, Change felt a sudden heaviness in the air, thick with the scent of iron and decay. The gate loomed, dark and foreboding, its iron bars twisted into cruel spikes that seemed to pierce the night itself. Just beyond it, the bodies of guards lay crumpled against the metal, their armor glinting dully in the moonlight. Small, slender blades protruded from their backs, each knife perfectly placed, cold and deliberate.

  Their eyes were frozen in expressions of shock, their final moments locked in silent horror. These men had been dispatched with ruthless efficiency, and their blood left dark stains seeping into the gravel below. Change could barely tear her gaze away from them as they passed. Her master strode forward with an air of indifference, as if death were merely another shadow in the night. The sight of the slain guards filled Change with a deepening sense of dread as she followed, each step a reminder of the danger that lay just beyond the darkness of the road.

  "Rachel is efficient as always, it seems," Hana stated.

  A six-door metal wagon was parked, waiting for their arrival with doors open. It was a present from a business associate of Hana’s from Athewen after the two kingdoms achieved peace. An ARC (arcane road carriage) turned heads in noble circles. The Ivory Vale still used horses and carriages to transport people and goods.

  A girl dressed in a tight black fitted dress sat patiently in the vehicle's cab. Two thigh slits allowed her to sit cross-legged on the tan leather bench seat in her knee-length gown. She fiddled with metal sticks that held her lengthy brown hair into a bun.

  Rachel tenderly patted the seat next to her. "It's always a pleasure to see my brother. I don't always have time for quality bonding."

  As Change settled into the plush leather seat, the woman beside her wasted no time, slipping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close with a surprising, almost possessive strength. Change let out an involuntary groan, the unexpected embrace jarring her. She hadn’t had a moment to prepare herself, to adjust her own sense of space, and now she found herself nestled against Rachel's side, her personal boundaries dissolved in an instant.

  "Rachel, dear, it's best we keep your brother caged. What if he were to hurt the vessel?" Hana responded while sitting on the bench opposite her children.

  Change wrestled out of her ‘sister's’ grip and sat patiently, facing Hana's direction.

  "Why a Kabit, mother?" Rachel inquired.

  "It is not our place to question his wishes," said Hana.

  "Are you sure you interpreted the scripts correctly?"

  Hana closed her eyes. "When we return to the house, we must discuss your taste in color."

  Rachel rolled her eyes, sinking back into her seat as the ARC hummed to life, accelerating smoothly down the gravel driveway. She watched the passing trees, their dark silhouettes flickering by in a blur, the outside world slipping past in shades of shadow and moonlight. She remained silent, arms folded across her chest, casting an occasional glance at the others in the cabin before returning her gaze to the window.

  In the distance, an ominous plume of smoke spiraled upward, dark and foreboding, blotting out patches of the starlit sky. The hillside beyond the palace grounds was aglow with fire, casting an eerie orange light that seeped into the edges of the night. The flames danced and crackled, licking up toward the heavens, their reflections flickering against the ARC’s metal as they sped away.