Two nights passed before the masquerade.

Two nights in which whispers thickened like incense through the palace corridors, each rumor heavier than the last. Myrren spent them buried in scrolls and herbs, but no study could muffle the court’s laughter bleeding through the walls. She had not slept well. No one had.

Now, in her chamber, Ori was at war with her.

“Hold still,” Ori scolded, tugging at the laces of a gown borrowed from the Queen’s seamstress. “You smell like ink and rosemary. Saints help me, do you want them to think you came straight from your workshop?”

“I did,” Myrren muttered. The bodice pinched too tight, the silk too heavy. The pale blue fabric shimmered like frost under candlelight, threaded with silver stars. It smelled faintly of lavender, though to her it recalled temple halls where nobles were laid out for mourning. She would have chosen plain wool, scentless and safe.

Ori clicked her tongue, fussing with the skirts until they billowed like clouds. “Masquerades are battlefields, Myrren. You don’t march into war without armor. Tonight, silk is armor. And a mask.”

The mask waited on the table—a delicate crescent of silver filigree. Myrren picked it up, weighing it in her hand. Light, but sharp at the edges. Perfume clung to its ribbon, heavy and sweet, enough to make her throat tighten.

“Armor?” she said quietly. “Or a noose?”

Ori’s gaze softened, though her hands remained busy tucking stray wisps of hair into place. “Both, perhaps. But at least tonight, you’ll walk among them as an equal. Princes notice masks more than they notice dust on your cuffs.”

Myrren almost laughed. Almost. “And if I’d rather remain unseen?”

Ori tied the mask firmly behind her head, ignoring her protest. “Then you shouldn’t have accepted the summons, scentcrafter. The palace sees everything. Best you learn to stare back.”

The silk pressed cool against her skin, the lavender scent catching in her breath. Myrren stared at her reflection in the mirror’s warped glass. The woman staring back looked nothing like a scentcrafter from crooked alleys. She looked like someone who belonged to this glittering court.

And that, Myrren thought grimly, was the most dangerous disguise of all.

The palace had been transformed for the masquerade.

By the time Myrren stepped through the carved doors of the great hall, the air was already suffocating with perfumes—rose, amber, myrrh, all clashing like rival armies. Chandeliers burned overhead, their candles dripping gold light onto silk banners and jewel-studded masks. Music swelled from a quartet tucked into the shadows, a lilting waltz that seemed too sweet for the venom riding on every whisper.

Ori lingered at the edge of the hall, swallowed by the crowd of servants. Myrren felt her absence like the loss of a shield. Here, amid masks shaped like foxes and falcons, she was prey. The scents told her so: sweat beneath powdered wigs, wine sour on breath, the bitter musk of envy. Nobles circled like hawks, laughter bright but sharp as glass.

At the dais, the Queen sat unmoving, her mask no more than a crown of silver thorns. She did not need a disguise. Her silence was masked enough.

The crowd parted briefly as Prince Thane entered, his golden mask glinting like sunlight trapped in metal. Applause rose, the nobles surging to greet him, voices thick with honeyed words. Yet his smile—bright, warm, practiced—cut through the noise like dawn. When his gaze found Myrren across the room, it lingered.

Heat curled in her chest before she could stop it. She dropped her eyes, ashamed at how easily his light unsettled her.

Not all eyes were warm.

From the shadows near the colonnade, Lord Corven stood half-veiled, his mask black as ink, his gaze unreadable. He made no move to join the dance, no gesture of greetings. He only watched, still as carved obsidian. Around him, nobles gave space—as though silence itself demanded it.

Myrren turned away quickly. Better to keep her attention on the hall, where dangers at least wore masks of silk.

At her side, voices rippled—Lady Seliora’s silver tone, smooth and sharp: “Charm fades, cousin. Alliances do not.” Myrren knew Seliora spoke to Thane, though her eyes flicked briefly toward her, assessing, warning.

Nearby, Lord Aedric’s laugh rang out, cruel and careless. “The court collects curiosities like baubles. A scentcrafter among us? Next we’ll crown a beggar.”

Seliora’s lips curved. “Careful, Aedric. A crown may suit a beggar better than it suits you.”

Gasps fluttered. Aedric flushed darkly, muttering into his cup. Myrren almost smiled. Almost.

But the hall glittered dangerously, and beneath its light, she could scent the truth: this was no celebration. This was a battlefield painted in gold.

The music swelled, couples drifting into the center of the hall, masks gleaming as they spun. Myrren lingered at the edges, hoping her plain mask would keep her unseen. But in Eirden’s court, invisibility was an illusion.

The first strike came quietly. A pale figure slipped from the crowd—a woman draped in midnight silk, her mask shaped like a blade of glass. Serenya. Corven’s shadow.

She moved without sound, without scent, as if silence itself wrapped around her. When her gaze fell on Myrren, the air seemed to still. A ripple of attention followed her steps, courtiers leaning in, curious for spectacle.

“My,” Serenya murmured, her voice low but carrying in the hush, “how brave. A scentcrafter in borrowed silk.”

The words were soft, but the intent was sharp. Around them, laughter stirred—mocking, eager, like hounds catching a trail.

Myrren forced her chin high. “Bravery, Lady Serenya, would be speaking without a mask.”

A flicker—almost amusement—crossed Serenya’s eyes. Then, with deliberate grace, she reached out and tugged at the ribbon of Myrren’s mask. The knot slipped. Silver filigree clattered to the floor.

Gasps echoed.

Faces turned, jeweled eyes widening as they drank in the sight of her bare features. Not one of them. Lowborn. Unmasked.

Laughter rippled sharper now. Whispers hissed, venom disguised as humor:
“Look at her—she doesn’t even belong in costume.”
“A parlor maid in silk.”
“Perhaps the prince needs entertainment beyond the throne.”

The scents hit harder than the words—wine soured with scorn, musk of excitement, the sharp tang of cruelty unleashed.

Myrren steadied her voice. “If wit is measured by cruelty, then this hall is overflowing.”

The laughter faltered, then returned, sharper for her defiance.

Above it all, the Queen watched. Still, silent, her expression unreadable behind her crown of thorns. She did not move to stop it. Her stillness was sanctioned enough.

Heat rose to Myrren’s cheeks. Her hands trembled, but she refused to bend, refused to give them the collapse they hungered for. Yet she knew—every whisper tonight would echo louder tomorrow.

The masquerade had devoured its prey.

The hall rang with laughter, cruel and clinking like shattered glass. Myrren bent to retrieve her mask, fingers stiff with shame—

And a warm hand closed over hers.

Gasps rippled outward as Prince Thane straightened, her fallen mask in his grasp. His golden figure shone beneath the chandeliers, his voice clear and steady.

“Enough.”

The single word carried more weight than any reprimand. Nobles froze, their laughter dying like candles snuffed in the wind.

Thane lifted the mask gently, his touch lingering as he settled it back against Myrren’s face. “Courage does not need disguises. But if the court demands one—let it be a crown instead of a chain.”

He took her hand, twining his fingers with hers. “And if courage is dangerous,” he added, voice soft but carrying, “then let it be mine to share.”

Silence. Dozens of eyes burned with shock, envy, fury. Some with fear.

The Queen rose slightly from her seat, her crown catching the light like drawn blades. Her silence was no longer neutral. It was fury, sharpened and sheathed.

Myrren’s breath caught, her heart battering her ribs. She had been unmasked, humiliated, reduced to whispers—yet here, before all of them, the golden prince stood as her shield.

But in the Queen’s stillness, she scented the truth: jasmine iced with steel, roses laced with venom.

The court would not forgive this.

The hall gasped as the golden prince held her hand.

And in the Queen’s silence, Myrren scented her death.