Winterbell Palace shimmered with candlelight. Hundreds of flames reflected in gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers, casting gold over the velvet-clad nobility who arrived masked and whispering.
The banquet was Queen Isolde's idea, a celebration of the expedition's success, an illusion of peace before the cold war that loomed just beyond the horizon. Flynn suspected it was also a distraction.
After all, beneath every elegant mask tonight, someone hid more than just a face.
Flynn stood at the top of the staircase, white mask in hand. He hadn't worn it yet. His violet eyes scanned the ballroom below searching.
He caught a flash of black and gold near the far pillars.
Khalid.
Even masked, the duke was unmistakable his dark hair tied neatly, his golden eyes half-shadowed beneath a half-mask shaped like a hound's snout. A loyal dog of the crown, indeed.
But tonight, Flynn was not sure which crown Khalid truly served.
Elior joined him at the stair's edge, donning a silver fox mask. "I thought you hated parties," he murmured.
"I do," Flynn replied softly, "but I hate being blind more."
Elior's gaze followed Flynn's. He said nothing, only stood by his side like a silent shield.
Below, Khalid turned, sensing eyes upon him. When his gaze met Flynn's, even across the distance, something tightened in his throat.
He didn't recognize the stare not completely. It was not the same boy who once stumbled through sword drills or scowled at formal court.
It was the same eyes that had once judged him on the battlefield, before death claimed them.
But that was impossible.
Wasn't it?
The dance began.
Partners twirled beneath the chandeliers. Musicians played a waltz from the ancient kingdoms Winterbell's hymn woven with foreign notes.
Flynn descended the stairs slowly, mask now donned. The crowd parted like water around him. Every step made his heartbeat louder. Not fear. Not nerves. It was the pulse of confrontation.
He didn't approach Khalid immediately. Instead, he walked among the crowd, nodding to familiar lords, exchanging quiet pleasantries. Watching. Listening.
Spies lingered at the edges of the room. Some he recognized by subtle gestures, others by insignia half-concealed beneath cloaks.
But one figure stood out.
A woman in deep blue with a veil over her lower face, standing near the archway. She was not dancing. Not drinking. Only watching Flynn.
And when their eyes met, she vanished into the corridor.
Flynn excused himself swiftly.
Elior noticed and began to follow but a courtier stepped in his way with a question from the queen.
Flynn was alone.
The corridor was quiet. Cold.
He turned left, then another hall his footsteps soft. At the far end, the woman waited.
"You're bold," Flynn said quietly. "Appearing here."
She removed her veil. Underneath was a scar across her chin one he remembered. "You're not the only one reborn in silence, Your Highness."
"…You know?"
She gave a faint smile. "Only enough to risk my life tonight."
Flynn stepped closer, cautious. "Then tell me why risk it?"
She handed him a sealed parchment.
"The Ember Hand is no myth," she said. "They're already inside Winterbell. And Duke Khalid may not be the master behind it, but he is no longer just your sword. He's a piece in someone else's game."
Flynn looked down at the letter.
When he looked up again, she was gone.