The roar that erupted from the pit was not a sound of this world. It was a vibration that rattled the teeth, a primal scream of magic and rage.
Below, in the spotlight, the Griffon—a majestic creature of gold and tawny fur, its wings clipped cruelly short—shrieked as the Three-Headed Serpent lunged. The serpent was a nightmare of emerald scales and dripping venom, its three heads snapping in disjointed, chaotic unison. The crowd didn't gasp in horror; they cheered. They leaned over the railings, their masked faces twisted in euphoric bloodlust as the Serpent's left head clamped onto the Griffon's flank.
Maena felt the bile rise in her throat. This wasn't a duel; it was a butchery of nature. The smell of ozone and copper filled the air, thick and suffocating. When the Griffon retaliated, tearing a chunk of scales free with its beak, the nobles around her raised their glasses, betting slips fluttering like confetti.
"Tear it apart!" someone screamed from the shadows.
Maena gripped her wine glass so tightly the stem threatened to snap. The golden liquid trembled, mirroring the shaking of her hands. She couldn't watch. To witness such cruelty and do nothing was a stain on the soul, but to intervene here, surrounded by the Empire's most dangerous criminals, was suicide.
She turned on her heel, the cheers of the crowd fading into a dull, throbbing headache as she pushed past the guards, tossing another coin to ensure her exit was as silent as her entrance.
The return to the Callahan estate was a blur of shadows and terrified breaths. Maena slipped through the servants' entrance, her feet silent on the stone floors, moving like a ghost haunting her own home.
Once inside the sanctuary of her chambers, the adrenaline crashed. She collapsed against the heavy oak door, her chest heaving. She looked down at her dress—the torn layers of blue silk, the ruined hem. If the Marchioness saw this, the interrogation would last for days. "Ungrateful," she would say. "Careless."
Maena moved to her vanity, lighting a single candle. She stripped off the dress with trembling fingers and pulled her sewing kit from a hidden drawer. For the next hour, there was only the soft snick-snick of the needle and the hiss of thread. She worked with the precision of a surgeon, reattaching the lace, hiding the tears within the folds, smoothing the silk until the damage was invisible to all but the most critical eye.
It was a skill she had perfected over years of hiding her flaws. A perfect lady fixes her own ruins.
When the final knot was tied, Maena hung the dress in the back of her wardrobe and changed into a simple white nightgown. She slipped into bed, the linen sheets cold against her skin. She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come, willing the image of the bleeding Griffon to fade.
But it wasn't the beast that lingered behind her eyelids.
It was him.
"Your mother taught you manners to some degree, hm?"
The memory of his voice, a deep baritone that vibrated through her bones, made her eyes snap open. She stared at the canopy of her bed. Maena Callahan did not think of men. Men were obstacles, or tools, or burdens. Ciro was a burden—a handsome, golden-haired fool who couldn't even wipe his mistress's lipstick from his collar. Ciro was a chore she had to manage, a mess she had to clean up to protect her future.
But the man in the mask... he was different. He hadn't looked at her with lust, nor with the sycophantic adoration the court usually offered. He had looked at her with amusement.
"Efficiency," she whispered to the empty room, testing the word on her tongue.
He had golden eyes that seemed to glow in the dark, possessing a terrifying intelligence. Who was he? A mercenary? A foreign royal? A criminal kingpin?
Maena groaned, rolling over and burying her face in her pillow. "Stop it," she scolded herself. "You are the future Princess Consort. You are the beauty of the Empire. You do not lose sleep over a masked thug with a nice jawline."
But as she drifted off, the phantom sensation of his gloved hand on the drunkard's shoulder—the sheer, restrained power of it—followed her into her dreams.
The morning sun filtered through the high windows of the dining hall, casting long, severe beams of light across the mahogany table. Breakfast at the Callahan estate was a silent, strategic affair. The only sounds were the clinking of silver forks against fine china and the rustling of the morning papers.
Maena sat in her usual spot, her posture impeccable, her expression serene.
At the head of the table sat Marquess Callahan. He was a man of cold, hard angles, his silver hair perfectly coiffed, his blue eyes scanning a political manifest. To his right was his wife, the Marchioness, a woman of fading beauty who clung to her youth with expensive creams and bitter gossip. Her brown hair was pinned tight, pulling at her olive eyes.
And then there were the "true" children.
Aven, the heir, sat across from Maena. He was twenty-two, with the silver hair of the Callahans but his mother's olive eyes. He ate with an arrogance that suggested the world owed him its harvest. Next to him sat Zira, looking pale and sullen, picking at a grapefruit.
"The tax reform on the southern ports is ludicrous," the Marquess muttered, flipping a page. "Aven, have you reviewed the proposal I left on your desk?"
Aven didn't look up from his plate. "It's boring, Father. The merchants will complain, we will squeeze them, they will pay. It's always the same cycle. Why must I read about it?"
"Because you are the future Marquess," the father snapped, though there was no real heat in it. He indulged Aven's laziness. "You must know how to squeeze properly."
The Marchioness chimed in, her voice high and shrill. "Speaking of squeezing, Zira, darling, I heard Lord Harrington's son is back from the academy. He is a bit... stout, but the Harrington fortune is substantial. You should dance with him at the next gala."
Zira rolled her eyes, stabbing a segment of fruit. "He smells like boiled cabbage, Mother. And he steps on toes."
"Wealth has a way of masking odors, my dear," the Marchioness chided. "Besides, you cannot be picky. You are not Maena. You do not have the Crown Prince waiting for you."
Maena took a delicate sip of her tea, the Earl Grey bitter on her tongue. The mention of her name didn't warrant a look from anyone. She was there, but she wasn't present. She was a fixture, like the vase in the center of the table.
"Maena," the Marquess said, finally acknowledging her, though he didn't lower his paper. "Did Ciro mention the treasury audit last night?"
"Briefly, Father," Maena replied, her voice steady. "He mentioned his cousin, the Archduke, would be arriving to oversee it."
The Marquess's hands stilled on the paper. Aven looked up, a flicker of unease in his olive eyes. Zira dropped her fork.
"Archduke Romero?" Aven asked, his voice losing its bored drawl. "Here? In the capital?"
"Yes," Maena said, observing their reactions closely. "Is that a problem, brother?"
"No," the Marquess said quickly, too quickly. "Just... unexpected. The North usually keeps to itself."
Maena returned to her tea, hiding a smirk behind the porcelain rim. They are terrified, she thought. And they should be.
She looked at the faces around the table—the faces that the world believed were her family. The silver hair she shared with the Marquess, the shared features. It was a lie. A convenient, beautiful lie.
Maena Callahan was a fraud.
She remembered the day she learned the truth. She was six years old, hiding behind a heavy velvet curtain in the library, clutching a stolen sweet. Her "parents" had been arguing.
"She looks too much like him," the Marchioness had hissed. "Every time I look at her, I see your sister's face. And that... that filth she ran off with."
"She is a Callahan by blood," the Marquess had retorted. "My sister is dead. The commoner father is gone. The child is beautiful, and she has the Callahan hair. We need a spare, in case Aven fails. We will raise her as ours. No one will know she is a half-blood bastard."
A half-blood. The daughter of a disgraced noblewoman and a nameless commoner. Maena wasn't the jewel of the Callahan house; she was their dirty little secret, polished until she shined.
She looked at Aven, who was now whispering furiously to Zira. The "true" Callahans were reckless, greedy, and stupid. They were trafficking mythical beasts, engaging in treason that would see their heads mounted on spikes at the city gates.
And they will drag me down with them, Maena realized, a cold knot forming in her stomach. The world won't care that I am adopted. They won't care that I didn't know. I am Maena Callahan, the face of this family.
She set her teacup down with a soft clink.
"Mother, Father," Maena said softly. The table quieted. "I believe I shall visit the temple today. To pray for the prosperity of the Empire."
"That is good," the Marchioness said dismissively, waving a hand. "It looks good for the public. Go."
Maena stood up, smoothing her skirts. She wasn't going to pray. She was going to plan. If her family was determined to walk off a cliff, she needed to find a parachute. And the only person who seemed capable of challenging the rot in this city... was a man with golden eyes who haunted the dark.
"Excuse me," she murmured, and walked out of the room, leaving the nest of vipers to their breakfast.