Tess Wren came back smelling like smoke and sugar.
She slid into the dressing room and shut the door with her heel. No flourish. No greeting.
Just a folded fan in one hand and two thick envelopes in the other.
Mireya sat on a stool under a cracked mirror, cleaning dried blood from the edge of her knife with a strip of cloth. Stellan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes on the door like it might betray them.
Tess tossed the envelopes onto the table.
"Invitations," she said.
Stellan frowned. "To what."
Tess lifted the fan and snapped it open with a sharp click. "A masquerade."
Mireya didn't look up. "Whose."
Tess's eyes gleamed. "Lord Orrin Vale."
Stellan went still.
Mireya's cloth paused mid-wipe. "You're sure."
Tess made a little bow, mocking. "Very sure."
Stellan's voice stayed blunt. "Why would he invite you?"
Tess flicked her fan toward the stage ceiling. "Because my troupe is performing. Because nobles like watching poor people pretend to be interesting."
Mireya finally looked up. "And you got us in?"
Tess shrugged. "I get in everywhere. It's my job."
Stellan's jaw tightened. "No."
Mireya's eyes narrowed. "Yes."
Stellan didn't move. "We're not walking into a noble party with half the city hunting us."
Tess leaned on the table, smiling like she enjoyed the argument. "You're already hunted. At least there you'll be hunted by people wearing perfume."
Mireya reached for one envelope. Tess pressed her fan against it—blocking.
"Price," Tess said.
Mireya's gaze went flat. "Not the Treaty."
Tess sighed, dramatic. "I didn't say the Treaty."
Mireya didn't blink.
Tess's smile softened into something honest. "Not yet."
Stellan's eyes sharpened. "What do you want."
Tess tapped the envelope with her fan. "You want Orrin Vale? You want answers? Then you don't walk in like fugitives. You walk in like you belong."
Mireya's voice was cool. "Meaning."
Tess pointed at Stellan. "He needs to stop looking like he wants to punch chandeliers."
Stellan's mouth tightened. "I don't."
Mireya saw it anyway—hesitation behind his eyes. The truth he wouldn't say: I do.
The bond tugged in her ribs like a small warning.
Tess pointed at Mireya. "And you need to stop looking like you want to stab the chandeliers."
Mireya's smile was thin. "That's more accurate."
Tess snapped the fan shut. "So. Cost is simple."
She held up one finger. "You play your roles."
Stellan frowned. "Roles."
Tess nodded, unbothered. "You're not going in as 'Stellan the Warden' and 'Mireya the Silent.' You're going in as two bored nobles who hate each other."
Mireya's eyes flicked to Stellan.
Stellan's voice stayed flat. "We don't need to pretend."
Tess grinned. "See? You're already convincing."
Mireya took the envelope out from under Tess's fan and broke the wax seal with her thumbnail. She didn't unfold it yet.
"Why Orrin," she asked.
Tess's smile faded. Just a notch. "Because he's collecting."
Stellan's gaze narrowed. "Collecting what."
Tess lifted two fingers and made a little walking motion. "People."
Mireya's hand tightened on the paper. "Say it clean."
Tess exhaled. "Masquerades are where you trade secrets. He trades bodies."
Stellan's shoulders went rigid. Mireya felt it in the room—tension like a wire.
Tess added, lighter, like she was trying to keep herself from sounding scared. "Also he likes masks. It's his thing."
Mireya unfolded the invitation. Thick paper. Flowery script. Lord Orrin Vale's crest pressed into the corner.
She read the time. The address.
Then she looked at Stellan. "We're going."
Stellan's jaw flexed. "I don't do court."
Mireya's voice didn't change. "You do tonight."
Stellan held her gaze. "I'm not acting noble."
Mireya tilted her head. "Try."
He made a sound under his breath, annoyed.
Tess clapped once, pleased. "Great. We're doing improv."
—
Tess had costumes.
Of course she did.
She dragged out a trunk that smelled like mothballs and spilled makeup. Inside: coats, vests, gloves, masks. Some cheap, some shockingly fine.
"Don't ask," Tess said when Stellan stared.
"I wasn't," he said.
Mireya lifted a black half-mask, smooth lacquer, narrow eye slits. "This."
Tess snatched it back. "No. That one's too sharp. You'll scare the rich."
Mireya's mouth tightened. "Good."
Tess rolled her eyes and shoved a different mask into Mireya's hands—ivory with a painted crack down one cheek.
"Better," Tess said. "Pretty, but damaged. Nobles love that."
Mireya didn't thank her.
Stellan got a dark coat with subtle embroidery and a silver clasp. Nothing loud. Nothing heroic. Clean lines that made him look like he belonged in rooms he'd never stepped into.
He held it like it might bite.
"This feels wrong," he muttered.
Mireya stepped behind him and tugged the coat into place on his shoulders. Quick, efficient. Not gentle.
Stellan stiffened at the proximity. Mireya's stomach dipped with the bond anchor.
She stepped back immediately.
"No touching without warning," she said.
Stellan's eyes flicked to her. "You grabbed me."
"I dressed you," Mireya corrected.
Stellan's mouth twitched. "That's not better."
Tess leaned against the trunk, delighted. "Keep fighting. It sells the couple act."
Mireya shot her a look. Tess just grinned.
Mireya turned to Stellan. "Etiquette."
Stellan blinked. "What."
"You'll blow it in the first ten seconds," Mireya said. "So listen."
Stellan's gaze went flat. "I don't bow."
Mireya lifted her hands, demonstrating. "You don't bow. You dip. Like you're bored."
Stellan stared.
Mireya stepped closer and nudged his shoulder down a fraction. "There. Less. You look like you're apologizing."
Stellan's jaw tightened. "I'm not."
"I know," Mireya said. "That's why you have to fake it."
Stellan exhaled slowly. "This is stupid."
Mireya smiled without warmth. "Yes."
Tess watched Stellan's posture like she was directing a scene. "Chin down. Not like that. You look like a funeral statue."
Stellan shot her a look. "I am at a funeral half the time."
Tess's grin sharpened. "Then you'll be great at noble parties."
Mireya pointed at Stellan's hands. "Your hands. Stop clenching."
Stellan glanced down like he hadn't noticed.
His fingers were tight around nothing.
Mireya said, quieter, "Loose hands. Nobles don't look ready to fight."
Stellan lifted his hands, forced them open.
The motion was controlled. Practiced.
Too controlled.
Mireya didn't like the way it made him look.
Stellan looked at her. "What now."
"Smile," Mireya said.
Stellan stared. "No."
Mireya's eyes narrowed. "It's a mask. Use it."
Stellan's mouth pulled, barely. Not a smile. A threat.
Mireya sighed. "Not that. That's how you look right before you break someone's arm."
Stellan's eyes flicked. "How do you know that."
Mireya didn't answer.
Tess cut in, cheerful. "Smile with your eyes."
Stellan looked like he wanted to walk into the river.
Mireya stepped to the mirror and angled it so he had to face himself.
"Watch," she said.
Stellan stood in front of the cracked glass. Dark coat. Silver clasp. Mask hanging loose in one hand.
He looked like someone from a story. The kind nobles told themselves to feel brave.
Mireya hated stories.
"Dip," she said.
Stellan dipped his head. Small. Controlled.
"Now look bored," Mireya added.
Stellan's gaze went blank.
Not bored.
Blank.
Like he'd learned, at some point, that giving nothing away was safer than giving the wrong thing.
Mireya's throat tightened.
She didn't know why it hit so hard until it did.
Because that blankness wasn't court.
It wasn't performance.
It was a man who'd already been taught what it cost to show weakness.
Mireya stared at his reflection.
Hands steady. Expression empty. Eyes too calm.
He looked like someone who'd already lost something and never bothered to name it.
And for the first time, the ache that rose in her chest wasn't pain she'd borrowed.
It was hers.