Stellan hated masks.
Not because they hid faces.
Because they let people pretend the rot was costume.
He stood in the portrait gallery with a glass of wine he wasn't drinking and forced his shoulders to look bored. Mireya was beside him, posture perfect, cracked mask angled like she didn't care who watched.
Stellan cared.
He just couldn't show it.
Mireya's Silence sat close to her skin—enough to dull the ballroom roar, enough to make his head feel less crowded. He could still hear what mattered. Her breath. Her step. The small changes when she was lying through her teeth.
Which was often.
Stellan didn't comment.
He lifted his Pulse-sight instead.
The world tilted.
Not into colors. Into rhythms.
Every person in the gallery became a beat. Warm pulses under silk. Fast pulses under drink. Slow pulses under practiced calm. The room was full of living metronomes pretending to be art.
Jewels glowed with stored magic—tiny steady lights pinned to throats and wrists. Charms throbbed faintly under collars, warded against curses or infidelity or whatever the rich feared that week.
Even the portraits had echoes. Old enchantments baked into the frames.
Stellan's Pulse-sight filtered through it all with a hunter's patience.
Then Mireya leaned closer, barely moving her lips. "Find him."
Stellan didn't turn his head. "I'm trying."
Mireya's tone stayed smooth. "Try harder."
Stellan almost smiled. Almost.
He scanned the gallery edges where important men liked to stand and watch. He checked the doorways where servants lingered. He checked the shadows where guards hid behind decor.
Warm beats.
Warm beats.
Warm beats.
Then—
A cold smear.
Not a pulse. Not a beat.
An aura that didn't belong in a living body.
Stellan's spine went rigid.
Mireya felt it immediately through the bond—his attention snapping tight, his breath going shallow. She didn't look at him. She just asked, softly, "What."
Stellan's eyes stayed forward. "Orrin Vale."
Mireya's mouth didn't move, but her voice still cut. "Where."
Stellan shifted his gaze just enough to track.
At the far end of the gallery stood a man in a pale mask shaped like a serene wolf. His clothes were perfect. His hair was perfect. Even the way he held his glass was perfect.
Lord Orrin Vale looked like he'd been painted by someone who'd never known hunger.
Stellan's Pulse-sight didn't care.
Orrin's aura didn't beat.
It slicked.
Oily-cold, sliding under the warm rhythms of the room like ink in water. It clung to him in layers—glamour on glamour, charm on charm. Too much magic. Too controlled.
And underneath the control…
a stutter.
Beat—beat—pause—beatbeat—
Wrong rhythm.
Stellan's jaw clenched.
Mireya's voice stayed calm. "That's him."
Stellan didn't answer. He forced his face neutral. Forced his shoulders loose. Forced his hands to stay open around the useless glass.
Because if Orrin was reading rooms the way Stellan read beats, any reaction was blood in the water.
Mireya moved first.
She drifted toward Orrin like a bored noble looking for conversation. No haste. No obvious intent. Just silk and confidence.
Stellan followed half a step behind, playing what Tess had called his role: the man who looked like he hated everyone and was too rich to care.
Mireya angled her body toward a painting and spoke to it like she was discussing art. "He's glamoured."
Stellan murmured, "He's wrong."
Mireya's lips curved faintly. "Most men are."
Stellan didn't rise to it. "This isn't ego. It's—"
"A graft," Mireya finished, softly. "Or a maker."
They reached Orrin's circle.
Two nobles flanked him—both masked, both laughing too easily. A woman in a gold bird mask leaned on Orrin's arm, fingers lingering like she owned the space.
Orrin's head turned toward Mireya as she approached.
His voice was warm. Polished. "Lady…?"
Mireya dipped her head the tiniest fraction—bored elegance. "Corinne Avel."
Orrin smiled. "New to my house."
"New to your party," Mireya corrected. "Not new to your reputation."
Orrin's laugh was soft. "And which reputation is that?"
Mireya's tone was airy. "That you collect rare things."
Orrin's eyes brightened behind the mask. "I appreciate good taste."
Stellan kept his face blank.
Inside, his Pulse-sight tightened.
Orrin's aura shifted with the conversation, sliding toward Mireya like oil drawn to heat. Not desire exactly.
Interest.
Possession.
Mireya smiled as if she didn't feel it. "I also appreciate taste."
Orrin lifted his glass. "Then we share a language."
Mireya's eyes flicked to Stellan for half a beat—permission, warning, alignment.
Stellan didn't nod. He didn't need to.
Mireya continued, voice smooth as silk. "I'm curious, Lord Vale. I heard you keep… unusual collections."
Orrin's smile widened. "Rumors travel."
"Rumors are useful," Mireya said. "They tell you who's listening."
Orrin's laugh softened into something sharper. "And what do they say I'm collecting, Lady Corinne?"
Mireya tilted her head as if thinking. "Masks."
Orrin's gaze held hers. "And what else."
Mireya's smile didn't change. "People."
The nobles beside Orrin chuckled like it was a joke. Orrin didn't.
His aura slicked colder.
Stellan's Pulse-sight flared—warning in the back of his skull. Orrin's rhythm hit that stutter again, sharper now, like something inside him wanted to bite.
Stellan fought to keep his face neutral.
Mireya kept going, fearless because fear was loud. "I'm told you have a taste for… experiments."
Orrin's voice stayed warm. "Such an ugly word."
"Accurate," Mireya replied.
Orrin leaned in slightly. "Careful. Accuracy gets people hurt."
Stellan felt Mireya's heartbeat jump—just once.
He tasted her fear on the back of his tongue like metal.
She masked it instantly. "Oh, I'm very careful."
Orrin's eyes slid to Stellan for the first time. "And your companion?"
Stellan forced his mouth into a faint, bored curve. "I don't talk much."
Orrin studied him. "That's a shame."
Stellan's Pulse-sight tightened, reading.
Orrin's aura brushed Stellan like a hand—testing. Measuring.
Stellan held still.
Then something else happened.
A second aura touched Orrin.
Not warm like a human beat.
Not oily-cold like Orrin's glamour.
Royal.
Stellan didn't know how else to describe it. It had the weight of command—sun-bright and sharp, pressed into the air like a seal into wax.
It brushed Orrin's shoulder.
Lightly.
Like a patron's hand.
Orrin's posture changed a fraction—subtle, practiced. Obedience wrapped in elegance.
Stellan's stomach tightened.
Because there was no one there.
No man. No woman.
No visible body.
Just the royal aura—present for a heartbeat—
Then gone.
Vanished into nothing.
Stellan's grip on his glass tightened before he could stop it.
Mireya felt it through the bond, sharp as a tug. She didn't look at him, but her voice turned colder.
"Lord Vale," she said sweetly, "do you enjoy being owned?"
Orrin's smile didn't move, but his aura slicked darker.
"Careful," he murmured again. "Your mask is slipping."
Stellan stared at the spot where the royal aura had been.
His Pulse-sight searched. Reached. Found nothing.
Like the patron had never existed.
Like the touch had been a ghost.