THE FESTIVAL

Velaris during the Festival of Lights was a lie made beautiful.

Lyra moved through streets transformed by lantern-glow, each intersection a pool of gold, each corner a shadow of rose. The city wore its festival face like a mask — shop fronts scrubbed clean, windows decorated with paper stars, the usual stench of the lower districts hidden beneath mountains of incense and flower garlands. For one night, Velaris pretended it was whole. For one night, the Ashes didn't exist.

She knew better. She always knew better.

Her performer disguise got her through the middle district without challenge. She'd spent three weeks learning the routines of traveling entertainers — how they walked, how they carried their props, the particular blend of confidence and weariness that came from making your living on strangers' approval. She'd even learned three songs on a borrowed lute, though she prayed she wouldn't have to perform them.

"Fortunes told! True Thread-reading! See your bonds!" A woman on a corner, hands waving over a crystal ball. Lyra walked past without looking. Thread-readers were mostly frauds, but the real ones made her skin crawl. Seeing connections that should be private, invisible, sacred.

"Sweet rolls! Hot sweet rolls!" A boy her age, maybe younger, with flour on his chin and desperation in his eyes. Lyra bought one, pressed an extra coin into his palm. He looked at it like it was salvation. Maybe it was.

The palace district rose ahead, its walls separating the golden world from the merely adequate one. Lyra had memorized every approach — the main gate with its guard of eight, the postern door used by servants, the drainage grate that hadn't been properly sealed in decades. She'd chosen the kitchen entrance tonight. Festival meant extra staff, extra chaos, extra strangers no one would remember.

She ditched her performer cloak in an alley, revealing the servant's uniform beneath. White blouse, gray skirt, simple cap. She'd aged the uniform carefully, stained the hem with kitchen grease, frayed one cuff. Perfection attracted attention. Slightly worn adequacy got you ignored.