The Palace of Masks

Three weeks later, Elara stepped through the gates of Palace Veltharim and understood, finally, what it meant to drown in gold.

The palace rose above Luminaera like a crown of thorns rendered in marble and crystal. Seven spires pierced the sky, each capped with a sphere of pure light-crystal that blazed even at noon. The central keep—the Throne Spire—was said to contain a single staircase of glass that spiraled upward for three hundred feet, each step lit from within by captured starlight.

Elara had studied the palace's history until her eyes burned. She knew that the Veltharim dynasty had ruled for five centuries, that the current king had commissioned the Crystal Basilica in his wife's memory, that the east wing had been rebuilt after the Hollowing War. She knew which corridors were public and which were restricted, which servants were Syndicate plants and which were Order spies.

Knowing something and experiencing it were different things entirely.

"Lady Elara Vane," the herald announced, his voice carrying across the crowded reception hall. "Daughter of the late Baron Aldric Vane, Eastern Marches."

Two hundred heads turned to evaluate her.

Elara had spent her last three weeks in a state of controlled panic, learning to move like a woman who had never killed anyone. She'd been trained by a former courtesan with Syndicate ties—how to walk (shoulders back, hips swaying, unhurried), how to speak (lower your voice, round your vowels, never finish sentences too quickly), how to smile (not too wide, not too long, always reach the eyes).

She'd been dressed by Syndicate tailors in midnight blue silk that complemented her coloring and disguised her build. Her white-streaked hair was styled elaborately, the mark of her shadow magic hidden beneath powdered white ornaments that made it look like a fashion choice. Her face was painted with subtle cosmetics—rose at the cheeks, pearl at the brow, a darker stain on lips that rarely smiled.