Silk & Sabotage

Part 4: Day (+1)

"The Dance of Masks"

The morning after the wedding broke softer, quieter. The sun filtered through the blue clouds like it didn't dare disturb what had just been sealed.

Sonhane was still basking in the afterglow of a political marriage — street vendors gave away sweets wrapped in rice paper, children ran through fountains wearing paper crowns, and city walls bore fresh murals of a bride with fire in her eyes and a groom forged from storm.

The world had already turned it into legend.

But inside the palace, beneath silks and polite bows, no one felt safe.

Mia woke alone in the chamber. Lucas was already gone. No note. No kiss.

"Am I gone crazy to think even about a kiss" Mia asked herself.

Just gone.

He was like soldier who had completed his task and vanished into shadow.

She lay there, unmoving, watching the embroidered ceiling spin in lazy circles as the fan turned above her. For a long while, she let herself believe she was just a wife now. That she had done her duty. That maybe — if she could dig deep enough — she might even find something human left for Lucas Drax.

But all she felt was a quiet pull.

A whisper under her skin.

A shadow behind her breath.

The memory of lips she hadn't touched in months, but could still trace in her sleep.

She bathed without music and dressed in silk the color of dusk. Her hair was braided in the Loasian style, her earrings were gilded talons.

She walked the palace alone, barefoot for most of the morning. People bowed and offered congratulations. But none of it touched her.

By afternoon, whispers began to ripple through the halls.

A ball.

The Ball of Unification.

Full masks.

No identities.

No allegiances.

Just mystery.

Just movement.

Just… risk.

Irina's idea, of course.

On the surface, a gesture of goodwill. Diplomacy through anonymity. A night of art and elegance.

But Mia saw it for what it was: a masquerade for ghosts.

A room where truths would dance in borrowed faces.

---

That Night

The ballroom was transformed.

Floating lanterns replaced chandeliers, drifting through the air like spirits who went silent. Blue fire flickered inside each orb, casting halos on the marble. Mirrors were veiled. The scent of maple and ash roses laced with cardamom coiled in the air. The music was soft, inhuman — something that crawled through your bones before you noticed it.

Every guest wore a full mask. Some lacquered. Some carved. All strange.

Mia's was a pale ivory serpent curling over her right eye — expressionless, smooth, venomous.

She moved like a question no one dared ask.

Men bowed. Women curtseyed. But none of them mattered.

Until he appeared.

No entrance. No fanfare. Just — there.

Cloaked in deep wine velvet. A golden filigree mask that covered everything but the mouth — which held a faint, devastating smile. He didn't speak. He only offered his hand.

She took it before her mind had a chance to protest.

Their bodies moved to music before her thoughts caught up.

She knew this dance. Not just the steps — the way he guided her without force. The way his palm pressed gently at the base of her spine. The way he turned her with exact weight and no hesitation.

It was him.

It couldn't be him.

But she looked up and met those eyes through the mask — flecked green, sharp, slow-burning.

"You remind me of someone," she murmured.

His smile twitched. "Is that a good thing?"

"I haven't decided yet."

They moved in slow orbits, too close to be formal, too distant to be lovers. His hand lingered slightly too long. Her breath caught slightly too fast.

And tucked inside the palm of his glove, as he guided her through a spin, he slipped her something small — no larger than a petal.

Mia palmed it without flinching. Years of training behind her eyes.

She continued to dance, heartbeat deafening.

He said nothing. Just watched her like she was made of smoke and secrets.

He vanished before the music stopped.

---

Across the Room

Lucas stood at the edge of the crowd, his black-and-copper lion mask in one hand, untouched wine in the other.

He didn't need the mask to see through what was happening.

That rhythm. That touch. That deliberate possession passed off as elegance.

Lucas clenched the stem of his goblet until it shattered between his fingers, red wine blooming down his wrist like blood.

Mino Kael's sudden interest in Mia wasn't a tactical engagement. It was jealousy — playing dress-up as war.

But Lucas said nothing.

He simply left the ballroom before the next song could begin.

---

Back in Her Chambers

Mia sat before the mirror. The nightgown clung to her ribs like fog. Her mask rested beside the combs and oils.

She opened her palm.

A pressed flower.

White valerian — the flower of forgotten promises — wrapped in a sliver of linen inscribed with one phrase in ciphered Loasian code:

"You are being watched. Dahlia bleeds."

Her breath caught.

Valerian meant insomnia in court lore. In spycraft, it meant: don't sleep. You're in danger.

She burned the note over a candle without flinching.

But her hand trembled.

Not from fear.

From the part of her heart that still believed he knew her body well enough to warn it.

---

Behind the masks the coded message was passed with ease.