The Emerald Spire bled gold and green through the heavy velvet curtains, its marble bones humming with laughter, with clinking glasses, with the low, predatory murmur of nobles gathering to feast. Somewhere out there, beyond the chaos of backstage, the Verlones, the Imperial envoys, all those who attended the party, waited.

  Liz Deme stood barefoot on cold stone, a black slip of silk barely clinging to her sweat-slicked skin, breathing too fast, heart hammering against the delicate cage of her ribs.

  Her hands trembled as Alex tried to fix her eyeliner, but it was a losing battle; the Stardust was still burning through her veins, crackling under her skin like fire in a storm. Her mouth tasted like metal and regret. Her body, so often her weapon, was betraying her yet again. Too sensitive, too cold, too bare even in the heavy heat of the backstage lights.

  Eyes followed her — she knew they did. Jealous stares. Hungry stares. Pitying stares.

  The gauzy black of her long dress clung damply to her hips and thighs, outlining every curve like a lover’s hands, sensual and haunting. Her body was breathtaking tonight — glistening in the wrong ways, flushed, dangerous. A siren dressed for slaughter.

  And yet inside, Liz was crumbling.

  They're watching. They're always watching. They can see it. See the cracks. See the number.

  She could feel the ghost of the "14" burning into her skin again, phantom heat, as if someone had whispered it against her thigh. Another performer brushed past her — too close — and she staggered a half-step back. Alex caught her elbow instantly, grounding her.

  "Liz," Alex whispered, soft as spun glass, "listen to me."

  Her hands moved carefully — smoothing Liz's hair, straightening the hem of her dress — not to fix, but to comfort.

  "You're okay. Just breathe with me, alright?"

  Her voice was low and warm, a tether against the rising tide of panic.

  "Feel your feet. Feel the floor. You’re right here. You’re safe."

  Liz wanted to believe it. Gods, she wanted to.

  But the craving gnawed at her belly. Her bones screamed for more Stardust. Her mouth cried for another drink. Anything to still the shuddering terror blooming in her chest.

  Just a little, she thought, her fingers twitching toward the hidden pocket where another vial nestled, cool and comforting against her thigh. Just a little more. And maybe I'll be brave enough to sing.

  She was cold. So cold, despite the heat rolling off the lights and bodies around her.

  Sweat slid in slow, betraying rivulets down the curve of her back, her inner thighs, across the slope of her collarbones.

  But somewhere... somewhere, under the white-noise panic, the crackling hunger, the suffocating nausea, it bled through.

  The song.

  Faint, rising like smoke from the back of her mind.

  A soft melody. A thread of silver in the dark.

  She could almost hear it — the way her voice would wrap around the notes, tender and trembling at first, then soaring.

  A song not of perfection — no, never perfection — but of survival.

  Her eyes closed for just a breath.

  The world tilted around her: the backstage chaos, Alex's hand still firm on her arm, the endless need gnawing at her ribs.

  And she found it.

  A single, broken spark inside the wreckage of herself.

  Her melody.

  The thing they could never quite take away.

  Her lashes lifted slowly, crimson eyes fever-bright, heavy with eyeliner and exhaustion.

  Her bare shoulders rose and fell with a single deep, shaky breath.

  "I’m ready," Liz said, her velvety voice rasped by the cold.

  Alex squeezed her hand once — fiercely, gently — and gave her a tiny smile.

  The curtains were parting.

  The lions were gathering.

  The Broken Star would rise once more.

  And this time, even twilight would have to listen.

  Stylists, handlers, servants — all of them bearing the insignia of House Verlone — moved over her like scavengers. Pinning her hair with sharp, cold fingers. Blotting the sweat from her chest and thighs with rough, perfumed cloths. Adjusting her dress higher, then lower, pulling the neckline taut to reveal more, always more. Whispering over her body like she wasn’t there.

  "More leg. More skin. Make her shimmer."

  They didn’t speak to Liz.

  They didn’t even look at her face.

  Only at her body — assessing, calculating, claiming.

  She wasn’t a singer to them.

  She wasn’t even human.

  She was an offering.

  Her skin felt too tight.

  The silk clung to the damp, trembling lines of her thighs, the hollow of her back, the delicate curve of her hipbones.

  She was beautiful.

  Unbearably beautiful.

  And she was breaking.

  The Stardust hummed savagely in her blood, sharpening every touch into a needle, every whisper into a blade.

  The champagne sat in her stomach like lead.

  Her body screamed for more — more oblivion, more numbness — anything to escape the hunger clawing at her from every angle.

  Her hand twitched toward the hidden vial tucked into her dress.

  Just a little more.

  Just enough to endure.

  But Alex caught her — Alex, who never let go, who stayed even when Liz pushed everyone else away.

  "Breathe with me," Alex whispered, leaning close, shielding her as best she could.

  "Feel the floor. Feel your voice. That's all that matters now."

  Liz tried.

  Gods, she tried.

  But the weight of eyes on her —

  the suffocating perfume —

  the acid-slick sound of laughter —

  —it was almost too much.

  She hadn't even seen their faces, not fully.

  She didn’t need to.

  Their hunger slithered through the marble walls, through the velvet curtains, through the sweating bodies around her.

  The cold certainty of it made her stomach twist, her throat tighten.

  Liz flinched under the hands, sucking in a sharp, panicked breath.

  Her vision swam.

  Her body pulsed with Stardust and fear.

  But —

  Somewhere beneath it all —

  beneath the noise, the filth, the fear —

  There it was.

  The melody.

  Fragile, defiant, rising from the wreckage.

  Her song.

  Not for them.

  Not for survival.

  Not even for dignity.

  It was the only part of her they couldn’t touch.

  Her voice.

  Her truth.

  Her broken, beautiful rebellion.

  She closed her eyes for half a breath.

  The world howled.

  And so did she inside her mind.

  The cool, silver thread of her music weaving through her ribs, her throat, her skin.

  Her lashes lifted, crimson eyes fever-bright, and she let out a single, shuddering breath.

  "I’m ready," Liz rasped.

  Alex gave her hand one last squeeze — silent, desperate, real.

  The handlers peeled away like shadows.

  The stage manager waved.

  The curtains were parting.

  The lions were gathering.

  And Eliza Deme — trembling, radiant, already bleeding inside — stepped barefoot into the light.

  The curtains sighed open.

  And Liz Deme stepped into the light.

  The world beyond the stage — the gold-draped balconies, the pale marble stairs, the impossibly beautiful faces arranged like a garden of predators — all blurred into nothingness.

  She didn’t see them.

  She didn’t need to.

  The stage lights crashed against her, blinding and hot — but inside, she was freezing.

  Her skin was slick with cold sweat beneath the silk, her hands trembling faintly at her sides.

  The Stardust still buzzed like angry wasps in her blood.

  The champagne twisted in her gut.

  Her muscles ached from tension she couldn't release.

  Her body cried for more — for escape, for death, for anything but this —

  but her soul...

  Her soul opened its mouth.

  And sang.

  The first note escaped her lips like a prayer made of blood and velvet.

  Low, broken, trembling — but pure.

  A sound so human it hurt.

  The silence in the great hall deepened — sharp and painful now — as her voice slithered through the air, slow and inexorable.

  The Lords and Ladies of the Side Branch leaned forward in their seats, their augmented eyes flashing with appreciation and possessive hunger.

  They had known of her.

  They had waited for her.

  They had whispered her name between silk sheets and over glasses of stolen champagne.

  The natural one.

  The unmodified masterpiece.

  And now, seeing her — hearing her — they were satisfied.

  More than satisfied.

  They drank in the trembling lines of her long legs beneath the clinging silk, the glint of silver at her throat, the way her crimson eyes caught the light like dying suns.

  They saw not a woman, but a thing of beauty to be owned, caged, displayed.

  But the Main Branch, the pure-blooded pillars of House Verlone, were silent for a different reason.

  They had not expected this.

  Not this rawness.

  Not this wounded elegance.

  Not this voice that stripped away the polished marble of their world and showed them something real.

  Their expressions — cold masks of serenity — cracked ever so slightly, with the tightening of jaws here and there, subtle shifts in posture and narrowing eyes.

  They had summoned a performer.

  Liz didn’t know.

  Couldn’t know.

  She didn’t see them — not truly.

  The lights were too bright.

  The sweat slid down her spine.

  Her stomach twisted and lurched.

  Her hands trembled with the need for Stardust, for a drink, for a knife, for anything but standing here bare.

  And yet—

  She sang.

  She sang from the place beyond survival, beyond dignity, beyond hope.

  Every word she wove into the air was a shard of herself, a sliver of her soul thrust forward in defiance.

  Her mind scattered, folding itself around the melody.

  "Breathe, Liz," she thought.

  "Hold it. Just a little longer."

  The music grew inside her — fragile, furious — and with it came the heat.

  The small, sputtering spark inside her chest flared brighter.

  Brighter.

  Burning against the numbness, against the hunger.

  "They can't touch this," she told herself, as the silk of her dress clung damply to her ribs, her thighs, her hollow hips.

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  "They can have my body. They can steal my name. They can sell my voice."

  "But they can't take the fire."

  Her voice rose, shaking and pure.

  She sang of love found and lost under dying stars.

  She sang of wounds carved into young skin, of names taken and forgotten, of long nights too cold to survive.

  She sang of hunger — not for food, not even for survival — but for something softer, kinder, truer.

  Something she had never touched.

  Each note ripped itself from her throat like silk tearing on broken glass.

  And the spark grew.

  And grew.

  In her mind, she was naked again —

  not on a stage,

  not before an audience —

  but lying on the black simili-leather couch in the half-light of her empty apartment.

  Long legs crossed tantalizingly,

  curves hidden by shadows,

  raven hair spilling over her shoulders like night poured from a broken jar.

  The memory of her nakedness pressed close to her now —

  not shameful,

  not obscene,

  but true.

  Real.

  Her.

  And in that memory, in that truth, she found her voice.

  She gave it everything.

  Her fear.

  Her hunger.

  Her beauty.

  Her ruin.

  All of it.

  She fed it to the fire inside her — and let it burn.

  The final note broke like a sigh against the vaulted marble of the Emerald Spire.

  Soft.

  Tender.

  Irrevocable.

  And when silence fell — a silence so deep it seemed sacrilegious to break it — Liz Deme stood alone at the center of the world, shaking, shining, burning herself alive from the inside out.

  The crowd still did not breathe.

  The Side Branch lords and ladies smiled — sharp and wicked — already plotting how best to own her.

  The Main Branch nobles sat frozen — watching her not with ownership, but with something rarer, something infinitely more dangerous.

  Wonder.

  Liz did not see it.

  She stood there, panting, her body cold, her skin slick, her heartbeat a broken drum in her ears.

  She did not bow.

  She did not curtsy.

  She did not perform.

  She simply existed — a wound made into music — alone under the merciless light.

  And for one perfect, terrible moment,

  she belonged to no one.

  Not even herself.

  The curtains closed behind her.

  And the world rushed back in.

  Noise, movement, voices — too loud, too close.

  But Liz barely heard them.

  She drifted forward, barefoot and trembling, riding the aftershock of her voice like a girl floating down a river she could no longer see.

  Her heart still thrummed with the last echoes of the song —

  the way the music had filled her chest, her throat, her mouth —

  the way the notes had cracked open something deep inside her and let the light bleed through.

  She was still cold.

  Still sweating.

  Still trembling.

  But she didn’t feel broken anymore.

  Not yet.

  The sweat on her back, on her thighs, clung like a second skin beneath the silken dress.

  The Stardust still coiled tight in her veins.

  Her mouth still tasted faintly of copper.

  And yet—

  For the first time in a long, long while, she felt almost human.

  "I did it," she thought vaguely, her mind sliding lazily over the idea like a hand skimming across water.

  "I stood. I sang. I burned. I'm still here."

  The realization glowed in her, soft and golden.

  She smiled.

  A real smile — small, exhausted, shining like a crack in old stone.

  The performers' wing blurred around her — a haze of bright lights, frantic stagehands, nervous dancers adjusting their costumes.

  Someone tried to approach her — a man with a clipboard and too-bright teeth — but before he could reach her, a wall of warmth caught her.

  Alex.

  Liz collapsed into Alex’s arms without a word.

  Her knees simply folded —

  a marionette with cut strings —

  her body surrendering now that the fire was burning itself out.

  Alex caught her with a small, pained noise — not anger, not surprise, but sorrow.

  The sorrow of someone who had seen this fall too many times to scream anymore.

  "I've got you," Alex whispered fiercely, threading Liz’s limp arm over her shoulder.

  "It's okay. I've got you."

  Liz tried to laugh — tried to tell her she was fine —

  but the sound died in her throat, lost behind the tremor that rattled through her chest.

  Alex half-carried, half-dragged her through the chaos, ignoring the stares, the murmurs, the waiting sycophants.

  Past the makeup mirrors.

  Past the rustling silks and the sharp scent of powder and fear.

  Into a side room — a small, private chamber meant for costume changes or emergency repairs — dark, quiet, mercifully empty.

  Alex kicked the door shut behind them.

  The noise of the world cut off like a blade.

  Liz sagged into the cool leather couch with a sigh, her dress pooling around her like a puddle of black water.

  Her chest heaved.

  Her skin shivered violently.

  But her mind... her mind still floated.

  "I'm fine," she thought again, fuzzily.

  "I'm good. I sang. They listened. I was fire. I was..."

  She touched her own ribs with trembling fingers, as if expecting to find the molten heart of the song still burning there.

  Instead, she found only sweat and bone.

  The high was already fading, like smoke slipping through her hands.

  But for a moment — a few precious, aching breaths — she clung to it.

  "I'm still burning," she thought desperately.

  "Don't go. Please don't go."

  Alex knelt in front of her, brushing wet strands of hair back from Liz’s flushed forehead.

  Her face was tight with fear — but she didn’t speak.

  She didn’t scold.

  She didn’t plead.

  She just stayed there, solid and real, her hands gentle as they cradled Liz’s face.

  Liz closed her eyes, leaning into the touch like a child pressing against a mother's hand.

  For once, she didn’t flinch.

  For once, she let herself be held.

  "You were brilliant," Alex whispered, voice shaking.

  Liz smiled again — crooked, delirious, heartbreakingly young.

  "Brilliant," she echoed inside her mind, chasing the word like a firefly through the dark.

  "I was brilliant."

  The cold seeped deeper into her bones.

  Her sweat chilled into icy rivulets sliding down the curve of her spine.

  Her teeth began to chatter softly.

  But she still smiled.

  Because for that moment —

  that sliver of timeless, fragile victory —

  she had burned.

  And even if the fire went out, even if her body collapsed, even if the world closed its jaws around her tomorrow—

  Tonight, for one perfect instant—

  Eliza Deme had been alive.

  The room was quiet.

  The world outside — the whispering nobles, the scheming lords, the endless hunger of House Verlone — might as well have been another galaxy.

  Here, there was only the hush of breathing, the faint thrum of blood, and the weight of exhaustion folding Liz into itself.

  She sagged against the leather couch, the silk of her dress pooling around her thighs, sliding cool and soft over damp skin.

  The heat of her body — the feverish fire that had carried her through the stage — was burning lower now, flickering at the edges.

  She shivered once, a delicate, full-body tremor.

  It made the silver chains at her ears whisper together, made the black silk shift against her ribs and hips like water touched by wind.

  Her long legs stretched out along the couch, crossed at the ankles in an almost unconscious grace.

  The sharp lines of her collarbone rose and fell with each shallow breath, gilded faintly by the dim light.

  Strands of her raven-black hair clung to her bare shoulders, her neck, the hollow at the base of her throat — damp with sweat, curling with exhaustion.

  Her crimson eyes fluttered open once — glassy, unfocused — catching the light for a brief, burning instant.

  Then slowly, like a curtain falling over a dying star, her lashes drifted closed again.

  Inside her mind, the high was finally slipping away.

  The song — her song — echoed faintly in her blood, soft and fractured like glass sinking beneath water.

  "I sang," she thought dimly.

  "I was real.”

  The cold was creeping up her spine now, a numbing tide pulling her down.

  Her hands twitched once in her lap — the muscle memory of reaching for a bottle, a vial, a weapon — but there was nothing left to take.

  Nothing left to fight with.

  Just the silence.

  Just the fall.

  "Maybe I'm still burning," Liz thought, drunk on fatigue.

  "Maybe... maybe they can't put me out."

  The thought warmed her — a final, stubborn ember inside the frozen wreckage of her body.

  She smiled faintly — a broken, beautiful thing — her mouth parting slightly, her body melting deeper into the couch.

  The silk dress slipped higher along the soft swell of her thighs, baring more pale skin, the curve of her hipbone, the faint, thin black lines of the "14" tattoo etched into her flesh — a brand, a memory, a wound she carried like jewelry.

  Even in exhaustion, even hollowed out, she was beautiful —

  ruinous,

  aching,

  impossible.

  A painting of survival and surrender, rendered in sweat and silk and scars.

  Alex watched her from where she knelt at her side, hands hovering — afraid to touch, afraid to let go.

  But as Liz’s breathing deepened, slowed, softened into something approaching sleep, Alex finally — finally — let herself breathe too.

  Tears burned behind her eyes, but she blinked them away.

  Not now.

  Now was peace.

  For the first time in what felt like centuries, Liz was sleeping.

  Not drugged into oblivion.

  Not passed out in a stupor.

  Sleeping.

  Letting the world go.

  Letting the endless hunger and ache and terror drain out of her for just a little while.

  Liz slipped deeper, the darkness folding over her gently.

  "Just a little while," she thought, barely conscious.

  "I'll just rest... just for a moment..."

  The final edges of thought unraveled into nothingness. And Eliza Deme, broken and burning, a miracle born in rot finally surrendered to the night. Alex Essan sat beside the battered leather couch, watching Liz sleep. The room was dark now — a hush of cold air and faint streetlight seeping in through the high windows. The city beyond the Emerald Spire breathed in neon sighs and broken promises. Inside, only the faint rise and fall of Liz's ribs broke the silence. Alex leaned her head back against the wall, her muscles aching, her heart heavy.

  Gods, she was worried. She was always worried. Liz’s body was a wreck — too thin, too fragile, tremoring even in sleep. Even now, her hands curled faintly, as if reaching for something that wasn’t there. Sweat dampened her temples, her chest, the insides of her elbows. The silk of her dress clung in dark, twisted rivers across her thighs, her hips, her ribs. She looked devastating —

  ravaged, brilliant, barely breathing. Like some ancient holy relic left out in the rain. Alex swallowed against the tightness in her throat.

  "She’s too good for this place," she thought fiercely.

  "Too good for this world."

  The decaying, glittering prison of Pelegeion didn’t deserve Liz Deme.

  It was eating her alive, one slow bite at a time, smiling all the while. And Liz was letting it — because somewhere deep down, Liz didn’t believe she was worth saving. Alex clenched her hands in her lap, nails digging into her palms.

  Tonight was beautiful, she reminded herself. Tonight was victory.

  Liz had stood up. Lighting the dying embers of her. And she had burned. Hope flickered weakly in Alex’s chest. But it was a frail thing. Too many nights like this had ended in blood, vomit, sobbing, Stardust-fogged oblivion. Hope always died quickly in places like this.

  Liz shifted in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

  Her legs stretched along the couch, baring the pale skin of her thighs where the dress had ridden up.

  The faint outline of the "14" tattoo near her hip glinted darkly against the ghost-light.

  Alex’s chest twisted painfully.

  "You deserved more than this," she thought. "You deserved everything."

  Moving carefully, Alex rose. She crossed the room, shutting off the last standing light, letting darkness wrap around Liz like a protective cocoon. She hesitated by the door for a moment, glancing back.

  Liz looked impossibly small on the vast couch, her hair a dark halo, her breath feathering softly against the cold air.

  "Rest, starling," Alex thought. "Rest while you can."

  She turned the lock with a soft, final click. Securing Liz inside. Securing her peace, even if only for an hour. Then Alex slipped down the hall, heading for the bathrooms tucked behind the performers' wing.

  The corridor was almost empty — just a few exhausted dancers, a harried assistant dragging a trunk of costumes. Alex ducked into the nearest bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. She stared into the mirror, breathing hard. Her reflection looked pale, tense — too old for her years.

  "Hold it together. She needs you whole." she told herself.

  She dried her hands, smoothing her hair back.

  When she stepped out into the corridor again, the Spire’s muted opulence pressed back in — the heavy scent of sandalwood and sterilized beauty hanging like a fog.

  And that was when she saw them.

  Two men in dark green cloaks, simple, elegant, and unmistakable. Verlone cloaks.

  They moved quickly but without rush. Purposefully. Quietly. And they slipped into one of the other performers' rooms without a knock, without hesitation. Alaric Venn’s room. Alex froze, her hand tightening around the strap of her satchel. Alaric was another performer. A great singer and when Liz and her had worked with before. A chill prickled down her spine. Everything was screaming at her to run away.

  Alex lingered a moment longer, hidden in the shadows of the hall, heart pounding. The door to Alaric’s room clicked softly shut behind the cloaked men. No raised voices. No alarm. Just... silence. The kind of silence that made the hair on the back of Alex’s neck stand up.

  "Stay calm," she told herself. "Don’t make trouble. Liz needs you."

  But as she turned to head back to Liz’s locked door, her steps quickening, her gut twisted with dread.

  Because trouble had already arrived. And it never came for just one.

  Alex quickened her pace, heart slamming against her ribs. She didn’t run — not yet — but every instinct in her body screamed to move, move, move.

  The two cloaked figures had vanished into Alaric Venn’s quarters like wraiths, the door clicking softly shut behind them. No ceremony. No pretense. Predators entering a den. She did not want to know what came next. She just wanted to reach Liz.

  The hallway stretched in front of her, dimly lit, gilded, silent. Each step sounded too loud to her own ears. Her palms were slick with sweat. She told herself to breathe. To focus.

  "Just a little further. Just a little further and I'm back to her door—"

  She had barely passed the first alcove in the wall — a shallow recess meant for decorative urns, a flourish of Verlone artistry. And the world shattered.

  Without warning, without a sound, something slammed her back against the cold marble wall. The breath punched from her lungs in a silent wheeze. Her spine jolted hard enough to make her vision swim.

  A hand covered in a thick, black, leathery glove clamped over her mouth, crushing her scream before it could form. A second hand, swiftly, mercilessly pressed something cold and curved against the side of her throat. A killing blade.

  Alex’s vision narrowed, black spots dancing at the edges. She tried to struggle — reflex, panic — but whoever held her didn’t even flinch. They were a wall — immovable, absolute. The figure leaned close. And beneath the heavy Verlone cloak, under the hood, the face revealed itself. Not a human face.

  Not even a distorted noble’s perfect mask. But a monster.

  The mask was carved from matte black metal, sharp and inhuman, the nightmare fusion between an alien insect and an ancient predator. Jaws too wide. Eyes too many. A twisted, silent scream frozen into an eternal leer.

  Alex stared into the void of its gaze and understood, with a clarity that stole her breath. This was not a Verlone affiliate. This was not House intrigue. Not power games. Not politics. This was violence distilled to its purest form. The mask was grotesque, ancient, merciless. Vulgar in a way no Verlone would ever allow. Too primal. Too monstrous. It didn't belong in the Spire. It didn’t belong anywhere among mortals.

  Her heart thudded painfully against the blade resting on her throat. She could feel the cold bite of steel, sharp enough to slice open her lifeline with a twitch. The figure said nothing. It didn’t need to. It radiated control — perfect, silent dominance. It could kill her here, now, and no one would hear. No one would find her before the blood cooled. The masked man leaned closer, the blade tightening slightly against her skin, not enough to cut, but enough to promise. And then, he spoke. A voice slithered out from behind the ceramic horror, distorted and grating, as if passing through layers of rust and static.

  "Do. Not. Move."

  Three words. Flat. Commanding. And unquestionable. Alex froze. The blade pressed tighter to the delicate hollow of her throat, not cutting, but promising. The gloved hand over her mouth held firmer, smothering even the smallest gasp. She could barely breathe. Could barely think.

  Terror was a cold flood in her veins — but something deeper anchored her. Not bravery. Not pride. Liz. Protect her. Stay alive. Don't provoke it. Alex's heart thundered against the steel edge at her neck, but she didn’t dare twitch a muscle.

  The silence stretched, thick and unbearable, as the man held her pinned against the marble, unseen by the courtiers and performers just meters away.

  And Alex knew, with grim certainty: if she moved, if she cried out, if she even tried to plead; he would die here. Silently. Like a note cut short in a song no one would remember.

  She closed her eyes. Focused on breathing through her nose, slow and shallow.

  Prayed to gods she didn’t believe in, for her sake. For Liz’s sake. Stay still. Stay still. Stay still.

  She waited for the blade to either bite. Or release.

  And pinned against the cold marble, Alex forced herself not to move, not to breathe too deeply. The blade at her throat was a frozen promise. The hand over her mouth was iron.

  "Just hold on," she thought desperately. "Just hold on, don’t give them an excuse—"

  And then, in the corner of her eye, she saw it. The other cloak appeared.

  She had not heard it approach. Had not even seen a flicker of motion. One moment there was only the one pinning her. The next, as if the very shadows of the hall had condensed into flesh, the other cloaked figure stood there. Silent. Massive. Motionless.

  They wore the same dark cloak — the same false Verlone garb — but that was where the similarity ended. Because this one's mask was not monstrous. It was far, far worse.

  Smooth. Faceless. A black ceramic shell, void of any color or details and utterly featureless except for two narrow eye-slits. Carved with cruel precision, it stared down at her, with eyes hidden behind the blank face. No jaw. No mouth. No fangs or snarls to cling to. Only a void.

  Alex’s heart hammered painfully against her ribs. This was different. The first one — the monstrous mask — at least made sense. It was fear she could name. Fear with teeth. But this was like facing a shadow of silence and death. Something that had forgotten what a face even was.

  The faceless figure tilted his head slightly, studying her. Not with anger. Not with pleasure. With nothing. An animal might growl before it struck. A torturer might smile before they hurt you. But this thing —

  this blank mask — it simply was. And Alex understood, with a sick, drowning certainty:

  If this one chose to end her, it would be like stepping on a crack in the floor.

  No malice. No hesitation. Just the clean, effortless logic of erasure.

  Her knees trembled. The leather glove over her mouth remained firm. The blade never wavered from her throat. She tried to hold herself still, tried not to whimper, not to flinch, not to draw the blank gaze any closer. Tried to become invisible. Tried to survive.

  And the two figures stood before her, silent as grave markers, deciding something she would never be allowed to understand.

  Then — without movement she could see — the faceless figure spoke. A voice. Soft. Almost a whisper.

  But it carried through the marble and velvet and air like a blade cutting silk.

  "There is no need to kill her," the faceless one said.

  Even. Cold. Final. Not an argument. A decree.

  The figure pinning Alex — the one with the monster-mask — did not speak. Did not grunt. Did not hesitate. In a single smooth movement, so fast it barely registered, the cold blade lifted from her throat.

  And with mechanical precision, he sheathed it beneath the folds of his dark cloak.

  The gloved hand still lingered for a heartbeat — pressing against her mouth, heavy and warning —

  then slid away.

  Alex gasped in a sharp, shallow breath. The marble wall behind her seemed to hold her upright as her knees wobbled dangerously. She kept her eyes low — away from the blank stare — her body trembling so hard she could barely control it.

  The two figures remained standing before her. Silent. Motionless. Sovereign. And Alex realized — sickly, breathlessly, that their silence was not mercy. It was simply disinterest. She was not a threat. She was not important. She was nothing. And the only reason she still breathed was because the faceless one had spoken her life into temporary extension.

  No gratitude. No safety. Only the knowledge that death had paused, not vanished.