There is a particular joy in chaos that you yourself have orchestrated.
Watching masked nobles twirl beneath enchanted chandeliers, laughing into jeweled goblets while unaware they're dancing inside a trap—my trap—has a way of making you feel both like a god and a very well-dressed spider.
"Is this what decadence feels like?" Elian purred beside me, adorned in black lace, his mask shaped like a raven's beak, sharp and gleaming.
I sipped my wine, letting the illusion magic hum beneath my skin. "If it isn't, then I've been wasting a lot of silk."
The masquerade had begun.
We had transformed the Velvet Court into a cathedral of lust and politics—velvet draped from ceiling to floor, illusion enchantments masking our security measures, and incense swirling like spell-crafted pheromones. Candles hovered in the air, casting a flickering glow across bodies in every state of desire and disguise.
I made my rounds in crimson robes open down the front, letting skin and implication carry most of the conversation.
Elian moved like a dream, flirting with diplomats, clergy, and the occasional merchant's wife, whose mask slipped when he whispered Latin endearments into her ear. Jules was on the dance floor, hips moving to a beat only he could hear, a silver chain looping around his thigh like a leash. He kept making eye contact with a viscount's daughter and a visiting priestess, both of whom looked dangerously intrigued.
Good.
The more they played, the less they noticed Salem vanishing into the servant tunnels or Marius sliding documents from drunken pockets.
I caught Ash in the east hallway, still shirtless, a half-mask shaped like a snarling wolf strapped across his face. He leaned against the wall like sin sculpted into flesh.
"You're supposed to be luring targets," I reminded him.
"I did." He tilted his head. "She's tied to your bed."
That got my attention.
I pushed past him with a smirk and opened my door to find exactly what he'd promised: a woman in an emerald corset and matching mask, bound tastefully to my headboard with charmed silk that shimmered when she breathed.
Her curves poured from the fabric, freckles dancing along her exposed shoulders, and her red hair had been braided with ivy.
"I believe we haven't been formally introduced," I said, undoing my robe. "But I'm a fast learner."
She didn't speak, just arched her back and smirked. The invitation was clear.
I stepped onto the bed, crawling toward her on hands and knees. My pen floated behind me, trembling with power, hungry.
"I should interrogate you," I whispered, trailing a finger down her collarbone. "Find out if you're a spy. But unfortunately, I'm distracted by your taste in lingerie."
She shivered as my tongue found her thigh. The silk trembled with her. The glamour peeled off me like mist, leaving only skin and intent. She moaned softly, thighs parting.
I took my time. Pleasure, after all, was an act of rebellion.
Every gasp was a slap to the Church. Every twitch of her hips a declaration that desire would never be silenced. And when she came—twice—I kissed her throat and whispered, "Tell your husband you fainted from the incense. He'll believe you."
She laughed breathlessly, dazed, and I left her glowing in the sheets.
Ash was still waiting in the hall, eyes shadowed and unreadable.
"You're jealous," I said, adjusting my robe.
"Of her?"
I shrugged. "Of anyone who gets my attention."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he pushed me back against the doorframe, one arm braced beside my head. "You play dangerous games, Cecil."
I grinned, heat rushing low. "That's the only kind worth playing."
His lips brushed mine—almost. Almost. And then he pulled away, leaving me breathless and furious.
Damn him again.
Back in the ballroom, the air had grown thicker. Our clients were delightfully scandalized. A trio of noblewomen had cornered Elian and were feeding him sugared fruit from their gloved hands.
Jules was now dancing with both the viscount's daughter and the priestess, guiding their hands over his hips like a seasoned choreographer of lust.
Marius caught my eye from the upper balcony and gave a subtle nod.
Phase two.
I turned to the crowd and clinked my glass. A hush fell, the kind that precedes both a sermon and an orgy.
"Welcome," I said, letting the glamour in my voice draw their attention tight. "To the night where masks fall. Where judgment melts like wax. Where sins aren't punished—they're priced."
The crowd rippled with laughter and tension. I smiled.
"Enjoy yourselves. Because while you indulge…" I raised my glass, "so do we."
As they toasted, Salem, Roderick, and Marius slipped through a hidden panel behind the wine wall and vanished into the night.
Time was short.
The Cathedral's purge was scheduled for the Solstice Parade—two days away—and we needed the names of their executioners. Names gave us power. Power gave us safety. And safety gave me room to redecorate the upper floors, which had been looking tragically minimalist.
I was about to return to the main floor when I felt fingers slide around my waist.
I turned—and gasped.
Not because of surprise. But because her beauty was designed to destroy.
She was tall, dark-skinned, clad in shimmering gold. Her mask was shaped like a fox, and her lips were painted copper.
"You're the infamous Cecil," she said.
"I hope so," I replied, offering her my hand.
"I'm called Lysaria," she murmured. "High priestess. At least officially."
My brow lifted. "And unofficially?"
"A very bad girl."
She didn't wait. She pulled me into the nearest empty lounge, pushed me down, and straddled me with the grace of a queen claiming her throne.
Her hips rolled against mine, and I cursed the gods for crafting thighs that perfect. My hands slid up her back, marveling at the contrast between her golden silk and her warm skin.
"You don't even know what side I'm on," she whispered, grinding down hard.
I growled. "If this is betrayal, let it ruin me."
Her laughter was divine.
I kissed her like I meant to convert her. And when she came undone—lips on my throat, nails dragging down my chest—I marked her.
She didn't stop me.
The pen glowed. My whisper echoed in her ear, and she gasped, hips locking against mine as the mark seared into her skin like a second name.
When it was over, she, no now he, kissed me again, slow and deliberate. "I may come back tomorrow."
"I may already be writing poetry about you."
He laughed and vanished into the crowd, leaving me aching in every way.
The next morning was grim.
Salem returned just after dawn, bruised and bloodied. Marius followed, pale and shaken. Roderick had a limp and a new scar across his collar.
"Tell me good news," I said, pouring whiskey into my tea.
"They've doubled the inquisitors," Salem said. "And they've named you personally."
"Elated," I muttered. "Truly, my brand is thriving."
"But," Marius added, "we got what we needed. Names. Commanders. And the backup vault's location."
That made me pause.
"You're saying the Cathedral has a vault?"
"Yes," Salem said. "And it's where they're hiding the divine relics they confiscated during the heretic raids."
My fingers itched around my pen.
"Then we're stealing it," I said.
Roderick groaned louder than usual.
Elian wandered in wearing only one stocking. "Did someone say heist?"
"Yes," I said, already sketching plans on the back of a guest registry. "We'll infiltrate the vault during the Solstice parade—while everyone's distracted by scandal and fireworks."
"And sex," Jules added, emerging from a curtain, covered in lipstick prints.
"Yes," I nodded. "Especially that."
It was ambitious. It was suicidal. It was perfect.
And if we succeeded?
We wouldn't just survive the purge.
We'd own the Church's secrets. Their relics. Their shame.
We would become untouchable.
Or die exquisitely in the attempt.
Either way, the Velvet Court would be legendary.