The gilded invitation arrived with the morning meal, slipped between toast and tea by a palace page who bowed too deeply for the hour. Jace unfolded it, blinking sleep from his eyes.
Script like stitched gold spelled out the Duke of Ravenshollow's masquerade ball—tonight. Attendance "cordially requested" for all summoned champions.
Of course it was tonight. These nobles loved to throw parties right after big events. As if sword fights and blindfolded obstacle courses needed an afterparty.
Still… Jace stared at the paper a little longer than he meant to.
After what happened at the arena, it felt like people might actually want him there.
He found Nia arranging wildflowers in a glass vase when he stopped by her room. Sunlight pooled through the window, and her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows as she worked.
"A masquerade ball," he said, holding up the card. "Feel like making nobles uncomfortable with me?"
She glanced over her shoulder, arching a brow. "You sure they won't mistake me for the help? Or your personal chambermaid?"
"You? Never. Too sharp for that. Besides…" He leaned against the doorframe. "I'd rather go with someone I trust than stumble around making small talk with masked strangers."
That got a pause.
Nia's fingers froze over the petals for a beat, then resumed arranging. "Careful, hero. Keep talking like that, I might think you mean it."
"I do," he said, quieter now.
She turned fully this time, searching his face. For what, he wasn't sure. Whatever it was, she didn't seem to find it.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor. She turned back to the vase as smoothly as if nothing had happened.
"I appreciate the offer," she said, her voice cooler now. "But I think I'll stay in. Maybe finish that book the steward gave me. Take a long bath. Let the peacocks prance without me."
Jace nodded. He didn't press.
"If you change your mind—"
"I won't," she said, gently. "But thanks."
He left before the silence could stretch.
******
The ballroom shimmered like something out of a painter's fever dream. Crystal chandeliers floated above the marble floor, catching the light and throwing it in ribbons. Musicians tucked into a balcony loft played soft strings and airy flute, notes drifting like perfume through the space.
Jace stepped through the arch in a borrowed black mask and formal coat that still felt stiff at the seams. But he looked the part. At least enough not to draw second glances. That was new.
The others were scattered like chess pieces.
Tor stood awkwardly near a group of older officers, gesturing too wildly for the size of his wineglass. Kael had already been cornered by the court scholars. Elliot was… nowhere. And Zara—Zara stood like she dominated the air around her. Her dress was deep blue, her mask was silver and exquisite, and her back was straight.
Jace made his way over before he could overthink it.
"Dance with me," he said.
Zara's mouth twitched behind her mask. "You dance?"
"I fake it well enough. That counts."
She accepted his arm, and together they stepped onto the floor. The waltz was slow and graceful, a convenient tempo for people who wanted to talk more than twirl.
"You're light on your feet," she said, surprised.
"Maybe I just needed the right partner."
"Flattery?" Her head tilted slightly. "Doesn't suit you."
"Sure it does," he said. "You just don't know me well enough yet."
That stopped her for a breath. Her gaze held his.
"Maybe I don't," she murmured. "I've spent so much time watching your abilities, I never really looked at the person behind them."
"You like what you see?"
"I'm not sure yet. But it's… different than I expected."
Her hand tightened slightly on his shoulder.
Then her eyes shifted. Past him. Over his shoulder.
She let go first.
"I should rejoin the others," she said quickly. "Thank you for the dance."
Jace turned just in time to catch Lila watching from the far side of the room, half-obscured by a potted tree. The priestess looked like she wanted to be somewhere else, but couldn't tear her eyes away.
Seriously? he thought. What's with that look?
Zara didn't wait for a follow-up. She disappeared into the crowd.
Left alone, Jace turned toward the terrace. A tall woman with auburn hair and a golden mask stood near the doors, idly swirling her wine as a rotund lord droned on at her elbow. She didn't look impressed.
Time to see how much of that arena praise actually stuck.
He approached with his best mix of charm and not-trying-too-hard.
"You look like someone who could use a better conversation."
The noblewoman turned, amused. Her eyes studied him.
"And you believe you qualify?"
"I'm willing to let you decide," he said, offering a hand. "Jace."
"Lady Marianne." She accepted the introduction with practiced ease. "You carry yourself differently from most heroes. Less like you're expecting applause."
"I've had enough applause for one week."
Their talk started light—ballroom gossip, nobles she found tedious, and the overuse of roses in the floral centerpieces. Jace kept pace, surprised at how comfortable it felt. No magic. No monsters. Just words and timing.
But then—maybe buoyed by Zara, maybe still coasting on post-arena confidence—he pushed the conversation toward something else.
"Maybe we can continue this somewhere quieter?" he said, lowering his voice a notch. "You seem like the type with more interesting things to say when there's no crowd around."
It was a gamble. He felt it the moment the words left his mouth.
Lady Marianne stiffened. Not subtly.
"I beg your pardon?" she said, ice trimming every syllable. "You may be a hero, but that doesn't entitle you to presume familiarity—certainly not of that nature."
The tension cracked like glass. A few nearby heads turned.
"I—my apologies," Jace said quickly. "That wasn't my intent—"
"Oh, of course not," she said coldly. "Men like you never mean it."
She walked away without another glance.
Jace stood frozen in place, heat crawling up his neck. Every mask felt like it was watching him. Every smile was suddenly sharper.
Across the room, Dren leaned against a column, shaking with silent laughter.
Right, Jace thought. That's more like it.
The music faltered mid-note.
The ballroom doors burst open with a thunderous bang, drawing gasps from the crowd.
A man came in, dirty, battered, and with his clothes falling apart. Blood stained his sleeves, and one side of his face looked like it had been clawed. His eyes were wide with panic.
"Where are the heroes?" he rasped, voice cracking. "Please, I need the heroes—someone help—"
He fell face-first onto the polished floor and was out cold.