The invitation was heavy, printed on vellum made from human skin—a grotesque luxury the Highborn adored. It smelled of lavender and formaldehyde.
The Blood Moon Ball.
Location: The Obsidian Palace (formerly the Metropolitan Opera House).
Dress Code: Elegance fitting for the End of Days.
The Preparation: War Paint
Elara stood before a cracked mirror in the Spire. Krixis was gone, hunting in the tunnels, leaving her alone with her transformation.
She treated the dressing process like loading a firearm. Every layer was a component of the weapon.
She bathed in water scented with crushed rose petals to mask the metallic smell of the gun oil she usually carried. She applied oils to her skin, not for softness, but to make herself harder to grapple; she would be slippery, elusive.
The dress was a masterpiece of deception. It was a deep, arterial red, made of silk that flowed like liquid blood. It was backless, exposing the pale expanse of her spine and the faint, white scars of her training. The skirt was slit high up the thigh, allowing for movement—or a kick to the throat.
She looked at her reflection. The girl who tore limbs off insects was gone. In her place stood a vision of aristocratic beauty, her grey eyes shadowed with smoky kohl, her lips painted a dark crimson.
"Showtime," she whispered.
The Obsidian Palace was a monument to excess. The Highborn had restored the old Opera House, but they had twisted it. The statues of angels were headless. The red carpets were stained a shade darker than they should be.
Elara arrived in a sleek, black limousine provided by Vane. She stepped out onto the red carpet, the flashes of cameras blinding her. Yes, there were cameras. The Highborn loved celebrity. They loved pretending they were civilized.
She entered the Grand Ballroom.
It was a sensory assault.
The room was packed with hundreds of guests. Half were humans—collaborators, pets, and sycophants dressed in gold and velvet, desperate to please their masters. The other half were Monsters in their "glamour".
The Highborn could shift their forms to look mostly human, but the uncanny valley was everywhere.
A Duchess laughing with a mouth that opened a little too wide, revealing rows of needle-teeth.
A General in a tuxedo whose skin rippled as if insects were crawling beneath it.
A pair of twins with eyes that blinked sideways.
Servants with gold collars moved through the crowd carrying silver trays.
Elara took a glass of wine. It was thick, viscous. Vintage O-Negative, chilled. She pretended to sip it, letting the liquid barely touch her lips before wiping it away.
The food tables were laden with horrors presented as delicacies.
Tartare of Bluefin Tuna... mixed with something that smelled like adrenaline.
Roasted Haunch of Beast... the bone structure looked suspiciously humanoid.
Jellied Eyes... served on crackers.
Elara mingled. She was excellent at it. She laughed at the Duke of Flies' jokes, throwing her head back, exposing her long neck.
"Oh, Duke, you are terrible," she purred, tapping his arm. "Imagine, flaying the mayor alive? How avant-garde."
The Duke, a bloated man whose skin secreted a faint slime, preened. "One must make art from chaos, my dear. You have a lovely scent. Like... iron."
"I take iron supplements," Elara lied smoothly. "For the anemia."
She moved through the room, a shark in a red dress. She gathered intel. She listened to the whispers. She was the life of the party, charming the monsters who viewed her species as food. She made them feel powerful, all while calculating exactly where she would insert a knife if the music stopped.
And then, she saw him.
The room was a kaleidoscope of noise and color, but in the far corner, near the balcony doors, there was a void. A pocket of silence.
Valerius.
He was sitting on a velvet chaise lounge, alone. The space around him was empty; even the Highborn gave him a wide berth, like animals instinctively avoiding a predator higher on the food chain.
He looked devastating.
He wore a suit of midnight black, the cut severe and old-fashioned, reminiscent of the Victorian era but tailored for modern lethality. His white hair was loose, framing a face that was painfully beautiful and utterly bored.
He held a crystal glass of clear liquid—gin, perhaps, or water. He wasn't looking at the party. He was looking at a dying fly on the table in front of him, watching its legs twitch with mild interest.
Elara felt a spike of adrenaline. The Pale Prince.
She didn't sneak up on him. You don't sneak up on an earthquake. You walk into it.
She adjusted her ring. She checked the garrote in her mind. She took a breath and walked across the empty floor that separated him from the rest of the world.
"Is this seat taken?" Elara asked, her voice cutting through his silence.
Valerius didn't look up immediately. He watched the fly take its last breath.
"The seat is empty," he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that vibrated in Elara's chest. "Like everything else in this room."
Elara sat down. Not too close, but close enough that she could smell him. He didn't smell like rot or blood like the others. He smelled of winter air and old parchment.
"You don't seem to be enjoying the festivities, My Lord," Elara said, crossing her legs, the slit in her dress falling open.
Valerius finally looked at her.
His eyes were red. Not the glowing red of a beast, but the deep, crystallized red of a garnet. They were ancient. When he looked at her, Elara felt like he was reading the serial numbers on her bones.
"Festivities," Valerius repeated, tasting the word. He gestured vaguely at the crowd. "Look at them. Sheep dressed as wolves, and wolves dressed as sheep. They eat, they copulate, they kill, and they call it civilization. It is... tedious."
"Tedium is a luxury," Elara countered. "Most people are too busy trying not to be eaten to be bored."
Valerius smirked. It was a small, sharp thing. "Touché. And who are you? A pet? A spy? Or merely a dessert saving itself for later?"
"I'm Elara," she said, holding his gaze. "And I'm not dessert. I'm the indigestion."
Valerius laughed. It was a dry, rusty sound, as if he hadn't used it in decades. "Indigestion. I like that. It implies you have substance."
He leaned back, swirling his drink. "Tell me, Elara-the-Indigestion. Why did you approach the one man in this room that everyone else is terrified of? Do you have a death wish?"
"Maybe," Elara said, leaning in. "Or maybe I just wanted to see if the legends were true."
"And which legends are those?"
"That you are the Death. That you killed the Leviathan of Sector 7 with a spoon. That you haven't felt fear in six hundred years."
Valerius sighed, looking at the ceiling. "It was a fork, actually. Spoons are inefficient. And it has been seven hundred years since I felt fear. It was a Tuesday. It rained."
He looked back at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You are not afraid."
"Should I be?"
"Yes."
The tension between them snapped tight. The air felt heavy. Elara's heart was beating a frantic rhythm, but she kept her face mask-still. She wanted to reach for the needle in her ring. His jugular was right there. Pale, exposed. One scratch.
But she didn't move. Because she knew, with instinctive certainty, that if she moved her hand, he would tear it off before she blinked.
Suddenly, the orchestra swelled. A waltz. The Blue Danube, distorted and played in a minor key.
Valerius stood up. He moved with that liquid grace she had seen in the alley. He extended a hand.
"Dance with me," he commanded. It wasn't a question.
Elara hesitated for a fraction of a second, then placed her hand in his. His skin was ice cold. Hard as marble.
He pulled her onto the floor.
They moved together. He was strong, terrifyingly so. He led her with a force that bordered on violence, yet his steps were precise.
"You are wearing a weapon," Valerius murmured into her ear as they spun.
Elara stiffened. "I don't know what you mean."
"The hairpins," he whispered. "Titanium. Balanced for throwing. And that ring... the scent of Gorgon venom is faint, but distinct to a refined palette."
He spun her out and pulled her back, his hand splayed across the bare skin of her back. His fingers were cold brands against her warmth.
"Are you going to kill me, Elara?" he asked, his tone conversational, as if asking about the weather.
Elara looked up into his red eyes. She smiled, a sharp, dangerous smile that matched his own. "If I were going to kill you, Valerius, you wouldn't be dancing. You'd be dying."
Valerius laughed again, louder this time. A few heads turned. The Pale Prince was laughing. The monsters watched in uneasy silence.
"Arrogance," Valerius said, his eyes shining with genuine amusement. "Delicious arrogance. I have missed this. The humans usually beg. Or scream. Or pray."
He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could see the faint points of his fangs.
"You are a hunter," he whispered. "I can smell the blood on you. Not the wine. Old blood. You are a predator in a silk casing."
"Takes one to know one," Elara whispered back.
"Indeed."
He spun her again, faster, the room blurring around them into streaks of gold and red. The world fell away. There was only the music, the cold grip of his hand, and the lethal promise hanging between them.
"Do not try to kill me tonight, Little Hunter," Valerius said, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "I am having too much fun. If you attack me now, I will have to snap your neck, and that would be a waste of a lovely dress."
Elara tightened her grip on his shoulder. "I'm not here to kill you tonight."
"Good," Valerius said.
The music ended with a crashing crescendo. Valerius stopped instantly, holding her in a dip, her face inches from his.
For a second, Elara thought he might kiss her. Or bite her throat out. The ambiguity was intoxicating.
He pulled her upright. He took her hand—the one with the poison ring—and raised it to his lips. He didn't kiss the skin.
He kissed the ruby, right over the hidden needle.
He looked her in the eyes, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Next time, Elara," he whispered. "Bring a bigger knife."
He let go of her hand, turned on his heel, and walked out of the ballroom, leaving Elara standing alone in the center of the floor, her heart pounding like a war drum, feeling more alive than she had in her entire life.