The Great Hall had been transformed into a kaleidoscope of silk and sin.
Hundreds of candles floated in the air, suspended by thin wires, casting a golden haze over the guests. The nobility of Morvath and the Southern envoys mingled, their faces hidden behind masks of velvet, porcelain, and feathers.
It was a sea of false faces. Tonight, everyone was a liar. Ciro felt right at home.
He was in the center of the room, balancing atop a pyramid of wooden barrels. He juggled three flaming torches, the fire roaring dangerously close to the tapestries. The crowd gasped and cheered with every spin, mesmerized by the dancing flames.
"Higher, Fool! Higher!" a drunken Southern lord shouted, raising his goblet.
Ciro obliged, tossing a torch nearly to the ceiling before catching it behind his back. He grinned, his painted smile wide and manic. But his eyes were not on the fire. They were scanning the room, counting the guards.
Two by the main doors. Two by the royal dais. One patrolling the servants' corridor.
And then, he saw her.
The heavy oak doors swung open, and Princess Elara entered. She wore a mask of silver lace that covered her eyes, but Ciro would recognize her walk anywhere. The midnight blue dress flowed around her like water, but the heavy ruby necklace around her throat stood out like a fresh wound.
Beside her, Prince Kaelen wore a mask shaped like a golden lion. He didn't offer her his arm; he gripped her elbow, steering her through the crowd as if she were a prize mare at an auction.
King Valerius sat on his throne, unmasked. Power, he believed, had no need to hide. He watched the proceedings with cold indifference, sipping his wine.
The musicians in the gallery struck up a waltz—a fast, dizzying tune.
"Dance with me," Kaelen demanded, not asking. He pulled Elara into the center of the floor.
Ciro watched from atop his barrels. He saw Elara stumble slightly, saw the way she looked toward the side exit—the path to the wine cellar. The path to freedom.
Not yet, Ciro thought, catching a torch. Wait for the crescendo.
He hopped down from the barrels, landing with a flourish. The crowd applauded. Ciro bowed, blowing kisses to the ladies, and cartwheeled his way through the throngs of people. He moved like liquid, weaving between dancers, getting closer to the service corridor.
He spotted the guard stationed near the cellar door. It was a man named Gregor—big, slow, and fond of drink.
Ciro swiped a full flagon of wine from a passing servant's tray. He stumbled purposefully, crashing into Gregor.
"Oh! Apologies, good sir! My feet are tangled!" Ciro shrieked, splashing the wine all over the guard's chestplate.
"Watch it, you painted rat!" Gregor growled, shoving Ciro away.
"A thousand pardons! Let me help!" Ciro grabbed a napkin and began frantically wiping the guard's armor, creating a commotion.
In the chaos, no one noticed Ciro's other hand slip a small packet of powder into Gregor's open belt pouch—dried sleeping banter root. But that would take too long. Ciro needed him gone now.
"You clumsy idiot," Gregor raised a hand to strike him.
Ciro looked up. For a split second, the mask slipped. "Go clean yourself up, Gregor. The King is watching."
The guard froze. The menace in the Jester's voice was like a bucket of ice water. Gregor looked at the King on the dais, then back at his stained uniform. Grumbling, he abandoned his post to head to the barracks.
The path was clear.
Ciro glanced back at the dance floor. The music was swelling. Kaelen spun Elara aggressively, dipping her low. As she rose, her eyes met Ciro's across the room.
He gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
Elara suddenly stopped dancing. She put a hand to her forehead, swaying. Ciro saw her mouth the words to Kaelen: "I feel faint."
Kaelen looked annoyed, but he waved his hand dismissively. "Go. Fix yourself. Do not keep me waiting."
Elara curtsied shakily and turned. She didn't run—that would draw attention. She walked, slow and steady, towards the side corridor where the shadows were deepest.
Ciro slipped into the darkness of the hallway first. He pressed his back against the cold stone, a dagger already in his hand.
Seconds later, Elara appeared, breathless. She ripped the silver mask from her face and threw it on the floor.
"He suspects nothing," she whispered, her voice trembling. "He is drunk on wine and arrogance."
"Good," Ciro said. He didn't smile. The performance was over. "Stay behind me. The cellar is down these stairs."
They moved quickly. The sounds of the waltz faded behind them, replaced by the damp dripping of the castle underbelly. They reached the heavy wooden door of the wine cellar.
Ciro reached for the handle. It was unlocked, just as he had left it.
But as he pushed the door open, a voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs. A voice that stopped Ciro's heart cold.
"Leaving so soon, Jester? The party was just getting started."
Ciro shoved Elara behind him. Standing in the middle of the wine cellar, leaning casually against a barrel, was not a guard.
It was the Captain of the Royal Guard, Sir Marcus. And he was holding Ciro's hidden boat paddle in his hand.
The escape had failed before it even began.