The palace corridor yawned out before them—long, sinuous, and unnervingly silent. The red carpet beneath John’s boots gave like overripe fruit, spongy and warm, as if pulsing faintly with life. Smooth walls of iridescent white shimmered faintly, catching flickers of multicolored light from orbs suspended in the ceiling—each one gently pulsing like a slow heartbeat. Strange metallic vines twisted up the walls and curled around the light fixtures like decorative parasites, their alien beauty matching the unsettling grandeur of Nytheris.

  John exhaled slowly, the sound too loud in the stillness. “Any idea where we’re supposed to go?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light, but even the echoes felt like trespassers here.

  Ziraya’s amber eyes narrowed. Her focus turned inward. “That way,” she murmured, pointing left. Her voice carried a hush, like something sacred or dangerous might be listening. “I can feel a cluster of mana signatures nearby.”

  He nodded, brushing a hand near the weight of his concealed Glock. It was a meager comfort in a place where the walls themselves might be listening.

  They moved quickly, the silence wrapping tighter around them with each step. John couldn’t shake the feeling that if he turned too fast, the corridor would twist behind him—like the palace was shifting, watching, alive.

  Then Ziraya froze, and he nearly collided into her back. “Someone’s coming,” she hissed, barely audible. Her posture tensed like a drawn bowstring.

  A second later, John caught it too—soft, echoing footfalls, two pairs, approaching fast. His eyes darted around. “There.” He pointed to a set of rich crimson curtains near an archway. Without waiting, they slipped behind them, the heavy fabric falling back into place like the seal of a tomb. It was suffocatingly close. The thick scent of aged velvet clung to the air, and in the cramped space, their bodies pressed flush together. Ziraya’s tail instinctively coiled around his waist, and her arms tightened reflexively. John found his face wedged awkwardly—and intimately—against the exposed curve of her collarbone, where the neckline of her gown dipped scandalously low.

  He tried not to breathe. Or think. Or die of embarrassment.

  Ziraya’s heart was hammering. He could feel it.

  The footsteps drew closer… then passed. Fainter. Gone.

  “They’re gone,” she whispered. But she didn’t move right away. Then she looked down—and froze. Her entire face turned crimson as she realized exactly where he was pressed, and with a startled little squeak, she shoved him back just enough to free his face. He gasped quietly, eyes wide, desperately trying to calm the wildfire in his chest.

  They didn’t speak.

  Neither dared look at the other. For several agonizing seconds, the silence buzzed between them—awkward and electric. Finally, John exhaled and risked a glance. Ziraya was already peeking at him, then instantly looked away, biting her lip.

  “T-That’s—” he began, but the words tangled in his throat. He settled for a cocky grin instead. “Maybe we should do this more often.”

  Ziraya blinked, snorted once, then rolled her eyes hard enough to hide a smile. “Idiot,” she muttered, giving him a playful shove.

  They stepped out from behind the curtain, brushing stray fibers off themselves like nothing had happened. “The Dance shouldn’t be far,” she said quickly, trying and failing to sound composed. Her cheeks were still tinted red under her mask.

  John nodded, grateful for the distraction, even as he felt the lingering absence of her tail around his waist.

  They walked in silence for a time, guided now by a haunting melody that swelled as they neared their destination. The music was like Earth’s classical music—but wrong. The notes dipped too low, hung too long, and trilled into harmonic twists that set John’s teeth slightly on edge. Somewhere in the layered soundscape, something chittered, something purred, and something whispered.

  “What can we expect?” he asked quietly. “I’ve never… been to something like this.”

  “Mostly lies,” Ziraya replied. “Deceit, sweetened by poetry and wine. Don’t trust smiles. Especially not the beautiful ones. Let me do the talking. Be polite. Be vague. And whatever you do—don’t reveal anything real.”

  John nodded slowly.

  She hesitated, her voice softening. “We can’t show that we’re… you know.” A faint flush rose again as she looked away.

  “Got it.” He forced himself to focus. “So what’s the plan? We just… walk in and hope to overhear something about the Ash Vigil?”

  “Not quite,” she said. “We look for dragon-blooded. They’ll be rare. If the Ash Vigil sent someone, they’ll stand out. Watch who they talk to. Follow them.”

  “And if we find nothing?”

  “Then we adapt.”

  John swallowed his next question as they turned a final bend—and stepped into the Dance of Whispers.

  The ballroom bloomed before them like a hallucination. Gold-painted domes soared above, engraved with endless masks—laughing, crying, some eerily blank. Columns of black marble spiraled like frozen tornadoes, and strands of glowing silk draped between them, suspended in midair. The crowd was enormous, yet eerily quiet—conversations reduced to soft murmurs and veiled chuckles beneath layers of music. Everyone wore a mask. Tall, thin fae glided past in robes made of mist and moonlight. One wore a mask shaped like a goat’s skull crowned with iridescent beetles. Another bore a single, oversized eye wreathed in feathers that blinked slowly, unnervingly real. Silver trays floated by on the hands of silent, willowy servants—each offering delicate flutes of blood-red liquid.

  “Don’t drink anything,” Ziraya whispered. “Not here.”

  John didn’t need convincing. Even the glasses seemed to breathe.

  They drifted into the crowd, feigning casual interest as their eyes scanned every movement. A pack of werewolves strode through the hall like noble beasts, towering above the fae. A cluster of cloaked mages huddled in a corner, their laughter too controlled to be natural.

  “See anything?” John murmured.

  Ziraya’s gaze sharpened. “There.”

  John followed her eyes to a petite woman with deep blue scales glimmering beneath the folds of her dress. Her tail swayed lightly behind her, stubby but unmistakably dragon-blooded. She spoke animatedly, flanked by two fishmen who were clearly drunk, cackling loudly at every word she said.

  Ziraya shook her head. “Too loud. Too drunk. Not what we need.”

  The music surged then, a sweeping crescendo that made John flinch. It felt like a wave crashing against his mind, leaving a strange aftertaste in his ears. John stood near the edge of the masquerade hall, half-listening to the murmuring sea of nobles and glittering masks. The fae orchestra played a haunting melody that curled like incense smoke through the air—beautiful, yes, but just slightly off-key to a human ear, like wind chimes in a storm.

  “I can’t get used to fae music, even after all those years,” said a voice behind him—calm, unhurried, and strangely clear amid the ambient chatter.

  John turned, eyebrow raised. The man approaching him was older, judging by the wrinkles at the edge of his eyes and the way he leaned slightly on his cane. His mask was a masterpiece of glamour: it appeared to be made of living flame, flickering around his face in a slow dance, though it gave off no heat. John instinctively took a small step back before catching himself.

  “Nice to see a fellow mage,” the stranger said with a warm chuckle, eyes twinkling behind the fire. “We’re far too rare around these parts.”

  Ziraya appeared at John’s side like a ghost. She didn’t speak, but the shift of her stance said enough—elegant, poised, and dangerous. Her hand drifted lazily toward her side, where a hidden stiletto rested beneath folds of satin. Her amber eyes narrowed, scanning the man with the subtle discipline of someone trained to feel mana patterns, not just see them. If the older mage noticed, he gave no sign. He simply lifted his glass and took a slow sip, savoring the taste.

  “The fae do know their drinks,” he said with a small sigh of appreciation. “I know the masks are meant to keep us anonymous, but I’ve been to enough of these Dances to recognize most faces beneath them.”

  John gave a tight smile. “Maybe I bought a new mask to throw people off.”

  “Oh?” The mage’s grin widened. “Then it worked.”

  Ziraya took a step forward, placing herself slightly in front of John. Her voice was silk over steel. “And what brings you to us, sir?”

  The man dipped his head politely. “Ah, I didn’t realize you were accompanied. Madam.” Then, turning back to John, he shrugged. “Curiosity, mostly. At my age, these events are a little… repetitive. The same politics in different costumes.”

  “And yet, here you are,” John said, casually scanning the crowd again, though his attention was half-rooted in the conversation now.

  “A moment of indulgence, I suppose,” the mage said, then added with a conspiratorial smirk, “and a dash of ancient nonsense. I recently uncovered an old scroll—some dusty relic buried in a ruin on Verdanthia. Most of it was laughable, disproven long ago. But it did contain something curious… a ritual. One meant to trace those ‘beyond the veil.’”

  John offered a polite nod, feigning mild interest as he kept an eye on the masquerade’s shifting crowd. “Sounds like the sort of thing bored mages do with free time.”

  “Oh, absolutely.” The old man grinned. “I wasn’t expecting anything. I lit the candles, drew the symbols, muttered the words… and to my surprise, something answered.”

  John’s eyes flicked back toward him. He folded his arms, hiding the fact that his posture had straightened slightly. “Answered? In what way?”

  “Not directly, of course. No voice from the beyond,” the mage chuckled. “But a pulse. A… tug. Like the spell reached through the worlds and found something. The ritual wasn’t designed with modern understanding in mind—no multiverse awareness, of course—so I had to tweak it. But the signal? It pointed here. To Faerie. Somewhere near the mountain range.”

  That got John’s full attention. His carefully indifferent mask cracked ever so slightly. “And?” he asked a bit too quickly.

  The older man grinned like he’d caught him in the act. “Now now, you are interested.”

  John gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Better than talking about tariffs.”

  The mage chuckled, genuinely pleased. “My thoughts exactly. People wouldn’t stop haranguing me about import taxes and shifting tariffs. Dreadful bores.” He flagged down a passing server and replaced his empty glass with another. “You should try this, by the way. One of the fae’s finer experiments.”

  Ziraya’s tail gave a twitch—barely noticeable unless you were watching for it. John knew her too well not to see the tension.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “So, did you find anything in the mountains?” John asked.

  The mage sighed. “Not much. People here are… evasive. Even my usual contacts offered nothing. But after trading a few old favors, I got a name. Supposedly, there’s a group of dragon-blooded hiding there. Most likely a red herring to get me off their backs.”

  “Interesting,” Ziraya said, her voice smooth but alert.

  “In truth,” the mage continued, lowering his voice slightly, “that’s why I approached you. You’re a fellow mage, and with your companion here… I thought perhaps you’d heard whispers. But alas, I’ve likely barked up the wrong tree.”

  “And what’s the name of this elusive group?” John asked, though the answer already burned in his gut.

  “The Ash Vigil,” the mage said, almost offhandedly. “Odd name, isn’t it? I’ve heard they haven’t been to one of these Dances in decades. They’re supposed to attend tonight, but I haven’t seen anyone unfamiliar yet.”

  John tilted his head, trying not to show the flicker of tension in his jaw. “Curious name indeed. Any idea why they’re called that?”

  The mage shook his head. “Not a clue. My contact was evasive. Maybe trying to end the conversation quickly. I can be… persistent.” He chuckled. “Curiosity gets the better of me. Always has.” He looked down at his glass, the firelight flickering across his mask, and sighed. “But I’ve taken up enough of your time. Go on—mingle with the young and lively. Leave an old man to his ghosts.” He bowed slightly, then slipped into the crowd with surprising grace for someone of his age, vanishing behind a veil of music and silk.

  Ziraya exhaled quietly, her voice low and thoughtful. “That was surprisingly useful. The Ash Vigil will be attending.”

  “Or he lied,” John muttered. “Could be drunk and spinning tales.”

  She shook her head. “He wasn’t drunk. And that wasn’t a lie.”

  “Maybe. But it still doesn’t tell us much. We don’t know what they look like or how they’re guarding themselves.”

  “He had a contact,” Ziraya said. “Which means someone knows. And someone’s willing to talk.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” John muttered, crossing his arms as his gaze swept the opulent chaos around them. The ballroom shimmered with too much light and too many strangers. Gilded masks bobbed and turned like foreign stars in a sky he didn’t recognize. “There are too many people here, and we don’t know any of them. That old mage knew we were outsiders just by our masks. Others must’ve noticed by now. That closes a lot of doors.”

  Ziraya’s tail thumped against the marble in short, agitated beats. “Then what are we supposed to do?” she hissed, her voice barely louder than a breath. “Wander around and hope someone drops the right name into our laps?”

  John opened his mouth to reply—but a sharp, shrieking cry split the air, followed by the heavy smack of flesh on stone. A hush fell over the ballroom, brief and brittle. Heads turned like a wave breaking over rocks. John and Ziraya peered between shouldered nobles and trailing silks. A dragon-blooded woman sprawled on her back near one of the ornate pillars, her fine robes in disarray and a pool of spilled liquor gleaming beside her shattered glass. Her slightly scaled skin shimmered faintly with an iridescent hue, eyes fluttering beneath her lids. Two fishmen crouched beside her, gently slapping her cheeks.

  “S-she’s had a bit too much,” one of them stammered, trying to lift her limp body upright with little success.

  “Just needs to rest,” the other said quickly, bowing toward the approaching fae servants. “Preferably somewhere quiet.”

  Soft laughter rippled at the fringes of the crowd. Whispers began to surge back in.

  “Every damn time,” a nearby fae murmured, narrowing his eyes. “These lizards always find a way to make a spectacle.”

  A new sound then caught his ear—a clipped, condescending voice buried beneath the noise. Faint. Arrogant. Dangerous.

  Ziraya tensed beside him, her tail pausing mid-swing. She’d heard it too.

  John pointed discreetly toward the source: two tall fae standing beneath a dangling chandelier, their orange robes billowing around them as if stirred by invisible winds. They sipped delicately from crystalline cups, their expressions carved from disdain.

  Ziraya nodded once, her eyes glinting with cold purpose. Together, they slipped into the mingling crowd, each grabbing a drink from a passing tray and feigning casual interest.

  “—Just like those barbarians from the mountains,” one noble said with a disdainful sniff, tilting his mask back slightly to take a dainty sip. “They actually requested a private audience. During the Dance, no less.”

  The other barked a quiet laugh. “As if they think they’re too important to mingle. I heard they were shoved into that dusty old room near the kitchens.”

  “The old conference room?” the first sneered. “I thought that was storage now.”

  “Well, it should be,” the second said, swishing his drink. “Fitting, isn’t it? Give the arrogant lizards a pile of brooms and call it diplomacy.”

  “And they’ve still deferred tribute. Months overdue. They’re lucky we’ve been so patient.”

  “Too patient, if you ask me.”

  John kept his expression blank, pretending to sip at his untouched drink. Ziraya, unfortunately, wasn’t as subtle—her eyes burned with barely masked offense.

  The first fae’s gaze suddenly flicked toward her. His lips curled with a knowing smirk.

  Ziraya turned on her heel, brushing past them like she hadn’t heard a thing. As they slipped away from the cluster, she whispered, “Tell me you caught that.”

  “Clear as crystal,” John said. “Old conference room. Near the kitchens.”

  Ziraya’s eyes scanned the hall until they locked on a trio of servants weaving through the guests with empty trays. “Think they’re headed back?”

  “Let’s find out.” John set down his glass and fell in step behind the servants, keeping his head low as the crowd’s energy shifted. With drinks flowing freely, the ballroom’s order began to erode. Conversations grew bolder. Laughs came sharper. Faces leaned too close in whispered conspiracy. John and Ziraya slipped through the chaos like shadows, murmuring apologies when bumped but never slowing their pace. Soon they reached the fringes of the ballroom, where polished marble gave way to dim corridors.

  “No guards,” Ziraya whispered. Her pupils thinned. “And no wards.”

  John nodded silently. The corridor twisted away from the glow of the dance, quieter now, more intimate. The sounds of revelry faded behind them, replaced by the clatter of metal and the hiss of steam.

  “This place is a maze,” John whispered. “If we lose track of those servants—” He trailed off. A sudden burst of clinking pans and the faint pop of uncorked bottles echoed ahead. They froze at the corner. Ziraya raised a hand, signaling for silence.

  Around the bend, a wooden door stood slightly ajar. Power radiated from beyond it—a thick, tangled fog of mana pressing against the air like humidity before a storm.

  “That’s them,” Ziraya murmured. “But we can’t linger. If they sense us…”

  “What about that one?” John pointed to a nearby door—unassuming, but close enough to the meeting room to work.

  Ziraya darted to it and tugged the handle. “Locked,” she growled. Then her eyes flared. Her Authority shimmered along her fingers, and she jammed them into the lock. With a faint hiss, the metal dissolved like sugar in water. She pulled the door open just as a crash of glass erupted behind them—someone had dropped a tray in the kitchen. “Now!” she hissed, vanishing inside.

  John followed, easing the door shut behind them. The room was dark, thick with the musty scent of aging spices and strange oils. Glass bottles lined narrow shelves in precarious rows, some glowing faintly, others sealed with curling runes. A thousand scents battled for dominance—sweet, sour, metallic, burnt.

  “Careful,” John whispered, stepping lightly between shelves. “Knock something over and they’ll hear us three rooms away.”

  Ziraya crouched beside the back wall, where the mana signatures pulsed strongest.

  “Think you can do it?” John asked, watching as she placed her fingers gently against the stone.

  The air thickened. Stone hissed and shimmered under her touch, thinning slowly, carefully—until a faint breeze slipped through a pinhole tunnel.

  They both leaned in.

  A harsh hiss cut through the shadows of the cramped room.

  “This is blatant disrespect!” The voice came from a dragon-blooded man, his gray-scaled face twisted with fury. He slammed a gauntleted fist onto the wooden table, the sound echoing like a gunshot. His white hooded robe rustled, armor plates clinking over his chest as he leaned forward, eyes burning. “To shove us into a storage closet like this—have we truly fallen so far?”

  From across the room, another voice rumbled low and gravelly, calm yet edged with warning. The speaker was older, his dark green scales faded to a dull moss, creases marking decades of hardened patience. “Calm yourself,” he growled, voice rough like gravel. “The fae weave their games like spiders spin silk. We mustn’t fall into their webs.”

  A tall dragon-blooded woman, languid and unconcerned, leaned back in her chair with a careless smirk. She crunched noisily on dried meat, the sound absurdly loud in the tense silence. “At least they feed us well,” she said with a teasing lilt, tossing a chunk into her mouth. “This stuff’s better than the usual scraps. You should try it.”

  The older man exhaled sharply, weariness etched into every line of his face. His scarred tail thumped rhythmically against the floor, a barely contained warning. Suddenly, Ziraya’s muscles tensed as a ripple of mana swept toward them—deceptively faint, but her trained senses screamed danger.

  “They’re here.” The older man’s voice dropped to a growl, a hard promise in the shadows.

  Before they could brace further, the heavy door banged open, splintering the quiet. A voice floated in, dripping with cruel amusement and mockery, lilting like a twisted melody.

  “Greetings, dear tributaries!” The fae’s words were sharp as broken glass. “I would offer apologies for the wait—if I believed in such trifles.” Striding in was a fae clad in a flamboyant yellow coat that billowed like living flame. His mask, an inverted face adorned with brilliant feathers, glimmered with unnatural light. His laughter echoed around the room, sharp and sickly sweet.

  “Cut the theatrics,” the older dragon-blooded snapped, nostrils flaring, scarred tail lashing with thinly veiled menace.

  The fae leaned in, voice like honeyed poison. “Anger is a poor choice when facing the Court, especially from one so… precariously placed.”

  “We will resume tribute payments soon,” the older man growled, jaw tightening. “We had to divert resources to the Ritual of Renewal—once every two hundred years. It sustains the Amber Crown, without which—”

  The fae laughed, cruel and short. “You really think the Court cares for your petty rituals? Play with your little trinkets all you want—”

  The younger dragon-blooded’s roar cut through the room: “The Amber Crown isn’t a trinket! It’s sacred! We finally started the ritual, and we have to expose the Crown to ambient mana for two entire weeks, to—”

  “Enough!” The older man’s command was steel, cutting through the tension like a blade.

  The fae tilted his head unnervingly, a grotesque parody of curiosity that sent a shiver down the dragon-blooded woman’s spine. “Talking back to the Court? How… arrogant.” His neck cracked loudly, unnatural, as he blurred forward—an impossible speed that left the younger man frozen, breath caught in his throat. A sickly shimmer of pink and yellow light clung to the dragon-blooded as his silent scream was swallowed by the cruel magic. His eyes rolled back; dark red foam bubbled from his lips. Convulsions wracked his body, nails gouging desperate furrows in his own flesh, crimson seeping freely.

  The woman’s scream shattered the silence, terror blooming in her eyes as she grappled helplessly with his thrashing form.

  The fae’s head twisted grotesquely, a full rotation that defied nature, and he chuckled—a sound that scraped against every nerve like nails on bone. “Your subordinate requires a lesson in humility.” His fingers moved faster than sight, and with a sickening pop, he plucked out the left eye of the convulsing man.

  The woman’s scream pierced the room again as the severed orb was held aloft, dangling by the optic nerve. The fae’s voice dropped to a cruel whisper, as if addressing the eye itself: “That is the fate of those who disrespect the Court.”

  With a deliberate squeeze, the eye was crushed beneath his bony fingers, a wet squelch echoing like a death knell.

  Blood splattered, the fae wiping his fingers clean on the older dragon’s robe, leaving a vivid crimson stain. “The spell will break only once our dues are paid,” he warned, voice thick with menace. “Right now, your mouthy friend feels as though his blood has turned to shards of glass, slicing him from within.” Leaning close, the fae’s breath was a cold, venomous whisper against the elder dragon’s ear: “And that? Is only the beginning. It will get far, far worse.”

  The elder’s grip tightened on his black saber—an ancient blade with a faint pink edge—as his knuckles whitened, rage simmering just beneath the surface. “The Ash Vigil will honor its debts,” he said, voice low but brittle, trembling with fury and pain.

  The fae chuckled softly, spinning on his heel as his coat flared behind him, a flame in the dim light. “See that you do.” Then, with a casual motion, he left.

  The door slammed behind him, and the elder dragon-blooded turned swiftly. “We must move—he needs aid.” Without ceremony, he punched the writhing subordinate’s ribs, knocking him unconscious, then hoisted him over his shoulder like a broken sack.

  The woman’s tears sparkled in the gloom as she snarled, fury raw and trembling. “I’ll kill every last one of them! I’ll burn their entire cursed city to ashes!”

  “Patience, little one,” the elder growled, voice thick with grim promise. His gaze burned with cold fire as he stared at the fading stain on his robe. “Blood begets blood.”

  With a violent kick, the door crashed off its hinges, slamming into the wall with a shudder that rattled the very air.

  The shockwave shuddered through the stone floor, making John’s knees buckle slightly. He stepped back from the small hole in the wall, the rough stone scraping his cheek. A coppery stench flooded the narrow corridor, thick and pungent. Blood—fresh. Acrid. And far too much of it. He scrunched his nose, trying to block it out. “What the hell happened in there?” he whispered, his voice hoarse as he stared at the reinforced door down the hall. It hadn’t moved. But after those screams… it felt like it was watching them.

  Ziraya didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were distant, her tail twitching in a slow, agitated rhythm. When she finally spoke, her voice was clipped. “The Court doesn’t discipline. They… perform.” She exhaled through her nose. “And the Vigil just watched it happen.”

  John tried to shake the ringing from his ears—the echo of that scream. It hadn’t sounded human. It had sounded like someone’s soul being peeled away layer by layer.

  “We didn’t see it,” Ziraya continued, quieter now, “but we both know what went on in there. And whatever lines existed between them? They’ve been burned to ash.”

  John nodded slowly, his expression darkening. “And the Amber Crown being exposed…”

  “It’s our opening,” she said. “But with no map of the compound, no knowledge of the wards, or how many of them there are... it’s a needle in a minefield.”

  A beat of silence passed. Ziraya didn’t look at him. She knew the weight behind the shift in his posture. John was thinking.

  He was planning.

  “I might have an idea,” he said finally.

  Ziraya turned to him, brows knitting together. “John—”

  “It’s reckless,” he admitted, already grimacing. “But it might be the only way to pull this off.”

  She stared at him. “How reckless?”

  He hesitated, glancing down the room as if the shadows might judge him for what he was about to say. Then, slowly, he leaned in close, shielding his mouth as he whispered into her ear.

  Ziraya went still.

  Her eyes widened, mouth parting slightly. She pulled back just enough to look at him—really look at him.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  John met her gaze.

  And said nothing.