Chapter 28 The Court of Masks
28: The Court of Masks
There are two kinds of wolves in Dravenmoor. The ones who bare their teeth… and the ones who smile when they mean to kill you. Unfortunately, I was now surrounded by the latter.
The Council chamber was a cathedral of deceit — vast, gilded, and unbearably cold. Mirrors lined the arched ceiling, each reflecting distorted versions of the same tableau: twelve councilors seated in a perfect circle, draped in crimson and silver robes that shimmered like fresh blood under light.
And at the center, on a dais just slightly too high to be humble, sat Darius.
Beta of Dravenmoor. Acting Regent. Chief Enthusiast of My Downfall.
He looked immaculate, of course. His silver hair slicked neatly back, his wolf sigil glinting at his collar like an unspoken threat. If perfection could file tax returns and murder you politely, it would look like him.
“My lady,” he greeted, voice velvet over razors. “We were beginning to think you would not join us.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare deprive you of my sparkling company,” I said sweetly, stepping into the circle. My boots echoed across the marble — one, two, three — like a countdown I didn’t want to reach zero.
A few councilors exchanged polite smiles. The kind that said how entertaining, she’s joking while about to be executed.
Lady Mirelle, the only woman among them, gave me a sympathetic look that didn’t reach her eyes. “Lady Aria, we are most eager to hear your explanation regarding certain… allegations.”
“Allegations?” I echoed, feigning surprise. “Please tell me it’s not about the teacups again.”
A low murmur rippled through the room. Darius’s expression didn’t shift, but I saw the flicker of amusement — faint, unwilling — cross his gaze.
Then he spoke, each word measured. “The court has received intelligence suggesting your communication with external forces. Namely, the Galgadoran Alliance.”
I froze, just a heartbeat. Then I laughed, because what else could I do?
“Ah yes,” I said. “My secret pen-pal empire. You caught me.”
His eyes glinted. “So you deny it?”
“Deny it?” I tilted my head. “You’ll have to be more specific. Which part? The espionage, the treason, or the impossibility of me having any spare time between palace poisonings?”
The sarcasm landed like a blade thrown underhand. A few councilors frowned. One even muttered, “Insolent creature,” under his breath.
Darius raised a hand — graceful, commanding — and the whispers stilled.
He gestured to one of the aides, who hurried forward with a folder of parchment. “If humor is your weapon, my lady, I hope it serves you well.” He unfolded the document, revealing a wax seal — broken. “Because your signature,” he said, sliding the letter toward me, “was found on a communiqué delivered to the enemy front three nights ago.”
The handwriting was mine.
Or rather — Aria’s.
The letters curved in her graceful script, the one I could replicate now without thinking. But I hadn’t written this. The note was addressed to Galgador, pledging allegiance “in exchange for the freedom of Silvermoon’s exiled.”
I swallowed. Oh, that’s good. That’s very good.
A forged letter linking me to Rowan.
Someone had done their research.
“I’d like to see my lawyer,” I said finally.
“This is not a mortal court,” Darius replied mildly. “We don’t practice mercy here.”
“Right. Forgot that part.”
Lady Mirelle’s fan fluttered faintly — gold feathers, perfectly timed with her sigh. “My lord Regent, surely this can be discussed with more discretion. Lady Aria’s… position is delicate.”
“Indeed,” Darius murmured. “As is Dravenmoor’s.”
The weight behind his words pressed through the chamber like smoke. Every gaze turned toward me again — some sharp with suspicion, others merely hungry for scandal.
I met Darius’s eyes, refusing to look away. “What is this really about?”
He leaned back slightly, folding his hands. “Dravenmoor stands at the edge of war. Our king is unwell, our enemies multiply, and the future demands—” his lips curved faintly “—sacrifice.”
Ah. There it was. The wolf beneath the silk.
“You mean scapegoats,” I said flatly.
“If you wish to call it that.”
I wanted to throw something at his perfect face. Unfortunately, everything within reach was either sacred, poisonous, or sharp enough to make me regret it.
“Tell me,” I said, “do you practice these monologues in front of a mirror, or are you just naturally ominous?”
He didn’t blink. “You were seen entering the King’s chamber last night.”
Ice crawled down my spine. “And?”
“And,” he continued softly, “His Majesty’s condition appeared… changed this morning.”
My pulse spiked. So — Lucian had stirred. Enough for them to notice.
But not enough to wake. Not yet.
“I see,” I said carefully. “You’re implying I tampered with his treatment.”
He tilted his head. “Did you?”
“I’m not the one pouring poison into his veins.”
A ripple of tension. Darius’s smile sharpened by a degree.
“You’re accusing me,” he said.
I smiled back. “Just returning the favor.”
For a moment, silence.
Then he laughed — quietly, genuinely, and somehow more terrifying than his calm. “You’ve always had a dangerous tongue, my lady. It’s a pity you use it so poorly.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I meant it as a warning.”
He stood, the movement smooth as silk, and descended from the dais. Every step echoed like a countdown. When he reached me, he didn’t stop — he circled, close enough for me to smell the faint trace of cedar and steel.
“Tell me,” he murmured near my ear, low enough only I could hear, “did the King speak your name last night?”
My breath hitched.
“I wouldn’t know,” I said softly. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
Something flickered in his eyes — not anger, but curiosity. Then he straightened, facing the council again.
“Lady Aria,” he said aloud, voice once more smooth and public, “for the sake of transparency, you will remain confined to the western quarters until further notice.”
Translation: house arrest with fancy curtains.
I inclined my head. “How thoughtful. I’ve always wanted a staycation.”
His mouth curved. “And should you attempt to leave—”
“I die horribly, yes, I’ve read the fine print.”
A few councilors exchanged uneasy glances. Mirelle’s fan fluttered again, slower this time. “My lord,” she said softly, “perhaps leniency would better serve the court’s image.”
Darius looked at her, then back at me. “The court’s image will survive. I am less certain about its faith.”
Faith. Right. Because what better way to prove loyalty than public humiliation?
I dipped into a shallow bow — mock-respectful. “Then teach me, my lord Regent. Teach me how to serve your new kingdom.”
That got his attention. His gaze flicked briefly to mine — searching, suspicious. I smiled sweetly, like a snake offering tea.
“I’ll play along,” I continued. “For now.”
His lips curved faintly. “Wise.”
He gestured to the guards. “Escort her at the top chamber. Gently.”
Gently, in Dravenmoor, meant “don’t break her until tomorrow.”
By the time the heavy doors shut behind me, I could finally breathe again.
I’d survived. Barely. But every word I’d said had bought me time — a fragile thread of survival in a game where everyone was pretending not to hold knives.
The hallway outside shimmered with sunlight filtered through crimson glass. Everything looked beautiful and suffocating — like the palace itself wanted to watch me drown.
Elijah was waiting near the archway, his usual composure cracked with worry. “My lady—”
“Don’t,” I said quietly. “Walls have ears. And possibly eyes.”
He inclined his head. “Then perhaps the balcony will suffice.”
We walked, silent, until we reached a narrow veranda overlooking the misted gardens. From here, the whole of Dravenmoor stretched below — towers like teeth, banners fluttering crimson. The wind carried the scent of rain and iron.
He handed me something small — folded parchment, sealed in black wax. “This arrived while you were inside. No insignia.”
I took it, frowning. The wax bore no crest, but the scent that clung to it — pine, frost, and silver ash — was unmistakable.
Silvermoon.
I broke the seal. Inside, in sharp, sure handwriting, were only five words:
\= Meet me at the catacombs tonight. =
And below it, the mark of the Silvermoon Alpha — Rowan.
My pulse jumped. The very man Darius had just accused me of conspiring with was now summoning me himself. The male lead of this novel.
“Elijah,” I said softly, my voice threading between disbelief and dread, “either the universe has a sense of humor, or I’m walking into a deathtrap.”
He hesitated. “Shall I alert the guard?”
“No.” I folded the note, tucking it into my sleeve. “If Darius learns about this before I do, he’ll turn it into another trial.”
“And if it’s a trap?”
“Then I’ll at least die dramatically.”
He sighed — long-suffering, fond, resigned. “You have an alarming habit of making bad ideas sound noble.”
“I have an alarming habit of surviving them, too.”
His lips twitched. “For now.”
The wind shifted. Bells rang somewhere distant — the noon toll, echoing like the heartbeat of the palace itself.
As we turned to leave, Elijah murmured, “What will you do?”
I smiled faintly. “Exactly what Darius warned me not to.”
That night, when the palace finally slept and the torches dimmed, I slipped from my room and followed the echo of memory down into Dravenmoor’s belly.
The catacombs waited — ancient, breathing, carved with secrets.