Talos’s eyes flickered open.

  He expected darkness. He expected the cold, damp cobblestones of the Upper City alleyway where they had been crouching. Or, if things had gone wrong, he expected the cold stone of a dungeon cell and the smell of blood.

  Instead, he was assaulted by light. Warm, golden, impossible light.

  He sat up, his head spinning with a vertigo that had nothing to do with potions. He wasn't bleeding. He wasn't bound. He was sitting on a plush velvet chaise in the foyer of a castle that looked like it had been ripped from a fairy tale and dropped into hell.

  "Nomi?"

  A soft groan answered him.

  Beside him, curled on a matching chaise, was the Fox. But the leather armor was gone. The cloak was gone. The hidden sheaths were gone.

  She was draped in silk—a gown of deep, violent crimson that spilled over the furniture like a pool of fresh blood. The fabric clung to her, elegant and restrictive, exposing her shoulders and the faint scars the dressmakers hadn't bothered to hide.

  Talos looked down at himself.

  His scarred hands were framed by pristine white cuffs. He was wearing a tailored coat, stiff and suffocating, embroidered with silver thread. No armor. No sword. No spear.

  "Nomi," he said, sharper this time.

  Her green eyes flickered open.

  There was no drowsiness. She didn't wake up; she jolted up to her feet at the same moment her eyes opened.

  She scrambled upright in a blur of motion, her hands flying to her thighs for daggers that weren't there. Her fingers grasped at empty air and silk. Panic flared in her eyes—raw and terrified.

  She spun, pressing her back against his instantly, her stance low and lethal despite the gown.

  "Where are my—"

  "I wouldn't bother checking the lining, Madam. We took the needles, too."

  The voice was dry, polite, and terrifyingly close.

  Talos and Nomi froze. Their heads snapped toward the grand staircase.

  Standing in the shadow of the banister, blending perfectly with the architecture, was a man. He wore the crisp, black uniform of a high-servant. He held a silver tray with a pitcher of water. He hadn't moved. He had just been watching them sleep. The two of them shifted, shoulder to shoulder, watching the Butler with wary, narrowed eyes.

  “I welcome you two to the Grand Masquerade.”

  His voice was like dry parchment rubbing together—polite, dusty, and devoid of warmth.

  “What do you last remember?” Talos asked in a low hiss, his lips barely moving. His eyes didn't turn toward Nomi; they stayed fixed on the servant, tracking the man’s center of gravity for a strike he couldn't deliver without a weapon.

  “Just us entering the Upper City…” Nomi whispered back, her voice tight. “The alleyway. The rain. Then… was there a woman at the gate?”

  “Lady Carmilla came to welcome you to her domain herself,” the Butler interjected smoothly, answering the private whisper from across the room. “She wished to invite you to the festivities personally.”

  Talos didn't like that. He didn't like that they had been taken without a fight. He turned sharply, placing his hand against the heavy oak door behind them. He shoved.

  It didn't bulge. It didn't groan.

  He pushed harder, throwing his body weight against the wood. It should have creaked. It should have bowed.

  Instead, it felt… solid.

  Not like wood. Not even like iron. It felt like he was pushing against the foundation of a mountain. The texture under his fingers was right—the grain, the varnish—but the physics were wrong. It was an immovable object painted to look like a door.

  “The smells are all wrong,” Nomi muttered quietly, her nose twitching. “No dust. No rot. No rain. It smells like… nothing. It smells like a painting.”

  “If you’re quite done acting like barbarians,” the Butler said, his tone cooling into the disappointment of a parent scolding a toddler, “I will see you in. The other guests are waiting, and Lady Carmilla does hate a tardy arrival.”

  He turned his back on them—a calculated insult to their threat level—and began to ascend the stairs.

  After a moment of tense hesitation, the two followed, keeping their distance, their footsteps silent on the plush runner. They stopped when the Butler paused before a massive set of double doors carved from dark mahogany.

  “Your masks.”

  The Butler turned, his gloved hand gesturing to a small side table draped in red velvet. With a flourish that felt more like a magician revealing a trick than a servant offering a courtesy, he pulled the silk away.

  Two masks sat on the wood.

  One was exquisite and cruel: a half-mask shaped like a fox’s muzzle, painted in gold and crimson, with one eyehole slanted and the other closed in an eternal, mocking wink.

  The other was blank.

  It had no nose, no mouth, no expression. It was just a curved slab of white porcelain with two empty holes for eyes. It was a face for a ghost. A face for a Null.

  Talos stared down at it. His jaw tightened until the muscles jumped.

  “I’m not wearing this.”

  He muttered the words low in his throat, his eyes lifting to the Butler with a look of pure, concentrated hate.

  “Then you will remain here,” the Butler replied, his voice indifferent. “The doors only open for the guests. And guests must be properly attired.”

  Talos opened his mouth to tell the servant exactly where he could shove the porcelain, but a rustle of silk stopped him.

  He turned.

  Nomi was already holding the Fox mask. Her hands weren't trembling. She lifted it to her face, the gold and red porcelain settling over her features like a second skin. It fit perfectly. Too perfectly.

  “Nomi— what are you doing?”

  She adjusted the ribbon behind her head, securing it tight against her skull. When she turned to him, the single open eye of the mask stared back, framed by the painted wink. It made her look manic. It made her look like part of the furniture.

  “...It’s fine, Talos,” she said, her voice muffled slightly by the porcelain. “We have to keep moving. Put it on.”

  Talos’s eyes turned to her, narrowed slightly. She stood still, watching him, waiting patiently.

  “What?”

  “What else is there to do?”

  She sounded patient. Tired. Wrong.

  Still, he couldn’t leave her here when she seemed so… unlike herself.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Talos pulled on the mask. It fit perfectly, suctioning to his skin with a cold, ceramic kiss. It felt weightless, yet utterly suffocating—a barrier between him and the world.

  The massive mahogany doors groaned open without being touched.

  The ballroom beyond was titanic. It was a space that shouldn't have fit inside the manor, a cavern of polished obsidian and velvet. Music drifted through the air—a slow, lilting, mournful waltz. Talos recognized the melody instantly. It was the tune Nomi hummed when she was cleaning her needles, a nervous mantra she used to keep her hands steady. But here, played by an invisible orchestra of strings and bone, it wasn't a comfort. It was a dirge.

  Massive candelabras hung from the ceiling, spilling warm, golden light that shouldn't have felt this cold. They illuminated stained glass windows that looked out over… nothing.

  No rain. No city. No stars.

  Just ink. Void. Pure, unending darkness. It was as if the rest of the world had been wiped away, leaving only this party, floating in the abyss.

  Red carpets of crushed silk cut paths across the dark wood floors. The heraldry of the Bat was everywhere—carved into the crown molding, woven into the banners, stitched into the liveries of the faceless guests.

  It was gorgeous. Expansive. Regal.

  It reminded him of the first time he entered the Crucible—the awe of the architecture before the cruelty of the curriculum set in.

  “It’s incredible.”

  Nomi hummed softly, her Fox mask flickering in the candlelight. She took his arm, leaning on him with the fluid grace of a highborn lady. There was none of the nervous poking, none of the defensive posturing or insecurity he was used to.

  She was perfect. And she terrified him.

  The terror wasn't just in her. It was in the hundreds of people swirling around them. A sea of porcelain masks and velvet, moving in perfect, impossible unison. No stumbled steps. No collisions. Just a hive mind moving in three-quarter time.

  “Can we dance?”

  Her mask tilted toward him, the green eye gleaming behind the painted porcelain.

  “Just… for a moment. We haven’t had the chance to relax in so long.”

  Talos shifted his weight. The music tugged at his mind, urging him to sway, to let the Fox drag him onto the polished floor and lose himself in the rhythm. It would be so easy.

  “A drink first?” he asked, his voice rough.

  “Oh, of course, my darling Talos.”

  She guided him to the bar, her touch light and eager. Talos reached out, his hand closing around the neck of a heavy wine bottle. He didn't pour it. He just held the cold glass, feeling the weight.

  “Talos, huh?” he murmured.

  “Hm?”

  Nomi’s masked face turned toward him, tilting innocently.

  Talos stared into the single green eyehole.

  “She calls me Tal,” he whispered, the fog in his mind clearing.

  “What do you—”

  CRASH.

  Talos didn't hesitate. He swung the bottle with the full force of his straining muscles.

  The glass exploded against her neck.

  It wasn't a warning blow; it was an execution. The jagged shards shore through silk and skin, sinking deep into the throat.

  The thing wearing Nomi’s shape staggered back. It didn't scream. It didn't bleed red. A thick, viscous black sludge oozed from the wound, staining the pristine crimson dress.

  The ballroom music stopped abruptly. The hundreds of dancers froze, turning their blank porcelain faces toward the bar in unison.

  The Nomi-thing steadied itself against the counter. It raised a hand to the ruin of its neck, its head tilting to the side. The green eye behind the mask went dead and the green darkened into emerald.

  A small, pitying grin pulled at its lips beneath the porcelain, dancing in the emerald eye.

  “You really don’t know how to be happy, do you?”

  The world fractured. The golden light spilling through the cracks like a mirror struck by a hammer.

  Talos’s eyes flashed open.

  He scrambled back, boots sliding on the slick cobbles, hand grasping for his short sword, before he slipped and landed in the water.

  Talos pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly as the vertigo hit him.

  “Where—”

  Standing in the pouring rain, was Nomi. The Fox was staring blankly at the sky, a dopey, drugged smile on her face. Her dagger rested against her own throat, ready to tear.

  Talos’s jaw tightened until his teeth creaked. He looked at Nomi—at the dagger resting millimeters from her artery.

  “What-”

  He let go of his sword. He held up his empty hands.

  “Don’t,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “Please. Don't… Nomi.”

  Then, without warning, the invisible strings were cut.

  Nomi collapsed.

  She hit the water hard, the splash sounding loud and violent in the silence. But she didn't stay down. The moment her skin touched the freezing puddle, instinct overrode trauma.

  She scrambled backward, her heels scraping against the cobblestones, kicking up dirty water.

  “Stop— Stop!”

  She hissed the words, her breath hyperventilating. In a blur of motion, her daggers were in her hands. She didn't look like a person; she looked like a cornered animal, her pupils blown wide, scanning the alleyway for threats that weren't there.

  Her eyes landed on Talos.

  He took a step toward her, hands raised.

  “Nomi-”

  “Stay back!”

  She slashed the air between them, the blade passing inches from his nose.

  “Prove you’re him! Prove it!”

  Talos froze, his eyes narrowing. He saw the terror in her stance. She wasn't seeing him; she was seeing another mask. Another trick.

  “Tell me something only we—” Her voice cracked, desperate and shrill. “No… it knew everything. It knew everything. Tell me something I don’t know! Prove it!”

  “I— What?”

  Talos faltered. He had broken free of his trap through sheer stubbornness, but her? She’d just been yanked out of paradise. Logic wouldn't work on a mind so fractured, but sensation might.

  He scowled slightly, lowering his voice to a calm, commanding tone.

  “Take a breath, Nomi. What’s different? Can you smell things? I couldn't smell anything in the illusion. It was sterile.”

  She glared at him, her chest heaving, the daggers still shaking in her grip. But her nose twitched.

  She inhaled.

  Instead of the scentless void of the ballroom, she got a lungful of soaked garbage, ozone, and the metallic tang of drying blood. She took a step closer. She smelled rain. She smelled mud. And beneath it all, the familiar, grounding scent of sweat and leather that was distinctly him.

  Talos took a careful step forward, then another, until he gently pushed the blade of her dagger away from his chest.

  She didn't resist.

  The fight drained out of her legs, and she slumped forward, her forehead resting against his damp shoulder. She was shaking.

  “You alright?”

  “Yeah,” she murmured into his chest, though she didn't sound like it. She sounded exhausted. “Did you… slap me? Why does my face hurt?”

  “No. Of course—”

  CHOMP.

  “Ow! Fuck-”

  Talos flinched, his shoulder jerking as sharp teeth clamped down on his trapezius muscle through the heavy coat. It wasn't enough to tear the skin and wool, but it was hard enough to leave a bruise.

  He stared down at the top of her head, bewildered.

  “What the fuck?”

  Nomi pulled back, spitting out a stray fiber of wool. She looked up at him, her eyes clear for the first time since they woke up.

  “...There was no sense of taste, either,” she grumbled.

  “We… We have to get back to the Mid-City. Where are we?”

  The pair looked around. They were deep in the East District of the Upper City—a labyrinth of high walls and narrow, winding streets. In the distance, a high-pitched shriek echoed off the cobblestones as the last rays of the muzzled sun gave up their fight against the clouds.

  Night had fallen. The Matriarch’s domain was waking up.

  They were cold, disoriented, and soaked to the bone. Talos felt the familiar ache in his joints—he still couldn't use any potions for two more days without risking toxicity. A wisp of genuine fear began to eat at the edges of his mind. He was unarmored, exhausted, and carrying a compromised partner.

  Nomi’s eyes flicked back to him. She saw the panic rising.

  She leaned in and bit him again.

  It was gentler this time—a sharp nip on the neck, just enough to sting, just enough to say: I’m here.

  “Stop. Focus,” she muttered, her voice low and fierce. “If you fall apart, I will too.”

  She pulled back, her eyes searching his face, looking for the man she knew.

  “And I want to have sex while you don’t hate me before we die.”

  She forced a little, jagged smile, her daggers held loosely in her trembling hands.

  Talos stared at her. The absurdity of the statement—the desperate, horny, terrified honesty of it—broke the spiral of fear instantly.

  “...You have problems,” he muttered, straightening his posture and gripping his shortsword.

  “Keeps things interesting,” she whispered.

  The two started to shift, making their way through the darkened streets.

  It was a gauntlet of silence. They passed dark alleyways and open windows, expecting an ambush at every turn. But nothing struck. There were no screeching bats, no mutants leaping from the rooftops.

  But they weren't alone.

  Talos could feel the eyes on the back of his neck. Hundreds of them. Watching from the gutters, from the eaves, from the cracks in the masonry. The Coven wasn't missing; they were waiting. They were letting the mice scurry back to their hole because the cat wanted a longer game, their muted laughter chasing them through the streets.

  They staggered into the safe house—a boarded-up shack Rinerva had marked as a forward operating base—and slammed the heavy oak door behind them, barring it against the night.