Shadows in Velvet - Part 2

The House of Falling Stars looked like something stitched from the dreams of an opium-drunk tailor.

Its three towers leaned in opposing directions like dancers caught mid-spin. The walls were made of pale pink stone imported from some ruined temple in the east, veined with gold and soft to the touch. Water spilled in silent sheets down the front façade, catching the light of the sunrise in a thousand fractured colors. And on the threshold, etched above a set of polished blackwood doors, were the words: What you reveal, we record. What you hide, we sell.

Elira didn’t know whether to applaud the honesty or burn the place down.

Inside, the air smelled of rosewater and secrets. Silken drapes drifted on invisible breezes. Perfume spells hummed faintly in the corners, altering their scent depending on who passed by. Elira caught a whiff of blood-orchid and gravebark. Vaelin—standing beside her in full shadow-draped formalwear—smelled the cool frost of pine and steel.

Tovi had told them to arrive precisely at the seventh bell. Any earlier and the nobles would notice. Any later, and Tovi would begin stealing jewelry.

He greeted them with a shriek of delight and a wardrobe assistant in each arm.

“Elira, my iron-hearted enchantress! And Vaelin—you make brooding look like a religion.”

He clapped his hands. A trio of masked tailors emerged from a side chamber, carrying bolts of cloth so fine they shimmered like moonlight on oil.

“Time to make you beautiful.”

“I’m already dressed,” Vaelin muttered.

“Dear boy,” Tovi said, “you’re dressed for a funeral in a dungeon. This is a masquerade at Verashtel’s most venomous court. You need silk. You need velvet. You need a persona.”

Vaelin crossed his arms.

Elira suppressed a smile. She had seen Vaelin face down abyss-crawlers and necrotic warlocks with less discomfort than he was showing now. Still, he allowed the tailors to take his measurements, albeit with the grace of a man enduring surgery.

Tovi spun to Elira. “And you, darling, will be my masterpiece.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a dangerous word.”

“Have I ever been careful?”

Elira allowed him to lead her to a raised dais where a ring of enchanted mirrors spun slowly around her. She felt them reading her—measuring not just height or width, but presence. Mood. Bearing.

Tovi examined her like a jeweler eyeing a cursed diamond.

“Strength in the shoulders, tempered by restraint. Bold lines. Deep colors. And a mask that says, ‘I will enchant you, then burn down your house.’”

“I do like setting things on fire,” Elira said lightly.

Tovi’s grin widened. “Then we’ll use red. With void-thread embroidery. And an accent in bloodglass, just to whisper dangerous romantic.”

By the eighth bell, they were ready.

Vaelin wore a black doublet of matte velvet and silken shadow, his mask a minimalist sweep of midnight with subtle silver trim shaped like a crow’s wing. He looked like someone who killed kings for fun and wrote poetry about it after.

Elira’s gown moved like oil on water—fluid, layered, unpredictable. Her mask was a half-veil of obsidian lace, covering only her right eye and cheek. The left side of her face was framed with spell-bound ribbon that shifted hues with her mood.

And Tovi?

He wore gold. Of course he did. Gold and plum, with silver gloves and a cape made from actual raven feathers that fanned out when he spun. His mask had a beak, sharp and long, studded with tiny garnets.

“Now,” he declared, hands on hips, “let’s cause a scandal.”

The ball was held in the Skyglass Hall atop the Velvet Crown Spire, a structure so tall and thin it swayed in strong winds. Carriages arrived by airship dock. Guests wore masks enchanted to display false auras of nobility. Musicians floated on platforms of light above a ballroom of polished crystal, where the elite of five nations danced on the backs of starving cities.

Tovi led them through it like a knife through silk.

He introduced Vaelin as Lord Virelion of the Hollow Mantle, a recluse prince from the storm-shattered isles. Elira became Lady Sarienne of the Everthorns, famed for taming a basilisk with poetry. Tovi himself went by The Marquis du Mirage, heir to a vanished duchy known for exquisite lies.

As they mingled, Elira caught sight of their first target.

Ambassador Kreel, squat and sweating behind a fox mask of bronze, stood surrounded by simpering attendants. The man was a coward, but useful—he held the balance of trade between the sea-chains and the mountain keeps. If he died, war between the merchant fleets and the stone clans would ignite.

The second target, High Priestess Mereth, appeared soon after. Tall, thin, draped in colorless silk. Her mask was bone-white with four eyelets—one for each of her gods. She moved through the room without touching the floor, her feet never visible. Her death would collapse half the temple covenants and fracture the eastern holy orders.

Elira didn’t see the third target—Guildmaster Stonehand. But she did spot something else: a flicker of crimson just outside the arcane security wards.

She nudged Vaelin, subtly. “West balcony. Look.”

A figure cloaked in red velvet moved with impossible stillness, face hidden behind a six-eyed mask. He—or she—watched the gathering with the calm of someone awaiting a trigger.

“The Veil,” Vaelin murmured.

“Already here.”

Elira felt it then—an itch behind her mask, a shiver in her spell-thread gown. Someone had placed a scrying mark on the room.

Tovi slid between them, face too calm.

“Change of plan,” he said under his breath. “Someone’s moved the timeline up. Kreel dies tonight.”

“How do you know?” Vaelin asked.

“Because I just found the wine list,” Tovi said. “And someone added a bottle of Serpent’s Dawn. That vintage was banned after it killed an entire wedding party in the Blood Isles.”

“Poison?” Elira asked.

Tovi nodded. “Laced cork. When he opens the bottle, it releases a vapor. Looks like celebratory mist. Kills in five breaths.”

“Can you stop it?”

Tovi’s grin turned wicked. “I’ll need a distraction.”

Vaelin didn’t wait.

He turned sharply, stalked into the center of the ballroom, and with one sweeping motion, threw his wineglass to the ground. The shattering was exquisite.

All eyes turned.

He pointed at a noble wearing a falcon mask and thundered, “You! You dared call my bloodline diluted?”

Gasps. Murmurs.

The falcon-masked noble stammered. “I—I’ve never—”

“Insult a Hollow Mantle?” Vaelin roared. “You besmirch the storms themselves!”

Half the nobles backed away. A duel was inevitable.

Tovi vanished.

Elira placed a hand on Vaelin’s arm, as if restraining him. She leaned in and whispered, “That was a bit much.”

“Bought him time.”

A moment later, a servant screamed.

The Serpent’s Dawn bottle shattered at the ambassador’s feet, expelling a misty curl of green. Tovi reappeared, holding a tray and looking mildly offended.

“Apologies,” he said brightly. “New staff. Clumsy.”

Guards swarmed. The ambassador was escorted away, shaken but alive.

The Veil agent on the balcony remained still, unmoved.

But now they knew.

The game had begun.

And the masks weren’t coming off anytime soon.

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All Parts of the Series

Shadows In Velvet Part 1

Shadows In Velvet Part 2

Shadows In Velvet Part 3

Shadows In Velvet Part 4

Shadows In Velvet Part 5