Page 159

Ambrose sips his coffee—grimaces like he’s just remembered what it tastes like. “Death of the Last Oracle.”
“Of course it is.”
His expression doesn’t change. “It’s symbolic.”
“So is a knife in the back.”
“Then wear armor,” he says. “Or silk. They bleed the same under pressure.”
I go still.
Because the thing is—I don’thaveanything to wear. Not for a night like this. Not for a production layered in performance, expectation, and centuries of ritual dressed in couture.
I glance down at my boots, scuffed and half-laced, and then to my jacket—worn, fitted, undeniably me, but not built for optics.
Ambrose watches me think. I hate that he always knows.
“You need something else,” he says.
I scowl. “What I need is for the world to stop spinning on aesthetics and power plays.”
“Too late,” he murmurs. “You want to survive the spectacle, you’ll need to look the part.”
“I’m not some doll they can parade around.”
“No,” he says softly. “But you are the reason they’re watching.”
I blink. My breath stills.
And then he stands.
“Come on.”
I don’t move. “Where are we going?”
“To get you something worth bleeding in.”
The boutique we step into is tucked between a cursed jewelry shop and a gallery that only exhibits haunted mirrors. The signoutside is a single silver eye stitched into black velvet. No name. Just promise.
Inside, the lighting is dim and decadent, like moonlight filtered through sin. Racks of dresses hover like specters—dark silks, violent reds, metallics that shimmer like a blade mid-swing.
I trail behind, fingers brushing fabrics that feel like spells—things meant tobind,not just adorn.
A shop attendant appears out of nowhere. All angles and glamor, hair braided with thin silver chains. She doesn’t look at Ambrose. She looksat me.Like she knows exactly who I am, and exactly what tonight means.
“Something for the Oracle’s execution?” she asks, tone bored but efficient.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Ambrose steps in smoothly. “She’s not the one dying. Just the one everyone’s watching.”
The woman nods. Unbothered. She gestures toward the back with a flick of her fingers. “You’ll want the private section.”
I glance at Ambrose, uncertain.
He just leans close, voice low and dry at my ear. “Try not to pick something that screams rebellion. Or do. I’d like to see Riven choke on his own hypocrisy.”
I roll my eyes. But I go. Because whatever this is turning into—performance or not—I know I’m going to walk out of here as someone they won’t forget.