Page 47

SELENE

T he night of Orthani’s grand gala arrives, and I stand before a tall mirror in a borrowed dressing chamber, heart pounding with a mix of daring and nervous tension.

The estate belongs to some minor noble whose name I barely recall, but all that matters is that I have a quiet spot to shape my magic.

Outside, the city’s elite gather in a grand hall, eager to flaunt their finery and jostle for favor in the eyes of Orthani’s upper caste.

Tonight, I plan to twist that spectacle into a silent quake they’ll never forget.

I exhale slowly, calling upon the stirring energy in my blood.

My transformative gift. A faint hum vibrates under my skin, like an echo from a distant realm.

Transformative magic is a craft of subtlety and finesse—I need the right nuance to mimic the figure I’ve chosen.

The Red Purna taught me the fundamentals: illusions of the flesh, though I was forced to refine them alone after their betrayal.

Now, I stand here, determined to harness every skill to manipulate Orthani’s court from within.

On a small table at my side, a worn parchment depicts the noblewoman I plan to impersonate: Lady Irena Veloras, rumored to have lived centuries past. She was executed for harboring a purna in her family estate, if the legends are accurate.

Since then, her name lingers in hushed stories—some claim her spirit haunts Orthani, awaiting vengeance.

Perfect fodder for my stunt. If rumors hold, Zareth’s lineage once clashed with her, intensifying the dread her memory might still carry.

I stare into the mirror, letting out a slow breath.

My reflection is my own: dark hair pinned up, a sleek black gown hugging my figure, my usual features hinting at the rebellious purna beneath.

But with purposeful concentration, I focus on each detail of Lady Irena’s portrait.

Silvery hair sweeping over her shoulders, skin tinged with a pale glow, sharp cheekbones.

I murmur an incantation, feeling a ripple of arcane tension spread across my body.

It’s a precarious weaving, because Orthani’s wards might sense a spike in magic if I’m not careful.

Gradually, my skin lightens to that eerie pallor, my hair shifts hue, each strand elongating until it cascades down my back in shimmering silver.

My face morphs—eyes adopting the same haunting shade the legends describe.

The shape of my jaw, the arch of my brow, all realign to replicate Lady Irena’s rumored visage.

My heart races at the strain, but I grin when I glimpse the final product: a ghostlike beauty, regal yet unsettling, exactly what I intend to unleash upon Orthani’s unsuspecting court.

I run my palms over the gown—dark velvet with an embroidered silver crest at the waist. A subtle flourish hints at Lady Irena’s ancient house sigil.

The transformation complete, I whisper a final stabilization incantation, ensuring my new face holds under close scrutiny.

My breath trembles, half from excitement, half from dread.

If Zareth recognizes me beneath the transformation, it might spark a confrontation.

But that’s precisely the chaos I want to sow.

Stepping out into the corridor, I find a single guard posted—borrowed from Vaelith’s circle. He doesn’t recognize me, of course, startled by the spectral figure who emerges. “Miss? Are you… lost?” he stammers.

I lower my voice, adopting a soft, melodic tone reminiscent of ancient nobility. “I am expected at the gala. Kindly escort me to the main hall.” My phrasing drips with an archaic flavor, as though I’ve stepped from the pages of Orthani’s haunted history.

He frowns, then nods slowly. “Yes, of course. Right this way.”

We navigate a maze of corridors, candlelit passages thrumming with distant music.

My stomach flutters with nervous energy.

Each step reaffirms the stakes: I’m about to stroll into Orthani’s epicenter of power, disguised as a rumored ghost. If my illusions slip, or if Zareth sees through it, the entire court might turn on me.

But I crave the risk—this city thrives on spectacle, and I plan to give them one that hints at purna retribution.

The guard leads me through gilded double doors that open onto a vast ballroom.

My heart quickens. Soft lamplight and shimmering orbs of arcane luminescence bathe the marble floor, where pairs of dark elves drift in elaborate finery.

High pillars ring the hall, tapestries depicting Orthani’s conquests hanging between them.

A small orchestra plays a lilting tune from a raised platform.

Hundreds of nobles chat and swirl in dance, their laughter echoing under the vaulted ceiling.

The air smells of perfume and spiced wine.

Heads turn the moment I step inside. My haunting appearance arrests their attention—a tall, silver-haired noblewoman, pale as moonlight, wearing an archaic crest. I sense confusion first, then a ripple of fear creeping through the crowd.

They recognize something about me, or at least the rumors that match my appearance. It’s exactly what I want.

Stepping forward, I keep my posture regal, chin lifted. The assembled lords and ladies part unconsciously, whispering among themselves. One bold gentleman approaches, blinking as if disbelieving. “Pardon me… are you related to House Veloras? That crest—how…?”

I grace him with a faint smile, letting my voice carry a soft hush. “House Veloras is but a memory,” I say cryptically. “I come tonight to remind Orthani of debts unpaid.” My words loom in the hush, and a fresh wave of murmurs ripples outward.

I circle deeper into the ballroom, scanning for Zareth’s distinctive figure.

He’ll be here, no doubt—any major gala draws the nobility who want to exert psionic influence.

As if conjured by my thought, I spot him near the far end, robed in deep black embroidered with gold.

He stands with a cluster of lesser lords, wearing that predatory smirk I’ve grown to loathe.

But when his gaze lands on me, it falters.

His eyes widen, the smirk vanishing. My heart leaps.

Zareth breaks away from his companions, crossing the floor.

The hush of the crowd intensifies, tension building.

I remain perfectly still, letting him see Lady Irena’s rumored visage.

He halts a step away, face stiff with shock.

“This is… impossible,” he says, voice low, glancing at the arcane crest on my gown.

“You bear House Veloras’s sigil. That line was extinguished centuries ago. ”

I tilt my head, meeting his stare with an eerie calm. “Was it extinguished, or merely forced into the shadows? Perhaps Orthani’s records are incomplete.” My voice resonates with a faint undertone of arcane echo, a subtle effect woven into my transformation.

Zareth’s hand clenches at his side, a flicker of gold crossing his eyes—psionic magic stirring. “Who are you? Name yourself. I sense… illusions about you.” He steps closer, though not daring an open confrontation in front of so many watchers.

I let out a gentle laugh, letting the illusions swirl subtly, maintaining the impression of a ghostly presence.

“Illusions, Lord Zareth? Perhaps, or perhaps your mind reels from confronting the shade of a house your ancestors betrayed. Don’t you recall the story?

Lady Irena Veloras harbored a purna, defying Orthani’s edicts, until your line delivered the evidence that led to her execution. ”

A collective gasp ripples through the nearby nobles. Zareth’s face pales with fury. “That’s nonsense. I’m House Velcorin, not Veloras. The old tales are muddied—no record states Velcorin orchestrated that downfall.”

I sense his fear, though, lurking beneath his denial.

The rumor that House Velcorin once destroyed House Veloras to gain favor with the council has persisted in hushed corners of Orthani’s lore.

Now I resurrect it in living color. “Believe what you wish. I have come to remind Orthani that purna are not so easily erased. The lines that protect them persist, even if you prefer them forgotten.” I let my voice carry, ensuring the audience around us hears.

Excitement crackles among the onlookers. Some shift away, eyeing me as if I’m truly the resurrected ghost of a noble. Others lean in, enthralled by the scandal I’m invoking. Zareth scowls. “You can’t be Irena. She’s been dead for centuries.”

I shrug elegantly, letting the arcane illusions flicker just enough to hint at an otherworldly glow.

“Orthani’s actions have consequences. If you murdered me once, who’s to say I can’t return from beyond the veil?

” I step forward, lips curling. “Perhaps your House hunts me still, but they will fail again.”

He growls under his breath, leaning in so only I can hear.

“You’re a trickster. This is transformative magic.

I’ll rip it apart, expose you—” He raises a hand, arcane runes shimmering along his wrist. But the crowd is watching, an entire swirl of curious nobles, and I know he won’t dare unleash a full psionic assault in plain sight.

That would scandalize the court, especially after his recent fiasco with the collar attempt.

I keep my expression calm, though my heart pounds. “Do that,” I murmur softly. “And let the entire court witness another attempt at mind enslavement. The last time you tried, you ended up cowering under my illusions, remember?” My pointed reminder makes him blanch.

Zareth’s eyes flick with hatred. He draws back, forcing a cool sneer. “Fine. I’ll play your game tonight. But I’ll unmask you soon enough, little purna.” His last word is whispered, careful not to reveal it to the crowd. Then he storms off in a swirl of black velvet, face twisted in fury.