The ballroom was alive with glitter and deception.
Evelyne stood at the edge of the crowd, her hands gloved in lace, her expression carved in cool marble. Around her swirled silks, laughter, and champagne an illusion of civility, wrapped tightly around a court built on betrayal.
The Queen had invited her to the Winter Masquerade.
A test.
A warning.
An opportunity.
She intended to use it as all three.
As nobles danced beneath chandeliers dripping in crystal, Evelyne moved like a ghost between them gathering whispers, counting alliances. Every hand that brushed hers, every smile directed her way, was just another blade testing her armor.
She spotted Camilla Vexley across the floor.
The same woman who had once taken her place in the prince's heart. The one who cried false tears when Evelyne was arrested. The one who had whispered lies into ears hungry for scandal.
Tonight, Camilla wore silver and emerald, her mask hiding little but her arrogance.
"Lady Ashthorn," she purred, approaching with a wineglass in hand. "You look… haunting."
Evelyne smiled. "And you still dress like guilt."
Camilla blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You should be careful, Camilla," Evelyne said gently. "You're starting to look like someone who remembers what she did."
The smile faded from Camilla's face. Her grip tightened on the glass, but Evelyne had already turned away.
In the upper balcony, Prince Lucien watched the interaction. He saw the fire in Evelyne's posture. The way people gave her space now, as if they sensed the change.
She was no longer the lamb they could lead to slaughter.
She was the wolf who survived the pyre.
Beside him, Queen Viora spoke without looking. "She's dangerous."
Lucien replied, "Because we made her so."
The Queen's gaze flicked to him, unreadable. "Are you prepared to face her?"
"I'm not sure," Lucien said. "If I'm meant to face her or follow her."
Midnight struck. A violin's cry signaled the beginning of the final waltz.
Evelyne stepped into the center of the floor.
Alone.
One by one, the dancers parted for her. Not out of respect but something older, colder.
Fear.
She raised her chin, eyes locked with the throne where Queen Viora sat.
And then she began to dance.
No partner.
No apology.
Just her and the music and the ghost of the girl they tried to destroy.
Her gown flared like blood in moonlight.
Her smile was poison wrapped in roses.
And every noble who watched her knew:
Evelyne Ashthorn was not here to beg.
She was here to unmake a kingdom.