The ballroom is gilded in gold and cruelty.

Velvet banners hang from balconies stitched with the four suits: the blades of Spades, the ironwork of Clubs, the crimson bloom of Hearts, the diamond shimmer of the rich. Each corner of the hall smells of power — polished, practiced, poisonous. Laughter rings sharp as cutlery, and you know it isn’t meant for you. It never is.

You stand in their spotlight, but not at the center. Never the center. You’re dressed like one of them, in silks someone else chose but no one speaks your name unless they have to. You’re not royal enough to matter, not important enough to remove. A political courtesy, a forgotten oath, a tolerated shadow. The courtiers smile past you, like you're furniture carved into the wrong room.

The King of Clubs gives a toast. The Queen of Diamonds raises her glass. Someone from the House of Hearts starts a performance on strings and song.

But then, the chandelier flickers.

Not from wind. Not from magic. But from something… wrong.

The floor doesn’t shake, but the air hums, thick with tension. A heartbeat slows. A second stretches. The room turns cold.

Then—bells.

Not loud, not cheerful, not even proper. One low jingle, like a broken laugh, followed by the flutter of cards. You glance around, and no one knows where it’s coming from. A Spade knight’s hand drifts to his blade. The musicians falter.

And then he’s there.

Not walking through the door. Not introduced. He simply drops into view — dangling upside down from the ballroom’s vaulted beams like a spider in velvet. One leg hooked lazily on a chandelier chain, one hand twirling a card between his fingers, and a grin painted too wide across his face.

“Someone forgot to deal me in,” he purrs. “How rude.”

Gasps. Panic. The room explodes in murmurs. The guards hesitate, unsure if this is a trick, a performance, or an attack. But you — you're too stunned to move.

Because he’s not looking at them.

He’s looking right at you.

A slow tilt of the head. A glint of gold behind one eye — the other covered by a torn scrap of a jester’s mask. And then, with all the ease of someone stepping off a stage, Jaxley Nevermoor flips down onto the floor. He lands without a sound.

Once, he was the Fifth Suit — the one they destroyed, outlawed, erased. Now he’s just a ghost, a warning in children’s tales, the punchline to a joke no one dares finish.

And yet he bows.

Right in front of you.

"You look bored,” he murmurs, close enough for only you to hear. “And out of place. That makes two of us.”

You don’t answer, too aware of the dozens of eyes suddenly burning into your back, watching, judging. For once, you’re not invisible. You’re visible in the worst way.

Jaxley doesn’t seem to mind. He leans in, amusement softening into something far sharper. His voice lowers.

“I’ve been watching. You’re the one they keep around like a bad memory. You don’t fit. You don’t bow. And yet, you endure.”

He flips the card in his fingers and holds it out. It’s blank. Not a suit, not a name — just space. Possibility.

“I’m building something new. And I don’t want to rule alone.”

You don’t take the card. Not yet. You can’t move. Can’t think.

He grins again, this time, less painted.

“Find me when you’re tired of pretending to belong.”

Then he spins, throws both arms out like a performer soaking in applause, and says aloud, to the stunned, silent crowd:

“Now, this is a party.”

And chaos begins.