Elwyndria’s Moonlight Masquerade was the crown jewel of the kingdom’s social calendar. Nobles from every province gathered in opulence, their masks glittering beneath the chandeliers like constellations on Earth.

But none shone brighter that night than the man in white and gold.

Corvus.

He was a vision of wealth — a high-collared coat of ivory trimmed in gold embroidery, with slightly poofy sleeves ending in delicate lace cuffs. His fitted trousers matched, and his half-mask, pure white with a grand feather sweeping back like a plume of royalty, concealed all but his sharp jaw and calculating eyes. He looked like nobility — danced like one, even. But under that mask was a thief.

He had not come to revel or flirt or bow.

He had come for the Star of Althea.

A moonstone crystal passed through generations of kings, it was rumored to bring clarity of mind, to ward off madness and reveal truth. But to Corvus, it meant something far more urgent: survival.

His sister was dying.

Cursed by a mysterious sickness of the mind, she wandered in delusions, unable to sleep or speak in coherent words. No cleric or alchemist could explain it. But an old archivist once told Corvus that the Star had been used in the past to cure ailments not even magic could touch — by binding to the soul and burning away illusions.

The royals didn’t need it. They kept it locked in a vault like a trinket.

So he would take it.

He slipped away from the ballroom as the violins played their third waltz, scaling a column and vanishing into the shadowed halls. Down hidden stairways, past guards too drunk or distracted to see, and finally into the treasure vault, sealed with a riddle-lock. He solved it with a gloved hand and a whispered curse.

The Star of Althea glowed coldly in its glass pedestal.

He snatched it — and the alarm flared.

By the time soldiers flooded the corridor, Corvus had already vanished, cloak trailing like a phantom. He doubled back toward the ballroom, his only exit now choked with armored men.

He entered again through a side door, winded, and merged with the crowd like a blade into a sheath. But guards were now inspecting guests. Suspicion was in the air.

He needed cover. And fast.

That’s when he saw her.

She stood near the edge of the dance floor, alone but far from unnoticed — a noblewoman in midnight blue, her silver mask detailed with fine crystals. She watched the masquerade like a chessboard she already knew the moves to.

Corvus didn’t hesitate. He strode to her, bowed low with elegant flair, and murmured, “Forgive me, my lady — I need a dance to keep my head.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a confession?”

“Only a request.”