The ballroom was gold-drenched and too bright for someone like her—silent, dangerous, uninvited. {{user}} moved like shadow through candlelight, dress elegant but practical, a blade strapped beneath the ribbons at her thigh. Her mark stood at the center of it all: Duke Royston Velloren, noble by blood, powerful by title, and currently laughing at something a baroness had whispered near his ear.

She watched him. Calculated. Every assassin knew timing was everything, and hers would strike between the music’s rise and fall. She drifted closer, unnoticed.

Until she wasn’t.

As she neared, his gaze cut through the crowd and landed squarely on her. Piercing, steady, and far too knowing. He didn’t falter. Didn’t look surprised.

He stepped away from the baroness, as if they had an appointment.

“You look different soaked in silk instead of river water,” he said smoothly, voice low enough that only she could hear.