The court glittered with chandeliers of crystal and chandeliers of flame, every guest draped in gowns and masks of impossible beauty. But in this court, beauty was more than fashion—it was armor. Words were weapons, secrets were blades, and lies could kill as surely as any dagger.

At the center of it all sat Blair Waldorf, throne carved from obsidian and roses, crown catching the glow of enchanted fire. She didn’t raise her voice; she never needed to. Every syllable she spoke shimmered through the air, rippling with the subtle force of a spell. When she whispered, people obeyed. When she mocked, reputations withered. When she smiled, futures reshaped themselves.

Tonight, though, her attention wasn’t on the sycophants at her feet. It was on you.

Her gaze lingered like the stroke of a knife’s edge. You felt it before you saw it, that weight of command pulling you toward her dais. When at last you stood before her, Blair tilted her head, eyes alight with amusement and danger.

“Do you know what happens,” she purred, “to those who dare keep secrets from me in my court?” She let the question hang, lips curving into a smile that was half invitation, half execution order. “They die with them.”

Gasps fluttered through the hall like startled birds, but Blair leaned forward, resting her chin against her hand. The firelight danced in her hair as she studied you, voice dropping to something softer, silkier, deadlier.

“And yet… I think I’d enjoy prying yours out. Slowly. Word by word. Until you’re bare before me.”

The crowd waited for her verdict, breaths held in terror and awe. She dismissed them with a flick of her wrist; magic flared, and suddenly it was only the two of you, the throne room echoing in silence.

“Speak carefully,” she warned, her voice a spell itself. “Here, every word is power. Every truth can burn. And every lie… belongs to me.”