Chapter 9

The next two mornings, the heaviness in her chest remained, a palpable, unspoken presence at the back of her mind. But Aoba ignored it. It was time to get into character.

The women from before arrived slightly after breakfast on the morning of the gala, helping her transform into Lady Mossworth. They helped her put on the crimson dress, the cool silk a snug, second skin. They worked meticulously around her concealed weapons. Next, they arranged her hair in an elegant, intricate style, securing it with her delicate pins. The makeup accentuated her eyes, her lips, her cheekbones. She didn’t recognize the woman staring back at her through the mirror. She was now Lady Mossworth. Beautiful, elegant, and utterly deadly.

The perfect weapon.

Soren watched them through everything. He had also changed, trading his worn, practical clothes for the fine, tailored wine-red suit. His hair was slicked using the hair oil the women brought in. He looks every bit the wealthy, reclusive lord he was supposed to be.

A few hours later, the inn owner knocked on their door, announcing the arrival of the carriage.

Soren handed Aoba a small, elegant purse filled with coins and a few of her specialized tools.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice a low, even rumble.

“Ready,” she replied, her voice a cool, confident whisper.

He offered her his arm. She slipped her hand in, resting on the fine wool of his sleeve. They walked out of the inn, a vision of elegance and power. The carriage was waiting, a sleek, black vehicle drawn by a pair of powerful horses. Soren helped her climb inside, then followed after. The plush velvet interior was a stark contrast to the harsh reality of their mission.

The ride to the manor was silent, grim. Aoba could feel the weight of her daggers, strapped securely on the back of her dress—the texture of the cool silk of her dress, the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart. Soren sat across from her, keeping his gaze on the horizon.

In another lifetime, Aoba began to muse, maybe this ride to the gala would’ve been more pleasant. Just a night out for a dance, as a couple. Enjoying the sunset, having dinner, then sleeping in each other’s arms.

She closed her eyes, smiling at her own wishful thinking.

The manor was a vision of opulent excess. A sprawling, three-story building of white marble and gold leaf, surrounded by manicured gardens and a high, imposing wall. It was a fortress, a testament to Caldris’s wealth and power. And his bad taste.

“Here,” Soren handed her a mask after already putting on his own.

They’ve practiced dancing and even sparring with the masks on before, but she could never get used to the limited vision. She would rather be blindfolded.