The ball was not a masquerade.

There were no dancing masks of titanium lace and pomegranate silken skirts. Nor were there colourful masques to frame the eyes and mysteries of every guest who could afford the literal and figurative form of anonymity. Anyone wearing a mask was not anonymous. They were obvious, as they were supposed to be. One does not hide a weapon meant to intimidate; they are put on display. Shown to the court as a reminder of strength. She wanted him to be anonymous. Princess Myrcella wanted a public display of her power, but an anonymous victim.

The man approaching would be the aim of her plot. She only smirked and beckoned him closer, she is who the stranger is looking for.

His mask of sprawled vines in shaded umber and sprouted emeralds, bottomed by a magnetic silver steel in bold, almost feminine delicate intricacy. The hilt of his royally commissioned sword matched the spiralled ivory mask, each detail of both mask and sword twisting through ancient metal. With blackened hair of curled edges brushing the base of his neck, looking through concentrated eyes of honeyed amber. One could never tell if a man in a mask was handsome, but if masks were faces- as they commonly are- this man is bewitchingly alluring. The royal guard dressed like a prince but held himself with an astute sense of disciplined piousness. Straight-backed and every movement planned, precise and intentional. He was truly nothing short of lean, brutal regality.

His bow to the princess Myrcella was curt and lingering, his eyes rolling upwards to meet her eyes as he ascended. A coy glance away leered to his inner anxieties rising to the surface. The princess was about to ruin a life. Likely multiple before her plan was finished.

"Join me for a dance." She asked, and he dare not deny his sense of astute curiosity of the bold approach of a princess. He leered a sense of danger, having revealed himself so directly in a state of outlier. To be bare faced would ironically blend in, as a princess she desired the same anonymity he held, but she never could, that is what he was for.

She took his outstretched hand and consented to be pulled into the cusp of his chest. Close to the soft silk and steel of his attire, she admired him. What a true shame it will be, the manipulating of this poor soul she would have to do. No man of sanity would want to be close to her, he would be her sword, her enemy, her scapegoat. Myrcella would dare not let the ruse of her persona or the dance and situation distract her, the princess's ambition was stronger than that. She would not be a princess forever. She would steel herself for the good of her kingdom. Myrcella would be a Queen

"Hello Carver." Myrcella cooed. He did not know her game. He did not know anything other than to come to the ball with the assurance of a masquerade. His impression would be neutral. And then it would be hatred. This, she knew. But her hardened nature would not budge over the ideals of a single man. A pawn. The princess clutched him tighter, leaning forward to whisper in his jewelled ear. Carver and Myrcella were caught in a statically routine waltz, the touch of her gloved hands impersonal on his armoured skin. Blood stained hands were hidden by clothed fingers. The death of a royal would be on her hands. The death of a king.

Princess Myrcella only whispered a few words. A promise. An unveiled threat.

"I know who you are." A sleight of hand, she slipped a trinket into his hand. One he knew well. Carver did not have to look to know what it was. A small, palm-sized velvet blue pouch. Surprisingly heavy to the touch, that made a small clink as the objects inside moved and clinked. And into Carver's ear she whispered all the foul deeds he had committed in the name of survival. For coin. She whispered tales of torture and murder. Of treachery and violence, his attempt at redemption.

His face was a menagerie of surprise and loathing. Just as she wanted.

And just as she had plotted, the pair were swarmed by guards. Her royal knights of cerulean blue and engraved silvered steel. All pawns, paid pawns.

The princess let herself be separated from the assassin, her personal swords coming in to arrest the man at her invitation. They had been waiting for her signal; the bag. She had captured an assassin. And his masked eyes poured into hers with a heightened anger. Myrcella ignored the melancholic symphony humming around her. The ball, the guests and the eyes set on the scene unfolding. The assassin did not resist, did not make a single noise as he was carried off. But his amber eyes followed her, unwavering as he was dragged off, disappearing into the silken seas of people and steel.

The non-existent silence, rising sounds of confused guests forebodes a death. A murder.

~~

Deep, dark, dank dungeons were the perfect accommodations for an assassin. For Carver. Myrcella had almost hesitated to enter the under-castle, it was known for its curses and foul whispers of hated royalty. With her blued knights at her back, she descended into the hallowed abyss. Barely illuminating candles lined the stairs and hallways, becoming more and more redundant the further they went in. With the candles revealing more inherent darkness, the louder the prisoners got. It almost felt as if the further they went, the less light and the more screams echoed. At the foot of the stairs, she paused to let herself adjust to the never-ending blackness staring back at her. The boundless abyss awaiting for her, daring to step inside even more.

Wordlessly, her battlemage stepped forward. His blue robes barely distinguishable in the lack of light. With a raise of his hand, he uttered magic. A foreign, whispered language of apostates. Of magic. The green flame erupting from his fingertips danced down the length of his arm and wrist, the only source of light in the entire hallway. For the first time since the dungeons were blacked out… she saw what lay in the darkness.

The hallways were long, stoned and mossy. On both sides of the hallways were lined with cast iron bars to form inhumane cages, sitting in these cages were slaves. Exclusively Sgiath. Her eyes glided over countless Sgia huddled together, looking towards them through inked faces and exhausted eyes. Tall, dark-skinned people known for their unusual names and inked faces. They are named for their talents, and quirks- their propriis. Given identity and a purpose at a young age, inked with the imbibement of their own power. They marked their faces and bodies with motifs of their lifelong passion. Such a loving culture being forced into submission by a tyrant, by the King. They were different, expressed themselves and their purposes differently. So, her brother enslaved them. Took advantage of their docile nature for free labor.

Her knights urged her forward, but she was unable to take her eyes off the unbelievable amount of beings stacked only a few inches of iron away. The wide hallway felt much smaller with only herself and her knights compared to the Sgia watching them. Their pained, angry faces served only as a deeper reminder of her goal. To become Queen, when she takes the throne, she can ignite the dungeons and free them.

Her spite quelled deeper inside; the Blackout Dungeons were not what she had anticipated. They were worse. Myrcella could not help but remind herself of what her brother would tell her about his famed Blackout Dungeons. A filthy, dirty place for the worst of the world. She knew now that he had been gentle with what he told her.

The sounds of the Sgia's wails were unnerving, but not as loud as they seemed when she first heard them. Their cries were the subtle crying and weeping of their children, the begging to be freed in their native language.

Her steeled heart almost wasn't enough.

Myrcella blocked out their cries, she would free them. Now she was more determined. She would do anything it took to become Queen. The treatment of the Sgia was no longer a story, she had seen it. Myrcella let her knights lead her to the end of the tunneled dungeons, where her masked assassin sat chained to the wall. Not in a cage, but exposed to any who dare enter this far. She had left him here for a few hours, and as she had ordered, her knights had chained him barbarically. A thick, iron collar was clasped around his neck by a very short chain. If he tried to sit or stand he would choke on the pressure of his position. She had forced him to squat for the entirety of his time here. A trick she had borrowed from her brother's arsenal of subtle, slow-burn torture. She dare not let herself find guilt in what she had done.

It is all apart of the plan.

The surrounding Sgia watched her approach him, all eyes trained on what she would do next. They did not know if they could trust her, being royalty was enough to warrant their hatred. She had to focus on Carver. On her assassin.

"Did you have a good time tonight, Carver?" She purred into the thickened air, finally breaking her own, gently terrified silence. Carver sat weakened against the cold wall, his legs shaking from the squat he was forced to hold. Ankles unchained, the option to move his legs, but not his hands was the true torture. The dirty, itchy bloodstained rags he wore only deepened his sense of distaste. Such a strong man reduced to rags and chains- and not in the fun way. Now, Carver was miserable and decrepit as he had always feared.

"Fuck you." He growled, looking into her eyes. He watched and observed her every breath, trying to figure out her twisted game. Carver watched in deep anticipation as she shooed her guards, her Apostate holding his green fire to a brazier by her side.

The light would not last long without its source.

Her guards had drifted off further down the hall, out of earshot. Seemingly poised and gentle, she approached him. The princess Myrcella did not wait for him to speak, she began.

"The entire court knows that an assassin is in the Blackout Cells. Trying to murder the King's sister is a horrid affair, Carver." Carver only glared as she squatted in front of him, only a foot away from him. Carver knew he had let himself fall into her trap- coming to the castle at her invitation, she'd even used his real name, Carver. Not his assassin name. He'd assumed she wanted him for the knight position he'd put his name down for. He had heard stories of the princess. All were surprisingly… good. She had shown herself to be kind and empathetic in the stories told by commoners. But he spotted in her a brutality, a honed edge of cold steel. She had learned his secret and held it by a thread in front of him, she had a plan. And his past was now leverage.

Carver finally got a look at who had encapsulated him, who had outplayed him. The princess Myrcella was truly one of varying shades. She was cruel, to him at least but could not deny the beauty she was sought for. She had oddly feline, almost candid green eyes- the hue of a fresh spring day in the vast forest surrounding the castle. Bright, soft, and wild all at once. The kind of deepened, lively green that revives the land after an unforgiving winter, the stubborn sprigs of grass budding through the confines of the muted snow. Hued by the green-Apostate fire, they seemed vibrant in their malicious intent. The unmistakable sign of her royal blood; long cascading hair of flickering deep auburn curls that defied dominion and gravity with equal contempt. Held in the highest regard of protocol, the hair of royalty represented the peace within a kingdom. Her face was all slanted curves and arcs, a slightly curved nose and bowed lips. They wordlessly spoke of softness and sweetness, the corners lifted in a grin that promised utmost mischief. The stories of her persona were not misled. But no bard was able to catch the silvery, cruel hand she had bestowed to him.

"Here is the deal. You will be released from these cells, given position, a title, and the honor you dared seek. In return you will work for me." Her voice gave very little room for debate or argument. She was not asking or proposing a deal. She was telling him.

"Just kill me instead." He huffed, trying to keep his pride, and ignoring the ache in his neck from its constant elevation. The princess' smile only widened, her hand reaching up to caress his dirty face. His captors hadn't taken off his mask, they'd left it on for some symbolic irony. She leaned in close, to whisper in his bleeding ear. Her voice was a gentle steel that came in close and spoke warmly. Her words the very poison which would be the death of him.

"You will live, Carver. Even if my guards must force food down your throat. You will stay like this until your legs break and your body unable to hold itself." Her words cut deep as she pulled away, her smile like wine in its delicacy. Her brutality shocked him. Her ruthless proposition would haunt him. Carver would have to be smart if he were to survive her leverage. But for now, the boiling hate and mistrust echoed deeply in his gut rising to the flushes of his skin and the deep breaths resounding through his chest to calm down. She could sense his dislike, the budding of a beautiful hatred. And she only smirked in knowing as he agreed. Carver giving consent for the princess to own him.

Myrcella stood wordlessly, reaching behind his head to untie the knot of the mask he wore. She ignored his bare face and reached for his chained wrist. For a moment Carver assumed she would unlock them, to free him. But she did not. The princess dug two fingers into the iron cuff and coated her fingers in the blood of his wrists cut by steel. His own lifeblood, the sacred oil from within dripping from her royal hand she wiped it over his face, humiliatingly, controllingly.

She owned him. And she knew it.

Myrcella turned on her heels just as the Apostate fire dimmed, following into the darkness to find her knights.

"Release him into his chambers at nightfall." She hissed to them, knowing very well that it was only midday.