Azazel weaved her way through the crowded ballroom, her borrowed maid's uniform brushing against the edges of expensive gowns and polished armor. Her breath hitched as she slipped through a side hallway, tailing a group of maids heading toward a private kitchen. The air in the corridor was colder than the ballroom, sending a chill down her spine, but she ignored it. Every step she took carried her closer to her goal. Revenge was within reach, yet she had to tread carefully.
Her disguise had held up so far, though it wasn't without its flaws. The uniform was slightly loose on her lithe frame, and the simple braid she'd tied her hair into didn't match the polished styles of the other maids. Still, no one had paid her much attention—yet. She kept her head low, her movements practiced and unassuming.
