The Argent Ball was a symphony of lies.
Jack stood at the edge of the grand hall, his blackthorn mask clinging to his face like a second skin. The air hummed with the clink of crystal goblets and the rustle of silk, the guests swirling in a kaleidoscope of jewel-toned gowns and gilded masks. Every laugh felt rehearsed, every smile a blade sheathed in velvet. He adjusted his gloves, the leather stiff and unfamiliar, and scanned the crowd for Evangeline.
Find her before they do.
In Crimson Thorns, the Argent Ball was where Evangeline's enemies first conspired to poison her. The original Riven had died here, choking on a tainted glass of wine meant for his mistress. Jack's fingers tightened around the silver tray of drinks he carried. Not tonight.
"Riven."
He turned, and his breath hitched.
Evangeline descended the staircase like a storm given form. Her gown was obsidian satin, slit to the thigh, its bodice embroidered with silver serpents that coiled around her ribs. Her mask, a lacework of onyx feathers, left only her lips visible—painted the same crimson as her nails. She gripped the banister, her rings catching the light like fractured stars, and the room stilled. Even her allies feared her.
"My lady," Jack said, bowing.
"Follow." She didn't glance back as she swept into the crowd, nobles parting like wheat before a scythe. He trailed her, hyperaware of the eyes tracking them. Whispers slithered in their wake:
"The Vossaire viper…"
"They say she executed her last valet for breathing too loudly…"
Evangeline paused beside a marble pillar, plucking a champagne flute from his tray. "Tell me, Riven," she murmured, her voice a blade's edge. "Which of these sycophants wants me dead tonight?"
Jack's gaze flickered over the guests. Lord Caelum, whose son Evangeline had exiled for treason. Lady Isolde, stripped of her lands after a failed rebellion. And there, near the terrace—Senator Veyra, who in the novel had bribed a servant to spike the wine.
"The usual suspects," he said carefully.
Her laugh was a dark melody. "How diplomatic. But you're wrong." She sipped her champagne, her eyes glinting behind the mask. "All of them want me dead. The difference is which ones are brave enough to try."
Before he could reply, a man in a peacock-feathered mask approached, bowing too deeply. "Lady Vossaire! Your beauty outshines even the chandeliers."
"How original," she drawled. "Did you practice that in the mirror, or did your mistress write it for you?"
The man blanched. Jack bit back a smirk.
As the night wore on, Evangeline danced her macabre waltz—exchanging veiled threats with diplomats, dismantling rivals with a smile. Jack stayed close, memorizing faces, intercepting drinks. But when the orchestra struck a waltz, she froze.
"You dance, Riven?"
He stiffened. In his past life, he'd never dared. Crowds suffocated him; touch felt like a invasion. But this body—Riven's body—knew the steps. Muscle memory hummed beneath his skin.
"If you command it," he said.
"I do." She snapped her fingers, and the guests retreated, forming a wide circle. Jack's pulse thundered as she stepped into his arms, her hand cold against his. The music swelled, and they moved.
It was nothing like he'd imagined. Evangeline danced with predatory grace, her every step a challenge. Her nails dug into his shoulder, her breath warm against his ear. "You're staring."
"Apologies."
"Don't." Her voice softened, almost imperceptibly. "I prefer your eyes to their simpering gazes."
The admission startled him. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped—not hers, but the one she wore beneath the skin. Then she spun away, her laugh sharpening. "Careful, Riven. You'll make me think you're human."
The poison came an hour later.
Jack was refilling a diplomat's glass when a maid brushed past him, trembling. Her tray held a single goblet, its rim smudged with violet powder. Nightshade. His chest tightened. This is how it happens.
He intercepted her in the hallway, his voice low. "Who paid you?"
The maid shook, tears spilling. "P-please, I have no choice—"
"You always have a choice." He pried the goblet from her hands, the wine sloshing like blood. "Run. Now."
She fled. Jack stared at the poison, his reflection warping in the crimson liquid. I changed the story. But at what cost?
"A valet with a conscience," purred a voice behind him. "How quaint."
Evangeline leaned against the doorway, her mask discarded, her eyes gleaming with something akin to hunger. "Was it Veyra? Or the simpering Lord Caelum?"
"Does it matter?"
She stepped closer, her gown whispering against the stones. "It matters that you didn't let me kill her."
"You knew?"
"I know everything." She plucked the goblet from his hand and hurled it against the wall. Glass shattered, wine bleeding into the cracks. "But you… you're a riddle, Riven. A man who fears nothing, not even me."
"I fear plenty," he said quietly. "But not you."
Her lips parted, a retort poised like a dagger. But then, footsteps echoed—guards, summoned by the crash. Evangeline seized his wrist, yanking him into a shadowed alcove. They stood inches apart, her chest rising and falling with unspoken fury.
"Why?" she demanded.
"Why what?"
"Why intervene? Why care?"
The truth clawed at his throat. Because I've seen your ending. Because you're more than a villain in a book. But he said, "You're my responsibility."
She laughed bitterly. "Liar." Her thumb grazed his scar, a touch fleeting as a moth's wing. "You're a terrible servant, you know."
"And you're a terrible mistress."
For a heartbeat, her coldness fractured. Then she shoved him back. "Go. Before I change my mind about the hounds."
In his quarters, Jack collapsed onto the narrow bed, his hands still smelling of poison and her perfume. The journal lay open, Riven's notes blurring as he added his own:
She tests me. Why?
The Argent Ball—poison intercepted. Timeline altered. Consequences?
She's not what I thought. Or maybe I'm not.
A knock. The same maid from earlier slipped in, her face streaked with tears. She pressed a folded parchment into his hands. "For you. From… them."
The note bore a single sentence, scrawled in jagged ink:
"Play the hero again, and we'll carve the truth from her bones."
Jack's blood turned to ice. They know.
But worse—they knew about Evangeline.
Chapter 2 End.