Chapter 3 Elena Heart – POV

A day later.

Tonight is that night. The night I had been waiting for.

Twenty years of training. Twenty years of hatred. Twenty years of my mother's lessons and my father's bruises and the quiet, burning promise that I would be the one to bring the Drakes down.

And now, finally, the hour had arrived.

We were dressed. I stood before the mirror in my room at The Gilded Rose, and for a long moment, I did not recognize the woman staring back.

The gown was bold. Crimson red. The color of hearts and blood and the Heart family crest my ancestors had worn into battle.

It was backless, completely, scandalously backless, daring the eye to trace the line of my spine down to the small of my back.

The front dipped low, my assets there for him to see, draped in silk and shimmering with tiny diamonds that caught the candlelight like scattered drops of fire.

The skirt flowed like liquid wine, slit high on my left thigh, where a small blade rested in a velvet sheath, invisible to every eye but mine.

My mother had taught me: A weapon you can see is a threat. A weapon they can't see is a victory.

My makeup was simple.

Barely there. A touch of powder. A whisper of shadow on my lids. The king, Grace had warned me, hated bold makeup. He found it false. Manipulative. The mask beneath the mask.

But my lips were red.

Crimson red. The same shade as the gown. The same shade as the Heart sigil.

I made sure of that.

Let him see my mouth, I thought, pressing my lips together one last time. Let him wonder if it tastes like poison or prayer.

"You look like a sin," Grace said from the doorway, already dressed in silver and blue.

She was wearing her own mask, a delicate thing of lace and feathers, but her eyes were sharp. Assessing. "The king won't look away. Neither will anyone else. Are you ready?"

I turned from the mirror. "No," I said. "But I've never been ready a day in my life. I just do it anyway."

Grace smiled. "That's my girl."

We rented a luxurious carriage. Grace's idea.

"If you arrive in a hired hack," she had said, "they'll know you're poor pretending to be rich. If you arrive in a gilded coach, they'll know you're dangerous pretending to be rich. Either way, they'll watch. But one way, they'll watch with respect."

The carriage was black enamel with gold trim, pulled by two white horses whose manes had been braided with silver ribbon. The driver wore livery. The footman wore gloves.

I sat inside, my red gown pooling around me like spilled wine, and watched the city of Drakmor slide past the window.

The streets were alive tonight. Lanterns hung from every balcony. Music drifted from open windows.

The elite of the kingdom had emerged from their gilded cages, dressed in silks and velvets and masks of every color, silver, gold, black, white.

But no red, because the king hated the color red. I was the only one in red. I had planned that

We entered the palace gates at half past eight.

The carriage rolled through the iron arches, and I pressed my face to the window like a child seeing snow for the first time. I couldn't help it.

The palace was majestic. Luxurious. A fever dream of marble and gold.

Towers rose against the night sky, their spires crowned with torches that burned blue instead of orange. The windows were stained glass, scenes of dragons and kings and battles I had only read about in forbidden books.

The courtyard alone was larger than our entire village, paved with black and white stones arranged in a pattern that looked like a chessboard from above.

The king's game, I thought. And we are all his pieces.

The carriage stopped. A footman opened the door. I placed my hand in his gloved palm and stepped out.

The air smelled of roses and rain.

And fear. So much fear. It clung to the guests like perfume, sweet, cloying, impossible to wash off.

We entered the grand hall.

And I forgot to breathe.

The ceiling was a painted sky, clouds and constellations and a golden sun that seemed to move as you walked. Chandeliers the size of small houses hung from invisible chains, dripping with crystals that scattered light into a thousand fractured rainbows.

The floor was polished obsidian, so dark and so smooth that the guests appeared to be walking on a frozen lake.

People were everywhere.

Noble houses I had memorized from my mother's lessons. House Vane in their silver and blue.

House Ashworth in their black and green. House Marlowe in their purple and gold. The royal council, their masks barely covering their faces because they wanted to be recognized, wanted you to know that they mattered.

And the music. A waltz. Slow and haunting, played by an orchestra hidden somewhere in the shadows above.

I paused at the threshold.

Grace melted into the crowd, her job was to listen, to watch, to gather whispers while I drew the eyes.

And draw them I did.

I entered.

The people began to look at me. Not casually. Not briefly. They stared. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Fans froze mid-flutter. A young lord dropped his wine glass, and the shatter echoed through the hall like a gunshot.

I made sure of that.

My red gown blazed against the sea of silver and gold and black. My bare back caught the candlelight. My red lips smiled, soft, mysterious, just a little sad.

Look at me, I willed them. Look at me and whisper. Look at me and wonder. Look at me and report back to your king.

A woman in emerald green leaned toward her companion. "Who is she?"

A man in a lion mask squinted. "New money? Foreign who dare to wear red?"

An old dowager with a diamond choker sniffed.

"Dangerous. Mark my words. That one is dangerous."

I walked deeper into the hall, my hips swaying just enough, my chin lifted just so. My mother's lessons sang in my bones.

Walk like you own the room. Smile like you know a secret. And never, ever look at the throne.

I looked at the throne. It was empty. I raised my brow a little, just a little.

The throne sat on a raised dais at the far end of the hall. Black iron. Twisted thorns. Cushions of dark velvet that looked like dried blood. Behind it, a banner of the Drakes sigil, a shadow dragon coiled around a silver crown.

But no king.

I turned to Grace, who had reappeared at my elbow like a ghost.

"Where is he?" I murmured behind my fan.

"The king always arrives late," she whispered back, her smile fixed and bright. "It's his signature. He likes to let his people wait. Add agitation. Keep them guessing."

"Cruel tyrant indeed," I said.

"Indeed." Grace's eyes flicked to the throne, then back to me. "He'll come when the anticipation is sharpest. When the wine has loosened tongues and the masks have lowered guards. He likes to see people before they know they're being seen."

I filed that away. Another piece of the puzzle.

He watches. He waits. He strikes when no one expects it.

I would have to be faster.

Ten minutes later…

I circled the hall, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing servant, nodding at faces I pretended to recognize.

Grace had disappeared again, I spotted her near the Marlowe contingent, laughing at something a young lord said while her fingers brushed his pocket, no doubt lifting his key or his coin or his secrets.

Then I felt it.

Eyes on me. Not the curious stares of the crowd. Not the hungry glances of the young lords.

Something else. Something heavier. Something that pressed against my bare back like a warm hand.

I turned. A man was walking toward me.