The rain gnawed at Lowbridge all night, chewing the gutters and coughing up dirty steam.
But inside the Grand Hall, it was golden light and sweet, sticky poison.
The ball was in full swing chandeliers blazing, mirrors catching a hundred shifting faces, and the air thick with expensive perfume and even more expensive lies.
The city's best and brightest glided across the marble floors, powdered and perfumed within an inch of their lives, practicing the ancient art of smiling sweetly at people they would happily push down a flight of stairs. Truly the ball of a lifetime.
And in the middle of it all Lady Evelyne Merrow, the Baroness of Wycliffe moved like a crimson devil.
Her gown, lush, scandalous velvet,
Pearls wrapped her throat and wrists, gleaming like promises you really shouldn't trust.
And her hair. blonde and piled in a glittering tower of rubies and braids. defied gravity and common sense alike.
(Finally True Magic)
But none of that explained the way the room shifted around her.
No... it was her reflection.
Every mirror, every silver tray, every drop of wine in trembling glasses seemed to lean toward her, like sunflowers craning toward the sun.
It wasn't just beauty.
It was something else.
Something sharper. Hungrier.
Something that made a thousand hearts skip in confused terror.
She thanked the mirror for it all, it actually worked like a charm.
At the far end of the hall, the Master of Ceremonies thumped his staff on the floor with great, unnecessary drama.
"TO THE FLOOR! TO THE FLOOR! THE GRAND WALTZ COMMENCES!"
Everyone froze. fans stilled mid-flutter, monocles trembled.
The orchestra gave a few panicked squeaks. someone dropped a bow. and then, gathering themselves like true professionals, they launched into the grand waltz.
Meanwhile, high above, behind a velvet curtain, two young footmen wrestled with a machine that looked like a brass crab ready to explode the limelight device.
"More oil! More oil!" gasped the younger one, smearing soot across his forehead.
"You lunatic," hissed the older, cranking wildly. "You're gonna blow us all to pieces!"
The limelight coughed, belched smoke, and then. with a noise like a dying cat. fired a blinding spear of light straight into the hall.
It zigzagged across the ceiling, nearly blinded a violinist, and bounced off the bald head of the Ambassador (poor guy).
"FOCUS!" snapped the older footman.
The younger squinted, cranked, swore, and somehow. miraculously. the beam caught Lady Evelyne just as she stepped onto the dance floor.
She froze. one perfect, poised moment. drenched in heavenly brilliance.
The entire ballroom inhaled sharply.
Up in the gallery, the footmen sagged with relief.
"I think I Got it," muttered the younger, wiping his hands on his ruined livery.
"If this thing explodes," hissed the older, "you're explaining it to His Lordship."
But below, none of that mattered.
The Baroness was radiant.
She moved. a slow, deliberate step. and the light chased her eagerly.
She danced
Like she owned the floor.
Like she owned the night.
Like she was the only thing that mattered.
And ohh she was.
The crowd melted around her, partners stumbling, hearts cracking, ambitions realigning on the spot.
Lady Evelyne was the story. the kind that wrote itself in the stunned, hungry minds of every onlooker.
Except, of course, for Lady Ventra Almsbury.
Who watched from the shadows with a smile that would curdle milk.
"Perfect, aren't she?" she whispered to her simpering cousin.
"She does look rather-" the cousin ventured.
"Overconfident," Ventra snapped, already hatching.
As a footman passed with a tray of trembling wine glasses, Lady Ventra "accidentally" brushed his elbow.
The tray tilted.
A single goblet of blood-red wine lifted into the air.
It soared. fat droplets catching the limelight.
The room gasped.
And the wine. splat. struck Lady Evelyne full on the side of her crimson gown.
The music stumbled, gasped, and died.
For a beat. one, two, three, the room held its breath.
Lady Evelyne did not shriek.
She did not flail.
She simply looked down, very slowly, at the spreading stain.
Lady Ventra smiled, certain she had won.
But then.
The wine twisted.
It was magical.
Dark, curling shapes spilled across the velvet like an artist's brush. roses, vines, a blooming, exquisite tapestry of blood and silk.
(She gotta thank the seamstress after that)
It was divine.
It was art.
It was pure....
'Bullshit', lady Ventra thought.
The ballroom erupted.
"A new fashion!"
"Deliberate, surely!"
"What a Bold Move!"
"Ohh.. how Brilliant!"
The orchestra, desperate to save face, stumbled into another waltz.
Lady Evelyne smiled. small, feral. and resumed her dance, the limelight faithfully chasing her every perfect turn.
High above, the footmen fought the controls.
"You're drifting!" hissed the older.
"I'M drifting? You're cranking like a drunken goat!"
But none of that mattered.
Lady Evelyne had already won.
And somewhere, deep in the machinery of fate, something laughed.
Meanwhile...
Across the city, in the quieter, damper corners of Lowbridge, Dorian stood in his shop like a general surveying the wreckage after a very stupid war.
The shelves?
Wiped out.
The treasures?
There was no treasure.
All that remained was...
A broken music box that lost half of the music.
An umbrella that worked only if you pray to it.
And a jar of "Dragon Air" that smelled like burnt socks.
And a mop head, perched proudly on a plinth, googly eyes slightly askew.
Dorian rubbed his hands over his face.
"You've done it now, boy," he muttered.
He paced between the pitiful remains of his stock, hands flapping helplessly.
The people of Lowbridge didn't come for things.
They came for stories.
For legends wrapped in dust and wishful thinking.
And right now?
All he could sell was regret.
He eyed the mop head.
'I think I can sell that.'
But even he had limits.
No.. Nope.. Nuh-uh..
He needed more junk.
More fake miracles.
More stories.
Dorian threw on his coat. old, battered, smelled faintly of despair. shoved a few coins into his pocket, and flipped the "OPEN" sign to "CLOSED — Back Later, Probably".
He stepped into the wet night, the mist swallowing him immediately.
Treasure didn't find itself.
Trash didn't lie charmingly on its own.
And Dorian?
Well, Dorian was about to dig through every damp alley, busted auction, and dubious back room in Lowbridge.
He grinned to himself, adjusting his hat against the drizzle.
As soon as he found enough convincing trash to sell as destiny.
And his business?
Well it was booming already.