Chapter 5 The masked ball

The invitation had arrived in an envelope sealed with black wax, the sigil pressed into it eerily similar to the one on Arielle's pendant.

Duncan almost burned it.

But Arielle had insisted.

"If someone knows about the curse," she had said, fingers lightly brushing the edge of the letter, "we can't afford to ignore them."

And so they went.

The ball was held in an ancient estate that loomed like a cathedral of secrets on the edge of the city. The building pulsed with glamour-music drifting from within like smoke, shadows dancing in the stained glass. Guests swirled through the marble halls, dressed in velvet and masks, laughter echoing with a hollow ring.

Arielle's mask was silver, feathered at the edges, her gown a deep, obsidian black that shimmered like oil. Duncan wore charcoal gray, his own mask shaped like the face of a raven. But nothing could hide the tension in his posture or the fire in his veins.

"I hate these places," he muttered as they stepped into the ballroom.

Arielle gave him a sideways glance. "Because of the curse?"

"No," he said. "Because they remind me of who I used to be."

Their entrance barely drew attention-until an elderly man in a crimson suit approached, leaning heavily on an ebony cane. His mask was gold and intricate, but Duncan recognized him instantly.

Lord Virel.

A name soaked in betrayal.

"Duncan Hawthorne," Virel drawled, voice like aged wine. "Still brooding, I see. And with a charming new companion. You never did lack taste."

Duncan stiffened. "You should be dead."

"Ah, but curses have a funny way of keeping us tethered, don't they?" Virel smiled, then turned to Arielle. "And you, dear girl... You wear the pendant of the Watcher's Line. Tell me-do you dream in fire yet?"

Arielle took a step back. "Who are you?"

"A historian. A traitor. A survivor. Choose whichever suits your narrative." His smile faded. "But if you want answers, you'll need to look deeper than shadow. The curse didn't begin with Duncan. It began with a choice. His choice."

A hush fell over the room as a haunting violin solo began. Guests parted, making way for a slow, ritualistic dance. Virel bowed, stepping back into the crowd.

Duncan looked shaken.

"What choice was he talking about?" Arielle asked.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he took her hand, his grip tighter than necessary. "Let's dance. They're watching."

The music swelled.

As they moved, Arielle leaned in. "You need to tell me what happened."

Duncan's voice was low, almost broken. "I made a deal to protect someone I loved. I didn't know the cost. I didn't know who I was protecting her from."

Their dance slowed as a mirror cracked high above the ballroom, a fine web of fractures spreading across it like frost. Arielle's reflection flickered-twice-her second image dressed in fire.

The pendant burned against her skin.

In that moment, she saw a flash of memory that wasn't hers.

A pyre. A woman screaming. A name carved in ash: Emberfall.