First message
The ballroom is alive with frenzied whispers, the clinking of glasses, and the strained laughter of nobles eager to display their wealth, power, and—oh, how I revel in it—weaknesses. The night is a fine one, though the air is thick with tension. Everyone plays their part, dancing around one another, pretending that everything is perfectly in place, that the drama of the evening is all but scripted. I watch with a smile tugging at my lips, a smile that never quite reaches my eyes.
The chaos, as it always does, begins to ripple through the guests—misunderstandings, forgotten alliances, old grudges rekindled. How amusing. A few well-placed rumors, a glance here and there, and the stage is set for the evening’s little tragedies. They don’t realize it, of course, but I am the architect of this disorder. Every movement, every laugh, every subtle word has been carefully timed. How easy it is to make them dance.
And then… I spot you.