I set the pen down, jaw tightening. She knows exactly what strings to pull, and she does it without mercy. Our parentsdied fifteen years ago—a carriage accident on a mountain pass during a late-season storm. I was seventeen, barely old enough to inherit the family business, and Lora was just thirteen. We raised each other, in a way. I took over the bakeries and markets, built them into something profitable, while she learned to navigate the social circles I refused to touch.
And now she stands here, using that bond like a weapon.
"That's manipulative," I say flatly.
"But effective." She smiles, sweet and sharp. "Come on, Lorenth. One night. Just a few hours. I promise you'll survive."
"Where?"
"Out."
My eyes narrow. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting until you agree." She leans forward again, her expression shifting into something softer. Almost pleading. "Please? I miss you. Varos is about to be deployed south for another two weeks, the children are exhausting, and I need my brother. Just for tonight."
Fuck.
I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the fight drain out of me. She's relentless when she wants something, and I've never been able to deny her for long. Not when she looks at me like that, all vulnerability beneath the bravado.
"Fine." The word comes out rougher than I intend. "But just to spend time with you. No parties, no networking, no bullshit."
Her face lights up, and I immediately regret agreeing.
"Wonderful!" She spins toward the door, wings flaring slightly with her excitement. "I brought you an outfit. It's downstairs."
I shoot to my feet, cold dread settling in my gut. "What?"
She pauses, glancing back over her shoulder with a smirk that promises nothing good. "An outfit. You can't go out looking like that." Her gaze sweeps over my plain shirt and darktrousers, both rumpled from hours of sitting. "Trust me, what I brought is much better."
"Lora, where the hell are you taking me?"
Her smirk widens, gold-ringed eyes gleaming with mischief and something deeper—something almost reverent.
"The Moon Masquerade."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and deliberate. I stare at her, pulse kicking up despite myself, because I know that name. Everyone in New Solas knows that name.
And I want absolutely no part of it.
I bite backa curse as Lora practically drags me through the cobblestone streets toward the city center, her grip on my arm unrelenting. The outfit she brought—a deep navy tunic embroidered with silver thread along the collar and cuffs, paired with silver trousers that fit far too well—feels like a costume. The matching mask dangles from my other hand, silk-lined and shaped like a bird, all sharp angles and midnight blue that will cover everything but my mouth.
She's radiant beside me in a gown of crimson and gold, the fabric flowing around her legs like liquid flame. The bodice is backless, naturally, to showcase her wings, and the skirt is slit high enough to make Varos glare daggers at anyone who looks too long. But she wears no mask—a deliberate choice. The unmarried wear masks to the Moon Masquerade. Those already claimed go barefaced, flaunting their happiness like a weapon.
I never should have agreed to this.
"You're scowling," Lora says, her voice bright with amusement. "Stop it. You'll scare people away."
"Good."
She laughs, the sound musical and entirely too pleased. "Just give it a chance, Lorenth. You might actually enjoy yourself."
Doubtful.
The Moon Masquerade is only a few decades old—something that's been happening all my life but not ancient enough to carry the weight of true tradition. The Nashai created it, those priestesses who claim to speak directly to Solas and his divine will. They insist the festival helps lovers find each other under red lanterns and plum-wine skies, that their magic guides souls toward their destined matches.
I think it's zarrynshit.
The food and wine are spelled, that much I'm certain of. Whether it actually leads people to their soulmates or just lowers their inhibitions enough to stumble into someone's bed is debatable. The xaphan use it as an excuse to party, to drink themselves stupid and wake up the next morning with regrets and poorly thought-out engagements.
