Knives Beneath Velvet
-Maris-
The court had teeth. Not just in its politics, though they were as bloodthirsty as any battlefield she could imagine. Power didn't just flow here; it prowled. Maris could feel them, even behind silk smiles and toasting goblets. The Nightbound nobles whispered beneath veils and behind painted fans, voices like wind through thorns. Every glance was a gamble. Every word, a blade dulled with honey.
The mortal girl.
The King’s pet.
The beginning of something or the end of everything.
It started the morning after her private dinner with Kael. She woke to the sound of bells chiming across the tower soft, discordant tones that meant one thing: a High Gathering. Rare. Formal. Dangerous.
Throughout the day the hours drug like chains, each one a cruel reminder of the night ahead.
By the time the sky turned to fire, Maris's stomach churned with dread. The court's feast would be a performance of indulgence and lies. The wraiths appeared like phantoms bearing a gown fit for a queen.
The gown was a masterpiece of dark majesty — stitched from midnight silk and shadowed lace, clinging to her body like it had been sewn with intention and blood. It swept over her curves with ruthless elegance, every line designed to draw the eye and hold it captive. The bodice dipped just low enough to frame the soft arch of her breasts, not vulgar — but deliberate, like a promise wrapped in power. Jet beaded embroidery coiled across the fabric like creeping vines, glinting when the light dared to touch them. The sleeves, sheer and fitted, ended in delicate cuffs that kissed the backs of her hands. The skirts fell in layers that moved like smoke. At her throat, a high collar of onyx lace crowned her like a blade.
It wasn't a dress. It was a declaration.
She wasn't dressed to be ignored, but respected and seen — obeyed.
Valea strolled into her chambers a vision of regal darkness herself. She stepped in front of maris adjusting the fall of the gown at Maris's waist, her scarred fingers careful practiced.
"You're not to blend in. You walk into the hall like a goddess blessed vision. Let them stare. Let them whisper." Valea met her eyes then, steady and fierce.
Maris nodded, holding her head high as they made their way to the great hall.
The high windows bled silver light as dozens of Nythran nobles arrived in slow, elegant waves their masks more elaborate than usual, faces half-hidden behind feathers, polished bone, lacquered leather. Magic pulsed beneath their feet, faint and sour as they moved like predators dressed in finery, fangs hidden behind courtly ritual and polished smiles.
From outside the hallway she saw Kael at the center of the gathering, unmoving beneath a blood-iron arch. His tunic was black velvet cut to precision, threaded with silver that shimmered like lightning veins across his chest and shoulders — subtle, elegant, and unmistakably lethal. A high collar framed the brutal lines of his jaw. And his moon-silver eyes cut through the room with quiet violence. He didn't look at the crowd.He assessedthem. Kael in finery was not dressed to impress. He was dressed to intimidate, to remind the court their place.
On either side of him stood Riven and Corin, stone-faced. Corin wore fitted black with silver thread catching the light, his scar on full display, expression unreadable. Riven stood broad shoudlers wrapped in charcoal silk and blood- redtrim. His tattoos ghosted his wrists, daring anyone to challenge him.
The room stilled the moment she entered.
She stepped into the hall like a shadow crowned in moonlight, the gown hugging every inch of her with unapologetic precision. Silk clung to her hips, the bodice framing her cleavage like it had been carved for worship. Jewels winked at her throat, but it was the glow in her eyes that made the courtesans still.
She didn't flinch. Shecommandedthe silence.
Kael turned first — his silver gaze dragging over her like a caress. His hands clenched at his sides, jaw grinding as if seeing her like this — dressed in power — was both agony and absolution.
Riven said nothing, but his brows lifted — barely. He looked her over like a tactician assessing a newly forged weapon.
Corin whistled, low and dry. "Dressed to kill," he muttered to Riven, which earned him an elbow to the gut from the latter.
The nobles stirred too late, caught off guard by the woman they'd expected to dismiss. Some bowed their heads with stiff respect, others exchanged uneasy glances. The envy pouring from them was palpable. So was the fear. This was clearly no longer the lowly seamstress from Eryndor.
Kael extended his arm without a word, eyes never leaving hers. It wasn't a command but an invitation. Maris paused only a breath before slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. She didn't look up at him as they began to walk, but she felt the coil of tension radiate off him.
"Making an entrance are we?" He murmured, voice low as they walked.
She smiled without turning in to him. "You're lucky I came at all."
His eyes flicked down to her bodice, then back to the nobles ahead seated at the banquet tables. "They'll forget how to chew when they get within reach of you."
"You included?" she asked, head tilting slightly, a razor smile at the corner of her lips.
