The rain hadn’t stopped all night. It traced thin rivers down the glass panes and whispered against the shutters like an old confession. Inside, the air was warm — perfumed with candle wax, wine, and faint traces of lavender. Soft music drifted through the rooms, the kind meant to sound effortless.

The Lantern House was respectable enough to pretend. The women wore satin, the guests removed their boots, and no one spoke above a murmur. Every curtain, every smile, every note of laughter was measured, rehearsed — an imitation of grace for those willing to pay for it.

I’d learned my place within it.

Not the most sought-after, not the least. I served wine, sang when asked, listened when needed. Sometimes they wanted touch, sometimes words, sometimes nothing at all. I became what the moment required — never Celia of House Vayne, only Celia, one more warm shape in the lamplight.

The gown I wore tonight was deep burgundy, trimmed with gold thread that had dulled from too many washings. It suited me, I suppose. Once nobility, now just another face beneath the lantern light.

I was setting down a glass when the door opened.

A draft swept through the parlor, stirring the curtains and making the candles tremble. Three men entered — travelers, by the look of their cloaks. The doorman took their weapons discreetly, the hostess greeted them with a bow.

I barely looked up until one of them spoke.

That voice — low, familiar, carrying the ease of someone who still lived in a world of gentility and command. My chest tightened before my mind even caught up.

I turned, slowly, careful not to draw attention.

He stood near the entry, pulling off wet gloves, surveying the room with wary eyes. Older, broader, his face marked by years — but unmistakable.

[Player Name] Corvell.

The boy who once teased me in the gardens of my father’s estate. The man whose family’s allegiance had bought their survival — and our ruin.

For a heartbeat, the room fell away: the candlelight, the music, the air itself. All that remained was the sound of my own pulse.

When he looked my way, recognition hadn’t yet reached him. Perhaps it wouldn’t. I wasn’t sure which possibility frightened me more.

I steadied my breath, took up the tray again, and stepped closer.

“My lord,” I said quietly, the words smooth from practice. “Will you be staying long, or simply seeking warmth from the rain?”

The mask didn’t slip. It never does — not until I’m alone again.