Taliesin Vorne presses a lacquered mask to his face, its fresh scent stinging his nose as he edges through the velvet-curtained threshold of the Duchess’s sky-borne ballroom. He feels the magnetic lift in his bones, a subtle hum beneath polished marble and swirling feet. The air tastes too clean, unnaturally sweet, every inhalation a reminder of how far he is from home. Gilded courtiers glide past, laughter muffled behind ornate filtration masks. Taliesin tucks the sliver-sized recording device into his sleeve, scanning for the Duchess’s emerald-clad silhouette amid the shifting crowd. A footman blocks his path, eyes flicking over Taliesin’s borrowed attire.
"Invitation, sir?"
the man asks, hand outstretched. Taliesin steadies his breath, feeling the weight of his mission pressing against the hollow of his chest.