The carriage was absurdly opulent.

Scarlet-stitched cushions formed waves of plush comfort beneath us, wrapped in velvet so deep it looked like crushed starlight. Embroidered constellations shimmered across the fabric—Deluvian patterns, if I had to guess, though they swirled slightly, shifting as if reacting to the mana in the air. Every seat bore the sigil of House Alizade, threadwork gleaming with delicate dignity. Mine, however, carried both the Alizade phoenix and the Duarte flame entwined. A small thing. A gesture no one commented on. But it anchored me. Recognition. Claim. A silent bridge between bloodlines. I didn't say anything, but I brushed my fingers over the embroidery once, twice. Just to feel it.

The woodwork glowed with craftsmanship—lacquered in a gold so rich it bordered on molten. Crimson glyphs, fine as hair, spiraled along the frame and support beams. They weren't showy, not glowing or pulsing, but I could feel them. Humming softly beneath the surface like the heartbeat of some great, sleeping beast. Everything about this ride said: You belong here now. Whether I agreed or not didn't seem to matter.

We had two carts total, each floating slightly above the cobbled forest road, suspended on subtle anti-impact enchantments. Ours carried me, Fallias, Cordelia, Fractal, Ten, and Wallace—though Wallace might as well have been elsewhere. He hadn't spoken since we left. He sat beside the window, armored even here, eyes locked on the trees outside. Occasionally, his lips moved in a slow whisper. Prayer or memory. Maybe both. I didn't pry.

The second cart trailed close behind, carrying V and the Machina that weren't tucked safely away in Skillcubes. V had requested solitude for "strategy preparation," which, translated, meant he didn't want us seeing him sulk after losing another round of whatever game Fractal would inevitably rope him into.

Apparently, the ride would take two hours.

Two hours of velvet-clad, soft-lit, snack-stocked, magically-suspended ceremonial boredom.

"This is so weird," Ten muttered, pulling off her heels and tossing them somewhere near the snack crate. She folded her legs up onto the seat beside her, clearly giving up on etiquette five minutes into the trip. "Everyone's too clean. I don't like it. Alexander, please tell me you hid a knife in those stupidly tailored sleeves."

"I packed four," I replied, adjusting the cuff of my formal jacket. "Five, if you count the paper one I hardened into micarta."

Cordelia looked up from where she was lazily flipping through her Gloss. "He's being modest," she said, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I saw the loadout manifest. He's got enough combat-grade paper laced into his inner coat to kill a small army, politely."

"Good," Ten said, sighing. "I was getting nervous we might actually have to behave like nobles the whole time."

Like Wallace, Fallias hadn't spoken.

Not once since we'd left the manor.

She sat beside me in the corner of the cart, poised in a way that made her look like she belonged in a painting rather than in a moving vehicle. Hands folded neatly on her lap, back straight, dress pressed smooth as glass. The gown was a cascade of pale smoke and ember hues, a color she'd said reminded her of home, though she hadn't explained what that meant. Her mask—resting gently on her lap—was shaped like a raven's, with midnight-black feathers that shimmered in shades of deep indigo and blue when the light from the overhead glyphs passed over it. She hadn't yet put it on. Neither had I.

Mine, predictably, was peacock-themed. Gold filigree, aquamarine stones, twin fan-feathers framing the upper corners like a crown. In Bast's words: "A splash of pride. A scream of beauty. A threat dressed as theater." Or something equally absurd. Bast had insisted on choosing everyone's masks and had taken my measurements personally with a glowing, levitating thread that hissed with magic. I didn't argue—mostly because I knew I'd lose. The mask was ridiculous. But… so was this whole affair. Might as well look the part.

"You good?" I asked, leaning a bit closer to Fallias, keeping my voice low enough not to interrupt the others.

She looked at me, then offered a small, practiced smile. "Trying not to combust," she murmured. "I've never been in anything like this. I feel like if I breathe wrong, someone's going to fine me."

Fractal immediately leaned forward from her seat across from us, eyes bright. "If someone fines you, I'll fine them back. With fire."

"She means that literally," Wallace said without turning his head. He was still watching the forest roll past through the window, his breath fogging a thin patch of glass.

Fallias let out a soft laugh. Not a full one—more like a pressurized release. But it was something. She looked at me again, this time more fully, and her voice came gentler.

"Thank you," she said. "For inviting me. I don't know if I said that yet."

"You didn't have to," I replied. "You're the one I wanted beside me when I stepped into this world. Couldn't think of anyone else."

Her expression faltered, just for a heartbeat. A flicker of vulnerability passed behind her eyes, quickly smoothed over with grace. She dipped her head in acknowledgment.

Naturally, Ten couldn't let a moment breathe.

"Disgusting," she groaned, making an exaggerated gagging noise and flopping backward against the velvet cushions. Cordelia elbowed her lightly, but she was smiling too.

"Do that at the ball, though," Ten added, wagging a finger at us as if delivering strategy. "I want people jealous."

"Jealous?" Cordelia raised a perfectly manicured brow, folding her legs with deliberate elegance.

"Yes, obviously," Ten said, shifting to face her like they were discussing battlefield formations. "If we're going to be the Scarlet Table's new blood, we need to walk in dripping with power, prestige, and scandal. Especially scandal. Let them whisper."

Cordelia tilted her head. "Oh, now you want whispers?"

"I always want whispers," Ten declared, dramatic as ever. "Just the right kind. Whispers that build legend, not ruin it. Besides…" She stretched her legs out, nudging Fractal with her toes. "Half those people already think we're dangerous. Might as well be dangerously attractive."

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"Or attractively dangerous," Fractal offered.

Ten clicked her tongue. "Same thing."

Cordelia actually laughed—an elegant, genuine sound that came from somewhere deeper than her usual detached smirks. "You're terrifying."

"Flattered."

As their banter spiraled into hypothetical strategies on how to scandalize nobles with nothing but a sideways glance and good posture, I glanced again at Fallias. She'd placed one hand over the other, her fingers idly tracing the etched edge of her mask. Her shoulders had relaxed slightly. A sign of trust, maybe. Or safety.

I didn't say anything else. Just stayed close, letting her know I was there, while the road rolled endlessly on beneath us.

"You're still twitching," she whispered. "Relax."

"Hard to. I feel like I'm walking into a trap I designed for myself."

"You're not." Her tone was firm. "You're stepping into something you earned."

I gave her a grateful glance, then chuckled as Ten yelled from across the cart, "Hey! I want a masked hand adjustment too, this is blatant favoritism!"

"You don't even have your mask on," Cordelia pointed out.

"It's too itchy!"

Fractal reached into a small pouch and pulled out a deck of cards. "Let's play something," she said. "We've got time."

"Oh yes," Cordelia drawled. "Because what this day needs is competition."

I saw Wallace shift, just slightly, already regretting his decision to ride in our cart. I sympathized.

Fractal began dealing. "Alright, standard five-card hex. Best pattern wins, wilds allowed, but no folding unless you pay a favor."

"A favor?" I asked.

She grinned. "I've been reading Bast's etiquette manuals. Apparently 'social gambling' is noble behavior."

"Of course it is."

The game began, and quickly devolved into chaos.

Ten bluffed every round like her life depended on it, and Cordelia caught her every time. Wallace didn't know the rules and kept accidentally winning through sheer statistical monstrosity. Fallias kept quiet but slowly collected a terrifying hand. Fractal was the only one genuinely trying to have fun.

And me?

I just waited.

Because I knew what was coming.

About forty-five minutes into our ride, the second cart pulled up beside ours, and the door flung open with all the rage of a dethroned emperor.

"YOU—" V shouted, pointing at the entire interior of our cart. "Are all cheating."

"You're in the other cart," I pointed out helpfully.

"I know! And yet somehow, I still lose! Even when I win! This is a conspiracy."

"I prefer to call it karma," Cordelia offered.

V clambered into our cart with the rage of a cat denied a warm spot. He sat opposite Fractal, arms crossed, glaring at everyone. "New game. I will win this one."

"You're on a losing streak of, what, eight?" Ten grinned.

"Nine," Fractal corrected helpfully.

V glowered at them both. "It ends now."

It did not end now.

Over the next forty minutes, V lost every game.

Every. Single. One.

He lost Hex. He lost Crown-of-Threes. He lost a round of Arcane Charades. He even lost a memory duel, which I didn't think was possible to lose if you were playing against Wallace, who kept mumbling about theology and accidentally guessing the wrong prompts on purpose.

Each time V lost, a new expression of suffering overtook him. It was beautiful. Like watching a flower bloom in reverse. Petal by petal, his dignity wilted.

The rest of us didn't help.

Ten started tallying his losses in red ink.

Fractal offered him a "Loser's Crown" made from enchanted ribbons.

Cordelia took a sketch of his face after the fifth loss and titled it "Ego in Recession."

Eventually, he sank low in his seat, mask lopsided, eyes narrowed. "I am surrounded by demons."

"We prefer the term 'friends,'" I said, sipping a spiced fruit drink one of the servants had delivered earlier.

Fallias, beside me, had grown progressively more comfortable—still dignified, but the tension in her shoulders had eased. She'd even laughed aloud during V's fourth loss, and was now looking out the window with a soft smile.

"This is nice," she said quietly.

I nodded. "You deserve nice."

As if on cue, the wheels hit a sudden bump, and the cart jolted just enough for everyone to wobble. Wallace caught Fractal, Ten caught her drink, and Fallias, half-asleep with her hand on my arm, ended up pressed against me for a moment.

Not that I minded.

"I was relaxed," she said, voice a touch breathless.

"And now?"

"Flustered."

"I'll take that over combusting."

We settled again. The forest was giving way to paved stone. Lights shimmered in the distance—etherial, controlled flame-lanterns hovering over sleek metal towers. The city-structure of the Scarlet Table was unlike anything else in the realm. Part castle, part crystal-spire, part floating monument. Even from the cart, the towers looked impossibly tall, veiled in red and gold light.

Ten leaned over and stared out the window. "We look like heroes arriving at the final chapter."

"Or villains," Cordelia said. "Depending on who writes the ending."

Fallias turned to me again. "You're nervous."

"I am."

"You don't have to be. You're not walking into a room as a lost boy anymore."

"I was never lost."

"No. You were buried."

That quieted me.

It wasn't long after that the carts slowed to a halt.

The city gates loomed ahead, open wide, carved in swirling patterns that shimmered as they moved. Not just decoration—spells, dozens of them, woven in calligraphy. I could feel the power humming beneath my feet.

We stepped out in order, one by one.

My peacock mask now rested over my face, a full-coverage piece with shimmering plumes that curved around the side of my head. Fallias followed, her raven mask tilted slightly to reveal her violet eyes. Cordelia wore an owl mask, silver-edged. Fractal had a finch. Wallace, begrudgingly, bore a hawk's beak carved of dull metal. Ten, of course, had a falcon mask painted with war-stripes.

V stepped from the second cart, his phoenix mask glinting violently in the light, looking like vengeance incarnate.

He gave us all a once-over and scowled.

"Whatever happens inside," he said, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve, "know that I was robbed."

"Again," Cordelia added.

"Repeatedly," Ten said.

"Thoroughly," Wallace muttered.

V's sigh could have powered a windmill.

And then, as the trumpets began to sound, as the gates shimmered and parted to allow us entrance into the Ball of Liliane—the air changed.

I squared my shoulders, offered Fallias my arm.

She took it.

Together, we stepped forward.

Not as exiles. Not as broken children or stitched-together monsters.

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