Chapter 1

Lorenth

The ledgers blur together after the third hour.

I lean back in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose as numbers swim across the parchment. Flour costs from the mill district, sugar shipments delayed by weather, the new storefront lease requiring my signature before the week's end. The rhythmic scratch of my pen fills the study, punctuated only by the occasional crackle from the fireplace and the whisper of snow against the windows.

My townhouse sits in the quieter residential quarter of New Solas, far enough from the glittering spires and market chaos that I can actually think. Two stories, three bedrooms—more space than I need, but the kitchen makes up for it. The servants come twice weekly to handle what I don't, but I prefer the solitude otherwise. No staff hovering, no constant presence. Just me and the work that never seems to end.

I flip to the next page, scanning the inventory from the bakery near the temple district. We're low on nimond beans again. The supplier's been unreliable lately, and I make a mental note to find an alternative source before—

The front door slams open downstairs.

My magic flares instantly, a sharp crackle of electricity dancing across my knuckles as I surge to my feet. The chair scrapes against the floor. Every muscle coils tight, ready, because no one just barges into my home. No one except—

"Lorenth!" 

I exhale through my teeth, releasing the gathered power. Of course.

Footsteps thunder up the stairs, too quick and light to be a threat, and then my office door flies open without so much as a knock.

Loraeleth stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her crimson silk bodice, wings half-spread in that aggressive stance she reserves for when she's about to be insufferable. The glacial-blue feathers catch the firelight, making the pale tips shimmer like ice. Her silver-black hair cascades over one shoulder, threaded with those ridiculous red beads she insists on wearing, and her gold-ringed teal eyes narrow on me with the kind of determination that means I'm already losing whatever argument is about to happen.

"Lora." I sink back into my chair, refusing to give her the satisfaction of keeping me on my feet. "You could knock."

"You'd just tell me to go away." She strides in, uninvited, and plants her hands on my desk. The ledgers crinkle under her palms. "You're holed up in here like some hermit. When's the last time you left this place?"

"Yesterday. I was at the mill district bakery all morning."

"For work." She waves a dismissive hand. "That doesn't count."

I raise a brow, leaning back and crossing my arms to mirror her stance. "I own three bakeries and two markets. Work is my life."

"Which is exactly the problem." Her gaze sweeps over my desk—the scattered parchment, the half-empty cup of meadowmint tea gone cold hours ago, the ink stains on my fingers. She makes a disgusted sound. "You're thirty-two, Lorenth. Not three hundred. And yet you sit here every night, alone, doing nothing but staring at numbers until you fall asleep at your desk."

"I don't fall asleep at my desk."

"You did last week. You had ink on your cheek when I came by to drop off Kaelen's birthday invitation."

Damn it. She's right, but I'm not about to admit that. Instead, I change the topic. "Where are the children?"

I might not have any of my own but I adore my niece and nephew. If they had been the ones to come bursting in here, I'd be feeling very differently right now. 

"With Varos." A flicker of warmth crosses her face at the mention of her husband, but she quickly schools it back into that imperious frown. "Don't try to change the subject. We're talking about your tragic excuse for a social life."

"I don't need a social life."

"Everyone needs a social life." She straightens, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Which is why you're coming out with me tonight."

I don't even hesitate. "No."

"Lorenth—"

"I said no, Lora." I turn back to the ledgers, picking up my pen. "I have work to finish, and I'm not in the mood to be dragged around the city while you make small talk with every noble family we pass."

"I'm not asking you to make small talk." Her voice softens, just a fraction, and I hate how effective that is. "I'm asking you to spend time with me. Your sister. The only family you have left."

Low blow.

I set the pen down, jaw tightening. She knows exactly what strings to pull, and she does it without mercy. Our parents died 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 dark trousers, 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 back a 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.

I'm pretty sure that the Nashai were just worried about low birth rates and this helps. Lots of babies come as a result of the Moon Masquerade. I'd laugh at anyone who says love does. 

It's not that I don't believe in love. I've seen it—Lora and Varos, married nine years now and still disgustingly devoted to each other. Our parents, before they passed. Even some of my employees, the way they light up when their partners visit the bakery.

I just don't think it's for me.

I have my work. The bakeries, the markets, the endless stream of ledgers and suppliers and employees who need direction. I have my niece and nephew, who fill my townhouse with chaos twice a week and make me remember why I value silence. That's enough. It has to be.

But Lora worries. She's been worrying for years, ever since I turned thirty and showed no signs of courting anyone. She hates the idea of me alone in that townhouse, no one to check on me, no one to share meals with or talk to when the work gets overwhelming.

"Being lonely like this is no good for anyone," she'd said last month, her voice soft with concern. "You deserve more than just surviving, Lorenth. You deserve to live."

I'd brushed her off then, same as I always do. But she's persistent, my sister. Relentless. And now here I am, walking toward the city center with a mask in my hand and dread pooling in my gut.

The streets grow more crowded as we approach. Lanterns hang from every lamppost and window, glowing red like fresh wounds against the darkening sky. The scent hits me first—incense, thick and cloying, sweet with undertones of something floral I can't identify. It clings to the air, making my skin prickle with the unmistakable hum of magic.

Definitely a spell.

The city center opens before us, transformed into something out of a fever dream. Red silk drapes from the buildings, billowing in the evening breeze. Tables laden with food line the square—platters of roasted meat, bowls of glazed fruit, pastries dusted with sugar that sparkles in the lantern light. Wine flows freely from enormous casks, servers moving through the crowd with trays of crystal glasses filled with deep purple liquid.

And everywhere, people. Masked faces turned toward each other, laughter rising above the music that drifts from a stage at the far end of the square. Couples dance, their movements fluid and close, while others linger near the food tables or cluster in groups, talking and drinking.

The Nashai move through the crowd like ghosts, their white robes stark against the red and gold chaos. They carry small censers that trail more of that perfumed smoke, murmuring blessings as they pass. One of them approaches us, her face serene as she takes in the festivities, and offers a tray with two glasses of wine.

Lora takes both before I can refuse.

"You don't need it," I say flatly. "You already have love."

She presses one glass into my hand anyway, her smile turning wicked. "Exactly. Which means you need the extra dose."

I glare at her, but she just laughs and takes a sip from her own glass. The Nashai moves on, trailing incense in her wake, and I resist the urge to pour the wine into the nearest planter.

The scent of the incense is stronger here, wrapping around me like invisible hands. Sweet and heady, with something underneath that makes my pulse quicken despite myself. I hate that I can feel it working, whatever spell they've woven into the air. My senses sharpen, sounds growing louder, colors more vivid. The red lanterns seem to pulse in time with the music, casting shifting shadows across the crowd.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Lora sighs, her gaze sweeping over the square with something close to reverence.

Beautiful isn't the word I'd use. Overwhelming, maybe. Chaotic. A sensory assault designed to strip away inhibitions and leave people vulnerable to whatever—or whoever—crosses their path.

I take a reluctant sip of the wine, and it burns on the way down, sweet and potent. Plum and something darker, earthy. My throat warms, heat spreading through my chest.

Fuck. That's strong.

Lora grins at me, clearly delighted by whatever expression crosses my face. "See? Not so bad."

"It's wine laced with Solace know what." I eye the glass warily. "Probably half the reason people think they've found their soulmate here."

"You're so cynical." She loops her arm through mine again, tugging me deeper into the crowd. "The Nashai wouldn't lie. Their magic is real, Lorenth. They've guided countless souls together."

"Or countless people into each other's beds for a night."

She swats my arm, but she's still smiling. "Just try. For me. Wear the mask, walk around, talk to someone. You don't have to fall in love tonight. Just… be open to the possibility."

I want to argue, to tell her this entire thing is a waste of time and I'd rather be home with my ledgers. But she's looking at me with those eyes—gold-ringed and earnest—and I'm reminded again that she's the only family I have left.

So I sigh, long and resigned, and slip the mask over my face.

The silk settles against my skin, cool and smooth. The world narrows slightly, my vision framed by the sharp edges of the bird's beak. I feel ridiculous.

"Perfect." Lora adjusts the tie at the back of my head, her fingers quick and efficient. "Now you look mysterious and brooding instead of just angry."

"I'm not angry."

"You're always a little angry." She steps back, surveying me with satisfaction. "But tonight, you're also available. And handsome. Try to remember that."

I grunt, taking another sip of the wine to avoid responding. The heat spreads further, loosening the tight coil of tension in my shoulders. Not enough to make me reckless, but enough that the noise and chaos feel slightly less grating.

The music shifts, a slower melody replacing the upbeat tempo, and couples drift toward the center of the square to dance. Lora watches them with a wistful expression, and I know she's thinking of Varos. He should be here with her, not me.

Thankfully, she sees a woman that immediately waves her forward. A friend, I'd guess from the way that Lora's face lights up. 

"Go dance," I tell her. "I'll be fine."

She hesitates, glancing between me and the dancers. "You won't just disappear the second I turn my back?"

"I'll stay for at least an hour." It's the best I can offer, and she knows it.

She squeezes my arm, rising onto her toes to press a kiss to my cheek. "Thank you. For coming. I know you hate this."

"I don't hate it." The lie tastes bitter, but her smile makes it worth it. "I'm just… skeptical."

"Skeptical I can work with." She presses her glass into my hand and releases me, already turning toward the crowd. "Drink your wine. Enjoy the night. Who knows? Maybe the Nashai are right."

I watch her disappear into the sea of masked faces and flowing gowns, her wings catching the lantern light as she moves. Then I'm alone, standing at the edge of the square with a glass of spelled wine in one hand and a deep, bone-deep certainty that nothing is going to come of this night.

I'm ready to get it over with. One hour. Then I can go home, return to my work, and forget this entire ridiculous festival ever happened.