The solstice season in Belrea was nothing if not excessive. Golden gears spun atop rooftops strung with copper filament lights, steam wreaths hissed faintly at every door, and courier automatons clogged the streets, their arms full of velvet boxes and perfumed letters. And as expected, Astrasol's estate was buried under a flood of such tributes—admirers, rivals, and social climbers alike vying for her attention with gifts as grandiose as they were predictable.

A mechanical songbird in a cage gilded with opaline brass. A bouquet of imported fireblossoms from eastern Tendaji that still pulsed with bioluminescence. A jeweled monocle that came with an insufferably poetic note from some baron’s son she’d long forgotten. Astrasol accepted them all with the bored grace of a queen inspecting tribute. Most would be repurposed, re-gifted, or sent to the auction house.

But then came the unmarked box.

It arrived without ceremony. No crest, no wax seal, no calling card. Just a black parcel—sleek, matte, and quiet—as if it had materialized out of the fog that curled through Belrea’s midnight streets.

She noticed it instantly, of course. It didn’t belong among the glittering clutter of her drawing room, where attendants sorted gifts like field medics triaging battlefield injuries. It was too plain, too intentional in its silence. And Astrasol, for all her vanity, had survived this long precisely because she never mistook mystery for charm.

She dismissed the servants and drew the curtains tight.

Alone, she studied the package like a scientist facing a volatile specimen. It was no larger than a bread box, rectangular, tied in a black silk ribbon that felt faintly damp to the touch.

A romantic gesture? Possibly.

A trap? More likely.

Her mind immediately leapt to Maohoa —her contact in the northern smuggling circles, a woman with fingers in everything from contraband Aether cores to illegally harvested Shifter marrow. Astrasol had partnered with her in half a dozen discreet exchanges over the past year, each one more lucrative—and more dangerous—than the last.

Maohoa wasn’t known for sentimentality. But she was clever. And paranoid. Maybe this was her way of passing something discreetly. Or a test.

Astrasol considered scanning the box with one of her alchemical detection lenses, but something made her pause. No runes hummed on its surface, no scent of poison or spell lingered in the air. Whatever was inside, it didn’t want to be noticed.

That made her more curious.

With a flick of her knife—an elegantly slender blade tucked into her garter—she sliced through the ribbon and lifted the lid.

Inside was…a mask.

Not a carnival mask or some trinket from a masquerade ball, but a sleek, asymmetrical half-mask fashioned from obsidian glass and lined with silver mesh along the inner edge. Elegant. Custom. Expensive. The kind of thing made to both hide and flaunt.

Beneath it was a folded note. Unmarked. Unadorned.

She opened it.

“For the face that already commands a room—perhaps now, the rest of the city will kneel as well. Wear it when the fog is thickest.”

No signature. No seal.

Astrasol stared at the mask, her expression unreadable. She wasn’t afraid—she didn’t do fear—but she was…intrigued.

This was no random admirer. This was someone who knew how she moved through the city. Someone who understood her hunger for power, her obsession with presence and spectacle. Someone who had been watching.

She considered Maohoa again. The woman had always admired Astrasol’s flair, called her “a symphony of arrogance and elegance.” This mask was something she would send—if only to push Astrasol toward something grander. A heist. A statement.

Still, it could just as easily be from a rival. Or worse, an admirer who knew too much.

Astrasol slipped the mask over her face.

It fit perfectly, the mesh molding to her skin like a whisper. The world through the lens of obsidian was tinged with violet, sharper, cleaner. A subtle enchantment pulsed through the silver lining—not dangerous, just...amplifying.

She tilted her head, inspecting herself in the polished mirror over the hearth.

She looked…divine.

Suddenly, the click of heels echoed through the hallway—light, purposeful. Astrasol turned as the door opened without knock or warning.

It was Maohoa.

The smuggler stepped inside with a wry smirk, her coat damp from the fog. She stopped short at the sight of Astrasol in the mask.

“I see it arrived,” Maohoa said simply.

Astrasol arched a brow. “You sent this?”

“I had it commissioned months ago. You have a way of surviving things, Astrasol. I thought perhaps it was time you had a persona to match the myth.”

Astrasol smiled, slow and dangerous.

“I don’t need a mask to be worshipped.”

“No,” Maohoa replied, stepping closer. “But imagine what you’ll do with one.”

They stood in silence, steam curling from the fireplace behind them, the night thick with fog outside.

Astrasol turned back to the mirror.

Yes.

She could work with this.