Damn Enia!

Why did it have to be a sweltering night, the kind of humid, sullen evening where scorched tempers and heated spectral energy led to unimaginable chaos?

I stood in the wings of inevitability, sweaty as fokk, caught between two worlds.

Far beneath me were the acrid levels of Down Below, where I belonged. Also, where the air hung heavy with smoke and desperation, and the ghettos churned and boiled, rising against the brutal gangs that bled them dry.

In contrast, in the soaring luxury edifices above, where I was about to perform, the ambiance was awash with cool, filtered air and controlled revelry.

The eponymous House of Draquis shimmered above the city, a fortress carved from night itself, a soaring tower with a diamond apex.

Its obsidian walls gleamed like polished starlight veined with molten gold.

Inside, chandeliers of fractured crystal scattered fire across jeweled masks and decadent fabrics.

I lingered in the crossover of a magnificent stage, beneath drifting sheets of a wave ceiling made of fabric that kept the air temperature cool.

Regardless, moisture dripped from my armpits as I rehearsed my mission yet again.

One of my handlers claimed it would tilt the balance of power between nobles and the gangs clawing beneath them.

He didn’t mention it might also drag Pegasi toward annihilation, or spark a cosmic collapse.

For now, I knew none of it.

I simply studied the season’s most exclusive gathering of lords, ladies, and nobles.

Pegasi’s elite had come to bid on the galaxy’s rarest stones at the Gold & Pearls Ball, the event that kept House of Draquis crowned as Enia’s master jewelers.

Crystal-and-obsidian plinths lined the edges and alcoves, each bearing new masterpieces: gravity-defying moon necklaces, star-forged rings, crystalline tiaras humming with inner power, ruby bracelets rumored to ward off illness and age.

White lotus perfume drifted through the ballroom, mingling with warm honey incense from gilded braziers.

At the chamber’s center, I stood on the raised stage in rose-gold slippers.

Crimson silks hung behind me like controlled wildfire.

My vermilion-and-amber costume clung to my skin, catching every shard of light.

The opening strings pierced the air and surged through the vaulted hall.

A melody of longing and rising heat curled into jeweled ears and masked faces.

Ready? my handler growled into my neural node.

As I’ll ever be.

I inhaled and vaulted upward.

The floor fell away.

I climbed, twisted, inverted, defying gravity with each pull of the silk.

Muscles burned, wrists cut crimson, but I gave nothing away of the effort involved, lost in my craft.

My movements became the music, my body a flame spiraling above the glittering throng before dropping in a controlled plunge that wrung gasps from the audience.

Vaults, turns, impossible transitions, all seamless.

The silks held me like warm ribbons of wind as I arced above the sea of gems, gold, and hungry eyes.

I sensed the heat of their gaze as I vaulted over the row of plinths, each crowned with jewels so bright they could cut a soul.

Diamond chokers. Sapphires of frozen lightning.

At the center, the star of the night was my prize for the night.

The Tears of Maria.

The infamous Bartoletti Draquis design.

Three hundred million schills of diamonds and temptation.

I’d studied it for months. Tonight I was meant to take it.

The orchestra surged, strings trembling under my feet as I climbed higher, wrapping the silk around my body, letting myself fall, catch, swing.

Gasps rose, and I let them fuel me. Every movement was part of the illusion.

I launched into the final leap and let myself drop with controlled grace, descending directly above the ‘Tears of Maria’, my arms reaching to it in a graceful plea.

On cue, the lights dipped to black.

The music pulsed like a drum beat that echoed my heart’s rhythm.

The hall exploded with thunderous sound, the storm I’d built into the score.

Perfect.

Time to move.

I reached with my sibyllic sense, stretching my perception toward the crystalline pulse of the priceless necklace.

I found nothing; my hands waved through thin air.

No flicker, no resonance, no whisper of its presence.

The necklace was gone.

I activated my neural node as I swung in the darkness.

Jessa, what the fokk? Where is it?

Instead of my friend’s dulcet tones, a different voice answered, older, crisp, male, and annoyed.

Abort. House of Draquis glimmered the pieces away the moment they caught wind of a ‘dark cue’ in your choreography program. Purely a precautionary measure.

Fokk! What do I do? I demanded, still spiraling in perfect choreography for an audience that couldn’t see a damn thing.

Act normal, the voice ordered. Finish the dance. Let the lights return. You go to Plan B.

Plan B, one I swore I’d never have to use. Dammit, it required breaking three laws and one personal rule, never to switch to an alternate ploy.

They almost always failed.

Fokk me, I growled to myself, tightening my grip on the silks as the stage lights began their rise.

Oblivious to my quandary, my audience cheered as I swung through the finale of my aerobic set.

The resulting applause filled the air, yet my attention was caught elsewhere.

That was when I registered a gaze too intense, too overwhelming, freakin’ scorching me.

Eager to find out who was studying me with such intensity, I spun through the descent, eyes raking the anonymous sea of masks.

Until my vision found its origin: one level above, nestled within the private observation booths.

A man commanded the space.

He wore a silver-and-diamond mask that hid most of his features.

His frame was tall and broad, his ebony suit tailored by shadow itself, appearing as if molded to his powerful form.

He scarcely indulged in the luxurious food set out before him.

He ignored the flute of champagne resting on the ledge beside him.

He only fixed his unyielding gaze on me; his entire frame a solitary anchor, unmoved by the storm of acclamation around him.

His absolute stillness conveyed a potency and authority that far outstripped the entire crowd’s prominence.

He seemed to lay me bare before him, his gaze penetrating the heart of me, to the core of my secrets.

Had he sensed my earlier attempt at taking the most prized auction item that night?

My pulse skittered as my control wavered.

I was overwhelmed with the urge to escape him.

My palms slid along the silk straps; the friction seared my flesh.

My pulse hitched, a frantic, broken rhythm.

I forced air back into my lungs, compelling my body into intricate motion, continuing my dance even as an unexpected heat crept across my skin from that fierce, consuming focus.

When the final note concluded, I surrendered my body into a slow spiral descent, unwrapping from the silken fastenings.

My feet whispered onto the stage.

Applause shattered the silence, breaking into a sudden thunderstorm as my audience expressed their delight.

Masks dipped in acknowledgment.

Pearls shimmered.

Jeweled bracelets clashed against wrists in rhythmic celebration.

Those eyes, however, held me captive even as I swept offstage, the flame-hued crimson silk of my cloak trailing in my wake.

The roar of my audience’s ovation diminished to a hum.

The room’s immense opulence faded into a background haze.

Yet all I carried with me were those eyes, scorching, searing, blazing, promising a far more dangerous and compelling challenge than the dizzying heights I had just conquered.