Page 54 of Taken By The Dark Three
I lower my voice, adopting a soft, melodic tone reminiscent of ancient nobility. “I am expected at the gala. Kindly escort me to the main hall.” My phrasing drips with an archaic flavor, as though I’ve stepped from the pages of Orthani’s haunted history.
He frowns, then nods slowly. “Yes, of course. Right this way.”
We navigate a maze of corridors, candlelit passages thrumming with distant music. My stomach flutters with nervous energy. Each step reaffirms the stakes: I’m about to stroll into Orthani’s epicenter of power, disguised as a rumored ghost. If my illusions slip, or if Zareth sees through it, the entire court might turn on me. But I crave the risk—this city thrives on spectacle, and I plan to give them one that hints at purna retribution.
The guard leads me through gilded double doors that open onto a vast ballroom. My heart quickens. Soft lamplight and shimmering orbs of arcane luminescence bathe the marble floor, where pairs of dark elves drift in elaborate finery. High pillars ring the hall, tapestries depicting Orthani’s conquests hanging between them. A small orchestra plays a lilting tune from a raised platform. Hundreds of nobles chat and swirl in dance, their laughter echoing under the vaulted ceiling. The air smells of perfume and spiced wine.
Heads turn the moment I step inside. My haunting appearance arrests their attention—a tall, silver-haired noblewoman, pale as moonlight, wearing an archaic crest. I sense confusion first, then a ripple of fear creeping through the crowd. They recognize something about me, or at least the rumors that match my appearance. It’s exactly what I want.
Stepping forward, I keep my posture regal, chin lifted. The assembled lords and ladies part unconsciously, whispering among themselves. One bold gentleman approaches, blinking asif disbelieving. “Pardon me… are you related to House Veloras? That crest—how…?”
I grace him with a faint smile, letting my voice carry a soft hush. “House Veloras is but a memory,” I say cryptically. “I come tonight to remind Orthani of debts unpaid.” My words loom in the hush, and a fresh wave of murmurs ripples outward.
I circle deeper into the ballroom, scanning for Zareth’s distinctive figure. He’ll be here, no doubt—any major gala draws the nobility who want to exert psionic influence. As if conjured by my thought, I spot him near the far end, robed in deep black embroidered with gold. He stands with a cluster of lesser lords, wearing that predatory smirk I’ve grown to loathe. But when his gaze lands on me, it falters. His eyes widen, the smirk vanishing. My heart leaps.
Zareth breaks away from his companions, crossing the floor. The hush of the crowd intensifies, tension building. I remain perfectly still, letting him see Lady Irena’s rumored visage. He halts a step away, face stiff with shock. “This is… impossible,” he says, voice low, glancing at the arcane crest on my gown. “You bear House Veloras’s sigil. That line was extinguished centuries ago.”
I tilt my head, meeting his stare with an eerie calm. “Was it extinguished, or merely forced into the shadows? Perhaps Orthani’s records are incomplete.” My voice resonates with a faint undertone of arcane echo, a subtle effect woven into my transformation.
Zareth’s hand clenches at his side, a flicker of gold crossing his eyes—psionic magic stirring. “Who are you? Name yourself. I sense… illusions about you.” He steps closer, though not daring an open confrontation in front of so many watchers.
I let out a gentle laugh, letting the illusions swirl subtly, maintaining the impression of a ghostly presence. “Illusions, Lord Zareth? Perhaps, or perhaps your mind reels fromconfronting the shade of a house your ancestors betrayed. Don’t you recall the story? Lady Irena Veloras harbored a purna, defying Orthani’s edicts, until your line delivered the evidence that led to her execution.”
A collective gasp ripples through the nearby nobles. Zareth’s face pales with fury. “That’s nonsense. I’m House Velcorin, not Veloras. The old tales are muddied—no record states Velcorin orchestrated that downfall.”
I sense his fear, though, lurking beneath his denial. The rumor that House Velcorin once destroyed House Veloras to gain favor with the council has persisted in hushed corners of Orthani’s lore. Now I resurrect it in living color. “Believe what you wish. I have come to remind Orthani that purna are not so easily erased. The lines that protect them persist, even if you prefer them forgotten.” I let my voice carry, ensuring the audience around us hears.
Excitement crackles among the onlookers. Some shift away, eyeing me as if I’m truly the resurrected ghost of a noble. Others lean in, enthralled by the scandal I’m invoking. Zareth scowls. “You can’t be Irena. She’s been dead for centuries.”
I shrug elegantly, letting the arcane illusions flicker just enough to hint at an otherworldly glow. “Orthani’s actions have consequences. If you murdered me once, who’s to say I can’t return from beyond the veil?” I step forward, lips curling. “Perhaps your House hunts me still, but they will fail again.”
He growls under his breath, leaning in so only I can hear. “You’re a trickster. This is transformative magic. I’ll rip it apart, expose you—” He raises a hand, arcane runes shimmering along his wrist. But the crowd is watching, an entire swirl of curious nobles, and I know he won’t dare unleash a full psionic assault in plain sight. That would scandalize the court, especially after his recent fiasco with the collar attempt.
I keep my expression calm, though my heart pounds. “Do that,” I murmur softly. “And let the entire court witness another attempt at mind enslavement. The last time you tried, you ended up cowering under my illusions, remember?” My pointed reminder makes him blanch.
Zareth’s eyes flick with hatred. He draws back, forcing a cool sneer. “Fine. I’ll play your game tonight. But I’ll unmask you soon enough, little purna.” His last word is whispered, careful not to reveal it to the crowd. Then he storms off in a swirl of black velvet, face twisted in fury.
A wave of satisfaction washes over me, though I fight to keep my regal composure. The crowd mutters, excitement growing. I sense people trying to approach me, curious about my claims. I pivot gracefully, gliding through the onlookers as if I belong, offering cryptic nods and half-smiles. Whispers follow in my wake: “Is she truly Lady Veloras reborn?” “Could that house still exist in secret?” “What does it mean for Orthani’s purge of purna centuries ago?”
I relish their unease. My presence is an affront to everything they think they know of Orthani’s supremacy. From the corner of my eye, I spot Vaelith entering the ballroom, scanning the crowd with that stern air of command. My pulse flips. He’s seen me in countless forms, but never quite like this. Will he recognize me? Possibly. My illusions are thorough, but Vaelith’s eyes are trained to catch subtle details.
I shift deeper into the throng, letting ruffled skirts and polished boots swirl around me. The music changes to a slower waltz, pairs forming on the dance floor. I linger at the edge, considering whether to join, when a group of younger nobles approaches, curiosity lighting their features. One, a tall woman in a turquoise gown, offers a hesitant curtsy. “Pardon me, my lady, but your presence is… extraordinary. Are you truly Lady Irena?”
I meet her gaze with a mild, distant smile. “I answer to that name, though perhaps your records show me as dead. Orthani’s archives often mislead.”
She pales a bit, but fascination overrules fear. Another nobleman pipes in, “If you are the rumored caretaker of purna, that might incite quite the scandal. The council?—”
I raise a finger, silencing him gently. “The council can stand aside. Orthani has toyed with forbidden punishments. Enough. I come to remind them that even ghosts can return when wrongdoing is left unatoned.”
A hush cloaks the group, a mixture of awe and dread. Perfect. By sowing these seeds, I stoke the city’s fear that purna are never truly gone—my infiltration in full display. And behind them, I spot Vaelith at last. He stands stiffly near a marble column, eyes locked on me. My chest tightens at the swirl of emotion flickering in his gaze: suspicion, recognition, a flicker of something akin to pride or admiration. I give him the slightest nod, acknowledging our recent heated struggles.
He moves closer, parting the crowd with subtle authority. The onlookers hush, stepping aside to let the famed Commander approach. He halts before me, expression carefully neutral. The hush intensifies. He studies me, scanning my silvery hair, my regal bearing. “You’re causing quite a stir,” he says, voice pitched low, though the tension coils behind each word.
A playful grin curls my lips. “Surely Orthani welcomes all of its nobility, even those thought long lost.”
He frowns, shifting to a more private tone. “You risk exposing your magic. This entire charade could unravel.”
I arch my brow. “Concern, Commander? Or does the legend of Lady Veloras rattle your precious traditions?”
