Chapter 11: Masks of Glass
1326 Words
The ambassador’s gala was a theatre of power disguised as a celebration. Valkor’s grand atrium unfurled like a cathedral of light, its ceiling a dome of shifting holograms that cast constellations across the marble floor. Music bled from hidden speakers—strings wound tight around synthetic bass—while the air shimmered with perfume, ozone, and the faint tang of weapons hidden beneath formal silks.
Elena descended the staircase with Damian’s hand clasped loosely around hers. The emerald gown from the last event had been replaced with a sleek black one, its fabric threaded with metallic fibres that caught and fractured the light. A perfect shadow at the Chancellor’s side. A perfect symbol.
The crowd turned as they appeared, applause swelling like a rehearsed tide. Ministers bowed. Ambassadors inclined their heads. The swarm of eyes didn’t matter. Only one did.
Damian.
His grip was firm but not affectionate, his posture impeccable, every line of him sculpted to project command. To the world, they were untouchable. To her, his touch was iron shackles disguised as silk.
“Smile,” he murmured under his breath, lips barely moving.
She did. A curve of her mouth, soft and lethal, as if her soul hadn’t already slipped into shadows where his reach couldn’t follow.
They moved through the crowd, a storm and its calm eye. Elena’s every step was measured, every glance calculated. She acknowledged faces she recognised—Sector Governors, Offworld Envoys, Valkor loyalists and sycophants. Yet she kept one eye on the periphery. Always searching. Always ready.
The first toast was called by the Ambassador of Lyris, a broad-shouldered man with a voice like rolling thunder. Glasses clinked. Promises were made. Damian raised his flute of crystalline amber, voice smooth as glass as he pledged stability, growth, inevitability.
Elena raised hers too, silent but radiant, her mask seamless.
But then she saw him.
Cassian.
He lingered at the far edge of the hall, dressed in a tailored coat of dark velvet, hair slicked back, expression calm to the point of arrogance. A guest. An infiltrator. A ghost in the lion’s den.
For a fleeting second, his eyes found hers. The air thickened. His lips twitched, just barely, in something that might have been a smile—or a warning. Then the crowd shifted, and he was gone.
Her pulse quickened.
Cassian’s presence meant risk. His presence meant timing. And if Damian saw…
“Elena.” Damian’s voice snapped her attention back. He leaned closer, expression carved in marble for the crowd, but his whisper was a blade against her ear. “Distracted?”
“Never,” she said smoothly.
His gaze lingered, as though trying to pierce her skin. Then, at last, he turned back to the Governor at his side.
Dinner unfolded in stages of artifice. Platters of crystalline fruit and sculpted meats. Performances of holographic dancers who bent light into impossible shapes. Elena played her part, laughing at the right moments, nodding where appropriate. But her mind was elsewhere.
Cassian hadn’t reappeared. Which meant he was moving.
Her HUD flickered once, just beneath her vision. A coded pulse. A warning.
Sector Thirteen breach detected.
Her fingers tightened around her glass. He’s inside the network.
“Elena.” Damian’s voice again, too smooth, too quiet. He slid a hand across hers on the table, possessive, calculated for the eyes of their guests. “After this, you’ll stand with me for the envoy’s declaration.”
“Of course,” she said. But her chest burned. If Cassian was breaching tonight, then whatever he sought would be decisive—and dangerous.
She excused herself under the guise of refreshment. The corridor beyond the hall was cooler, dimmer, threaded with the hum of hidden conduits. She moved swiftly, heels silent against the floor.
At the junction, a shadow peeled from the wall.
“Elena,” Cassian whispered.
Her breath caught.
“Are you insane?” she hissed. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Neither should you,” he said, eyes sharp, urgent. “The Western Bridge holds a control file—Damian’s contingency protocols. Erasure orders, assassination sequences. He’s mapped out every possible betrayal, and you’re on page one.”
Her stomach clenched. “And you came here to tell me in person? Surrounded by Valkor’s entire guard?”
“I came here because you won’t answer the signal anymore.” His gaze softened. “Because I needed you to see I’m not giving up on you.”
Something cracked inside her chest, a fissure between rage and longing. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to hold him. She did neither.
Instead, she whispered, “You have to leave. If Damian senses—”
Her words died.
The lights overhead flickered once. Twice. Then the alarm blared.
Security breach.
Her HUD lit crimson: Intruder detected. West Wing access.
Cassian’s jaw tightened. “That’s not me.”
“What?”
Before he could answer, a deafening c***k split the corridor. A pulse round slammed into the wall just inches from her head, showering shards of plaster and light. She spun, instincts seizing her body before thought could catch up.
A figure stormed from the shadows, clad in Valkor black, visor down, weapon raised. Another followed. And another. Not rebels. Not mercs. Valkor’s own security.
They weren’t here for Cassian.
They were here for her.
The fight erupted like lightning. Cassian moved first, shoving her to the ground as a pulse shot screamed past. His own weapon—concealed in his sleeve—flared to life with a hiss of blue fire. He dropped one guard in a single, precise strike.
Elena rolled to her feet, tearing the dagger concealed in her thigh free. One guard swung; she ducked, drove the blade into his ribs, twisted. He fell with a grunt.
The corridor became a blur of fists, fire, and shattering light.
Cassian fought like water—fluid, unyielding—his strikes slipping through armour, dismantling men twice his size. Elena fought like fire—fast, sharp, each movement fuelled by fury buried deep in her chest.
And yet… There were too many.
A squad poured in from the far end, weapons raised, orders barked. The red wash of alarms painted their visors like blood.
“Go!” Cassian snarled.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You don’t have a choice.” He grabbed her wrist, yanking her toward a maintenance shaft. “They’re not here for me. They want you.”
His words cut deeper than the surrounding chaos.
Damian. This was Damian’s move. A test disguised as an ambush. A way to see what she would do when the walls closed in.
Elena’s chest heaved, fury warring with dread. If she ran now, she would prove guilty. If she stayed, she risked capture—or worse.
The shaft door hissed open. Cassian shoved her inside, the world narrowing to the slam of metal, the echo of alarms, the thud of boots pounding closer.
“Elena,” he said, breathing ragged. “Whatever happens, don’t let him break you.”
And then the shaft dropped, swallowing her into darkness.
When she landed, the silence was deafening. No alarms. No shouting. Just the slow, mechanical hum of the Citadel’s bowels.
She staggered to her feet, every muscle shaking. For a moment, she leaned against the wall, eyes closed, her heart trying to claw free from her chest.
Damian’s words echoed back—You’ve changed. Smoke can’t be contained.
And now she knew. He had unleashed the fire to burn away the smoke.
Elena straightened, the dagger still warm in her hand. Her reflection in the metal walls stared back—hair wild, gown torn, blood streaking her cheek.
Not a symbol. Not a wife. Not a prisoner.
Something more dangerous.
She slipped into the shadows of the lower sectors, her blade glinting faintly in the dark.
The mask was cracking. And Damian would soon learn what waited beneath.
- Writer
