Ascension Engine: Bluefire

The Gathering Of Masks

Night in Veylieth came quietly after the Vernal Revel— too quietly. The streets below the Velvet Hand were usually still humming with gossip, drunken laughter, merchants shouting last-minute deals. Tonight, however, a soft hush clung to the air like dew. Word had spread. The Golden Girl had sung. And something ancient had answered. Raina felt the echo of it still humming gently in her bones as she stepped into her room and closed the door behind her. It was the first time she’d been truly alone since the ceremony. Alone… yet not. Four invitations sat on her desk, each made of different paper, stitched with different intent— like tiny threads leading to four destinies she wasn’t sure she wanted, but knew she could not ignore.

One from the Emberlight Order.

One from the Guild of Twilight Masques.

One from the Verdant Concord.

And one from someone called V. She would not choose yet. But she would meet them.

Tonight, the first. Raina inhaled slowly and raised her hand. Her divine aura—normally a soft, seductive glow of velvet-warm energy—flared faintly in response to her focus. She imagined it folding in on itself, like dozens of rippling petals tucking inward. Suppress. Quiet. Still. Her aura dimmed. Her power settled. The room exhaled with her. She hadn’t mastered the technique yet, but she was learning quickly—this new body, its new instincts, its new desire to touch and be touched, had to be kept in check.

Too many clients had nearly dropped to their knees just from walking past her yesterday. It was flattering, sure. But also impractical. And dangerous. Her divine seed pulsed warmly, approving the restraint, a reminder that control was as much divinity as indulgence. Raina turned to her vanity, letting herself slip into a quieter ritual— one that had nothing to do with seduction but everything to do with presence.

A soft powder brushed across her cheeks. A thin line of kohl defined her eyes. Her hair she left loose, a cascading curtain of chocolate and starlit shimmer, still touched by the remnants of her ascension glow. She selected an outfit intentionally simple— not the finery of her performances, nor the silken drapes of her courtesan nights. A long, formfitting dress of black velvet, slit high on the hip, sleeveless, elegant. A dress that said: I am here to listen. Not to be bought. She adjusted her earrings—small teardrops of blue opal—and finally slipped into her low heels. A knock came at the door. Two knuckles, soft and precise. Madame Elayne. Raina opened the door to find her leaning on her cane, eyes sharp even in the dim hallway.

“You’re awake early,” Elayne murmured.

“Good. I was starting to think you’d overslept after last night’s… spectacle.” Raina flushed faintly, but stood taller.

“Was it too much?” Madame Elayne lifted a hand and tapped Raina’s forehead with a single finger.

“Child, if it were too much, half the Revel would have fainted where they stood—and the other half would be pregnant.” She softened only a fraction.

“It was beautiful. And it was dangerous. Both truths can exist.” Raina nodded. “I’ll be careful.”

“I know you will.” The Madame’s eyes flicked toward the desk. “Your visitor is waiting in the private parlor. Use the left stairwell—less attention that way.” Raina blinked.

“You checked on them?”

“Of course I checked on them.” The Madame sniffed. “You think I’d let one of the city’s power circles slip into my establishment without vetting them?” Then, quieter— “And without ensuring they deserve you?” Heat curled in Raina’s chest. “Thank you.” “Go on then.” Elayne nudged her with the cane. “Before they get bored and decide to start buying the walls or something.” Raina laughed under her breath and moved toward the door— but paused when the Madame's voice followed her softly.

“And Raina?” She turned. Madame Elayne held her gaze with an unreadable expression. “Trust yourself,” she said.

“Not their promises. And not their coin.” Raina bowed her head once, grateful. Then she slipped out, down the dim corridor, toward the quiet stairwell— and toward the first secret meeting that would shape the rest of her life.

The private parlor was dimly lit—one oil lamp on the far wall, its flame steady, its shadows long. The Velvet Hand’s private rooms were always tasteful, but this one felt different tonight. Heavier. Older. As though the air itself remembered every deal ever whispered inside it.

Raina entered with silent footsteps, her velvet dress catching the low light like ripples of ink.

And there he was.

A tall man, rigid in posture, dressed in a fine charcoal suit embroidered subtly with thorned vines. His mask covered everything from the bridge of his nose to just above his chin—smooth, dark wood carved into the shape of overlapping leaves. Only his eyes showed: sharp green, watchful, uncertain.

He looked like someone forced into a place he found both fascinating and terrifying.

He didn’t belong here.

But Raina did.

She approached him with measured grace, her suppressed aura held tightly beneath her skin—still warm, still potent, but carefully leashed. The instinct to soothe him, tempt him, calm him, overwhelm him… all of it simmered beneath the surface, but she held herself steady.

“Good evening,” she murmured, her voice velvet-soft by training and by nature. “I assume you have an alias I can call you by?”

He stiffened, then silently extended a slip of paper between gloved fingers.

Praetor.

Elegant handwriting. Old-fashioned ink.

“Very well, Praetor.”

Raina folded the slip into her palm. “Which faction do you represent… and what is your purpose with me?”

The man swallowed—barely noticeable, but Raina’s trained senses caught it.

Then he spoke.

“I represent the Verdant Concord.”

His voice was deep—almost a baritone—but unlike Tielan’s or Cassian’s warm resonance, his carried none of that natural sensuality. His tone was controlled, almost clinical, as though he feared that emotion might betray him.

Raina inclined her head, taking the seat opposite him with slow, deliberate poise.

“The Concord is not known for sending envoys lightly,” she said. “So I assume this meeting is not simply a courtesy.”

Praetor exhaled once, hands folding atop his knees.

“No. It is not.”

The silence stretched—thick with tension, heavy with meaning.

Outside, faintly, she could hear the Velvet Hand settling for the night. The clink of glasses being washed. The low murmur of courtesans chatting softly before bed. The world was normal.

But this moment was not.

Praetor’s gaze shifted to her fully for the first time, and something changed.

Not desire.

Not intimidation.

Recognition.

“As you performed last night,” he said quietly, “every noble house of the Verdant Concord felt something… shift. We do not believe in coincidences. We believe in omens. In patterns. In lines of fate.”

Raina’s pulse quickened—but she remained still.

“And I,” Praetor continued, straightening slightly as if reciting a decree, “was sent on behalf of the Thorned Council to make an inquiry.”

“What inquiry?” Raina asked.

Praetor’s next words landed like a soft blade:

“What are you becoming?”

The room held its breath.

Raina’s fingers curled slowly around the armrest—not defensive, but grounding.

“I am still myself,” she answered calmly. “But I am changing. I won’t hide that.”

Praetor gave a slow nod—neither approving nor disapproving. Simply absorbing.

“This is why we came,” he said. “The Verdant Concord does not chase power. We… cultivate it. We preserve it. And when something rare blooms, we evaluate whether it is a flower of fortune…”

His eyes sharpened.

“…or a weed that will choke the field.”

Raina didn’t flinch.

She leaned forward just slightly, letting a fraction of her aura warm the air—not seduction, not dominance, just presence.

“And what do you see when you look at me, Praetor?”

Praetor did not answer immediately.

But when he did, his voice was hushed.

“Something the Concord has never seen before.”

Another beat of silence.

“Which is why,” he said, lifting a sealed parchment from his pocket, “the Council extends an invitation to you—not as prey. Not as a curiosity. But as a prospective ally.”

He placed the parchment between them.

Its weight was unmistakable.

Its seal ancient.

Its meaning… enormous.

Raina stared at it, then back at Praetor.

“And what would the Concord ask of me in return?” she asked softly.

Praetor hesitated.

Then:

“For now? Merely a conversation.” His gaze held hers. “An honest one.”

Raina reclined slightly, the gears of her mind turning.

This was the Verdant Concord’s first move.

And she had yet to decide her own.

Her room welcomed her with the same quiet luxury it always had—silk sheets draped across her bed, warm lamplight glinting off polished wood, and that familiar scent of incense lingering gently in the air. The balcony curtains fluttered from a soft night breeze, bringing in the distant hum of Veylieth as it wound down after the Vernal Revel.

It felt strange, almost surreal, to think it had been only a few short weeks since she’d logged off her old world for the last time.

A life of dull predictability.

Of deadlines.

Of monotony.

Now she stood here—barefoot on the marbled floor of the Velvet Hand, living a life so decadent, so intoxicating, she sometimes wondered if she was dreaming.

Sex sold.

Intimacy sold more.

And she?

She sold both so well she was practically minting gold.

Raina set the Concord’s token and envelope gently into her desk drawer, closing it with a soft click. Then, with a sigh of release, she stepped toward the full-length mirror beside her bed.

Her fingers slipped beneath the strap of her dress, letting it slide from her body in a dark, velvety whisper until it pooled at her feet. She removed her makeup with slow, practiced movements, warm water and a scented cloth revealing the face beneath.

And for the first time all day, she stopped.

Really stopped.

And stared.

Because the woman gazing back at her was not the woman who woke up in this world weeks ago.

Her hair—formerly a familiar blonde—now shimmered in cascading strands of moonlit silver, catching even the faintest light and bending it like water.

Her eyes, still the violet she remembered, now swirled with drifting galaxies, tiny constellations pulsing softly as if she held the very night sky in her irises.

Her skin?

Soft as satin.

Supple as velvet.

Smooth enough to make her gasp when she skimmed her fingers across her stomach.

Her curves were different too—subtly, impossibly perfect.

Her waist had tapered.

Her hips had softened.

Her breasts sat higher, fuller, as if sculpted by an artist with an eye for divine beauty.

Her ass, once simply nice, was now the kind of ass that started wars.

A faint glow rippled just beneath her skin—her aura trying to leak out, even though she’d forced it into stillness earlier. It curled around her like a whisper of light, unable to resist showing itself in the privacy of her room.

Raina exhaled, breath catching in her throat.

“Gods…” she whispered to her reflection.

She was beautiful.

Dangerously beautiful.

Almost bewitched by her own reflection, she lifted her hand and watched the mirror-woman mimic her—jaw soft, lips plush, eyes darkening with a sensual, cosmic allure.

She looked like a deity who had just remembered she was divine.

And for the first time, she didn’t flinch away from the thought.