Chapter 11 – The Last Ball
We had been at Caer Veyral for nine full days when the idea was born.
Nine days of ravens landing on the broken battlements with sealed letters.
Nine days of northern lords riding in through the blizzard (some alone, some with fifty retainers), all kneeling in the snow before Evelyn and swearing the same words:
"The stag rises."
By the tenth morning the great hall was full. Maps covered every table. Garrick, Rowena, and three other border lords argued over troop numbers while Evelyn listened from the high seat that had once been her father's.
I stood at her right hand, silent, counting blades and days.
We had nineteen days left of the council's deadline.
That was when Rowena (tall, silver-haired, eyes like winter steel) laid a single object on the table: a black velvet mask shaped like stag antlers.
"The Midwinter Masquerade is in eight days," she said. "The entire court will be there. Cedric will be there. The queen will be there. And every foreign ambassador who still doubts which way the wind blows."
Silence fell.
Evelyn's fingers tightened on the armrests.
"You want me to walk back into the palace," she said slowly.
"I want you to walk in like the queen you already are," Rowena replied. "One hour. One public declaration. Then we vanish again before they can close the net. The realm will never forget the night the north reminded them who truly holds the north."
Garrick grinned, scar pulling at his throat.
"Two hundred riders can reach the capital in six days if we change horses at every loyal hold. The blizzard will hide our tracks. There's an old smugglers' tunnel under the aqueduct (I used it myself thirty years ago). We go in masked, we leave the same way."
I spoke for the first time.
"Guards?"
"Half the palace watch is northern-born," Garrick said. "They'll look the other way for the right signal. The other half will be drunk on holiday wine."
Evelyn looked at me (only me).
"What do you say, Rin?"
I met her eyes and answered with the truth.
"It's suicide," I said. "Beautiful, perfect suicide. And it will break Cedric's legend in a single night. I'm in."
She smiled then (slow, dangerous, radiant).
Eight days later, on the night of the Midwinter Masquerade, the plan unfolded exactly as drawn.
Two hundred riders left Caer Veyral at dusk, split into four columns to avoid detection. By midnight on the sixth day we were camped in the pine forest outside the capital, snow falling so thick it erased hoofprints within minutes.
At the eleventh hour we rode openly through the lower city (northern colours hidden beneath plain cloaks, faces wrapped against the storm). The city guards at the inner gate saw the forged passes and waved us through.
At the smugglers' tunnel beneath the aqueduct, fifty riders split off to create diversions (torches in the merchant quarter, false alarms at three different gates).
The remaining hundred and fifty followed us single file into the dark.
We emerged inside the palace cellars, changed into the costumes that had been smuggled in weeks earlier by loyal servants, and climbed the servants' stairs to the ballroom level.
Evelyn wore a gown of midnight velvet, the bodice worked with tiny silver stags that caught every candle-flame. Her mask was black lace and real stag antlers (taken from the great stag her father killed the year she was born). I wore blood-red silk that left my arms bare for movement, my mask a simple crimson domino that hid everything except my mouth.
We looked like a queen and her executioner.
Because tonight, we were.
The orchestra was playing the Winter Waltz when we stepped through the side door.
The herald never had time to announce us.
Every head turned at once.
The music faltered and died.
Cedric stood on the royal dais in white and gold, Lilia at his side like a pale doll. When he saw Evelyn, the goblet slipped from his fingers and shattered on the marble.
Evelyn walked forward (slow, deliberate steps) until she stood in the exact centre of the ballroom floor.
I stayed half a pace behind, dagger already in my hand, hidden along my forearm.
She did not raise her voice.
"Prince Cedric," she said, and the acoustics of the hall carried every syllable to the highest balcony, "six years ago you murdered my father in the north tower. Tonight the north remembers."
She curtsied (low, perfect, lethal).
I lifted the dagger so the blade caught the chandelier light and laid it across my forearm in plain view.
Gasps rippled outward like thrown stones.
Cedric's mouth opened (rage, fear, disbelief all at once).
Before he could speak, the great doors at every compass point burst open.
Northern riders in black and silver poured in (swords drawn, crossbows levelled). Snow roared in with them, snuffing half the candles, turning the ballroom into a storm of shadow and steel.
The court screamed. Ladies fainted. Nobles scrambled backward.
Cedric found his voice at last.
"Guards! Seize them!"
Half the guards hesitated (northern-born, remembering old oaths).
The other half started forward and found northern steel already at their throats.
Evelyn lifted one hand. Silence fell as suddenly as the snow.
"This is not a siege," she called, voice ringing clear. "This is a promise. You have eighteen days left of the thirty you granted me. Bring your armies, Your Highness. The north will be ready."
She turned to me, eyes blazing behind the antlered mask.
I offered my hand.
She took it.
Together we walked backward out of the ballroom (never once turning our backs on the prince), a corridor of northern steel parting and closing around us like a living shield.
At the threshold Evelyn paused, looked back one final time.
"Enjoy the rest of your ball," she said sweetly. "It will be the last one you ever host as an unchallenged prince."
The doors slammed shut.
Outside, the blizzard swallowed us whole.
Eighteen days remained.
And the entire kingdom now knew the war had already begun.