Starsinger

Masquerade

Aaron shifted his weight back and forth between the balls of his feet to stay alert. All around him the nobility swirled, their faces half-hidden behind glittering masks, their laughter echoing off the walls and vaulted ceilings of the Hall of Lords. A thousand candles flickered within great crystal chandeliers suspended above the polished floor. During the day, light would stream from the ceiling through a hundred sparkling windows, all cut in the shape of a blazing sun, the crest of the Ko royal family.

Aaron inspected the assembled nobility with practiced detachment. The older nobles had given up the pretense of the masquerade years ago, dutifully covering their faces but fashioning their dress into the symbols of their families, so there could be no question of their identity. Only the youth truly committed to the spirit of the masquerade, painstakingly disguising themselves as heroes from the Days of Division, faeries and avians and creatures of myth. For them, there was a certain romance in being hidden. For their elders, the romance had long since faded into an inconvenience. When you'd spent generations building the power and honor of your name, anonymity was hardly an asset.

Besides, there was work to be done. Solstice was one of those rare opportunities when even those nobles who preferred to remain in their own territories gathered together with the royal court, a chance for alliances to be built and trade deals negotiated. Lower nobility could catch the eye of the more powerful and earn themselves a profitable marriage contract, or even an esteemed position on the King's Council. During wartime the masquerade was a chance for the crown to flaunt its wealth and resources, reminding flighty houses of their oaths of fealty and the harm that might befall them should they waver.

In all their celebrating and politicking, none of the guests spared a glance towards Aaron. He was glad of that. In a ballroom, guards were meant to be decorative rather than functional. Any interaction would break the illusion and remind the nobility that the bold dress uniforms belonged to people, well-trained and ready to defend them against violence.

Nobody liked to think of violence in a ballroom.

What's more, Aaron preferred to keep his distance. He thought of his scope and his bow, surveying the courtyard like a bird flying high above it. It was better to be on the outside, looking in. You could see more that way.

Of course, it would be even better not to be here at all. Aaron had done his fair share of guard duty during his training for the squads, but not once in the years since he and his team had passed their Trials. It was the job of the Palace Watch to guard the crown. They were the watchdogs.

The kyrsquads were warriors. Their place was on the battlefield, carrying out the king's will and the orders of the First Generals.

In some other realms, Aaron had read that people became warriors to seek out fame and glory, but Zareyma had no time for heroes. Would-be heroes made too many mistakes, chasing their own legacies and choosing honorable losses over strategic victories.

Squads didn't fight for legacy—they fought for each other. The Ko Dynasty had designed them that way: Each new class of kyrsquad recruits trained together, slept together, and ate together from the moment they first entered the palace. When the Trials finally arrived, the First Generals put them through a series of notoriously difficult tests meant to drive the recruits to collaborate and form teams. The teams left standing at the end of the Trials chose a leader, and were sworn in as brand new kyrsquads. Each squad was small and flexible, bonded through blood and sweat. Every soldier had their function, and every squad its own unique combination of skills. Aaron glanced at his squadmates stationed around the room. Striker, master of blades. Bruiser, master of hand-to-hand. Sapper, master of mechanics. Whisperer, master of intelligence.