Alternatively

Gray and Green and Gold

He pulled the mask over his eyes.

Just ahead, the palace was lit in various shades of gold and looked simply magnificent. It was bound to be filled with sheer elegance and lovely guests to match and of course, more food than he had ever seen. The way his horse nervously shuffled reminded him that he was to ignore the glamour, that he had to remain focused and unaffected by the dizzying change of scenery. He had a job to do.

His sword swung at his side and the invitation in his pocket grew heavier the closer he got and it took an obscene amount of concentration to maintain a regal posture. He hardly felt qualified to pass for a noble, yet Dionysus insisted it be him who carried the mission out. He didn't know if it was because he was the most capable person for the job or the fact of the scorned survivor hating Percy with all he was worth.

Nonetheless, there he was. Fully decorated. Illegal invitee. His act must have been impressive, for the servants at the gate scraped to bow as he passed, the man directing carriages and assisting ladies from their rides scrambling at the opportunity to put his horse away. Percy had declined, coldly, of course; every man worth his honor had the decency of tying up his own steed.

There were a couple other nobles, mingling and making small talk as they sized each other up on the way back from the stables. Percy gave the smallest answers in his coolest voice when asked, aloof as can be as he hurried - calmly - into the main foyer.

The suits of armor lining the hall, the marble echoing under his boots, the muffled music and chatter drifting from the closed doors. Cavernous ceilings stretched above him, but he felt like the walls were closing in and it was hard to breathe.

I can't do this, he swallowed, pausing in front of the double doors. I'm everything they hate, I can't do this.

Echoes of screams rang in his ears, the memory of blood fresh in his mind, and he squared his shoulders as the page took his invitation. It didn't matter what he felt, it didn't even matter if he died. If he survived and made it through the mission, though, that was a game changer. Nothing would ever be the same.

"Peter Johnson," the page announced as the ballroom doors opened. "Viscount of Kenston."

No one paid him mind as he strode to the top of the staircase, dancing and drinking on the wide marble below. Everyone glittered darkly, the sea parting around an ornate cage in the middle of the floor. It was empty, but he had to refrain from snarling in disgust.

Instead, he relaxed his face behind the mask, joining the elite in all their perfumed glory.

The king's on the pedestal, he noted calmly, hands behind his back as he wove through the crowd. The queen is...wandering.

She was known to disappear with one of her courtesans, but the main event always pulled her front and center. It was said she shed first blood, and that's all he needed to know. He loosely gripped a flute of champagne as he inspected the guards posted at windows, doors, trailing the queen and her company. They were ornaments, mere decoration; Dionysus warned him the people he should be looking for were women.

Dangerous warriors in ballgowns of silk.

Trained assassins designated to eliminate threats and rejoin a dance before the music ended.

And if he wasn't mistaken, he was already caught in a spider's web.

He could feel eyes on his back, following him through the crowd, and he tried to stay casual. Like any bachelor, he was watching the masked options around him. He couldn't slip down one of the hidden halls, but that didn't mean he couldn't scout. Dionysus had told him to look for an amass of curtains, layers of tapestries that didn't need to be layered.