The great chandelier hung like a frozen star above the palace ballroom, casting fractured light across silk gowns and glinting masks. Laughter floated like perfume. Courtiers sipped wine stained with crushed berries. The royal masquerade was the jewel of the season, a place of dangerous liaisons and prettier lies.
She moved through it like smoke.
The thief wore a dress stolen off a noblewoman's line and a mask she had carved herself—a black half mask with shiny little stones, it only covered from her nose up to her forehead.
Her long black hair was pinned up in an elegant twist, streaks of moonlight catching on the strands. Her eyes, silver as stormlight, cut through the illusions and vanity of the palace and lips, crimson red. She watched every guard, every movement, every glittering jewel on bare royal throats. She wasn't here for dancing.
No, she was here for the prince's room. The one they said was filled with riches too delicate for war, too sinful for saints.
She slipped through corridors while others twirled on marble floors. Down below, the guests danced in perfect rhythm, every spin and bow choreographed like the steps of a ritual. Laughter echoed off the high-vaulted ceilings. Music rose in swelling waves. No one looked up to notice the figure ghosting along the shadows above.
She picked two locks with fingers like whispers and slid into the room of Prince Corwin.
It was exactly as the rumors promised: opulence layered upon secrets. Velvet, mahogany, a fire dancing in a hearth. Jewels spilled like careless words across the desk. And at the center, a gold-inlaid wardrobe that looked as if it guarded something ancient.
She reached for the jewelry case—and froze.
"Help yourself, why don't you?"
The voice came from the shadows.
She spun, hand going for the hidden blade at her thigh. A figure stepped forward, the fire illuminating his full gold mask with shiny stones. The infamous Masked Prince.
He looked relaxed. One gloved hand rested on his sword hilt. The other held a glass of brandy. His hair, a thick cascade of dark brown tinged with deep red, fell in subtle waves to his jaw.
"Did you get lost on your way to the kitchen, thief?"
"Did you get bored of playing pretend with your little nobles?" she shot back, silver eyes narrowing.
He grinned beneath the mask. "Touché."
She lunged first. Their blades met in a ringing clash—hers quick, jagged, built for speed and unpredictability; his elegant, a thing of lineage and training. But he was fast. Faster than she'd expected.
They circled, blades flashing in the firelight.
"You're better than the last assassin," he said, parrying with ease.
"Not an assassin. Just a girl with expensive taste."
"You're robbing a prince. That's beyond taste. That's ambition."
Their swords struck again, the vibration dancing up her arm. She spun low, trying to sweep his legs, but he leapt back with a laugh.
"You're enjoying this," she accused.
"Terribly."
Below them, in the grand ballroom, the orchestra swelled. Couples danced with elegance and grace, oblivious to the duel taking place above their heads. Gowns spun like painted petals. Masked faces laughed behind gilded smiles.
Up here, it was a different dance.
He advanced with a flurry of strikes, testing her defenses. She met him blow for blow, her silver eyes locked on his. Their blades caught, sliding against each other with a screech.
"Who taught you to fight?" he asked, breath quickening.
"Life."
"She must have been cruel."
She broke the lock, dodged to the side, and kicked a nearby chair toward him. He sliced through it mid-air.
"Show-off," she muttered.
"I aim to impress."
They danced across the room, blades flashing. She ducked a strike, countered with a shallow cut across his sleeve. He hissed but smiled beneath his gold mask.
"You're going to ruin my favorite coat."
"You ruined my night."
He cornered her near the fireplace, heat licking at their skin.
"You could've just asked for a tour."
"Would you have given it?"
"Not without a price."
Their blades locked again, and this time she stepped in close, their faces inches apart. His breathing uneven. She felt the rise and fall of his chest.
Then a crash. Someone outside. Footsteps. Voices.
"Shit," she whispered.
The prince tilted his head. "Guards."
She yanked open the wardrobe door.
"Please," she said, breathless, voice lowered to a hiss. "Don't turn me in. I'll owe you."
He took a long look at her, then sighed, sheathing his straight pointy sword.
She ducked inside just as the doors burst open.
"Your Highness? We heard a scuffle."
Prince Corwin turned slowly. His mask still on his face. He raised his brandy glass.
"Dropped a bottle," he said lazily. "It shattered. Nothing worth drawing steel over."
The guards looked unconvinced.
"Search the room." One commanded.
He tilted his head slightly. "Are you questioning me in my own chambers?"
A tense pause.
"No, Your Highness. Forgive us."
He waved them off. They left.
The silence after their exit was thick safe for the crackling of the fire.
The wardrobe creaked open.
"A kiss," he said, still smiling. "On the cheek. For my heroism."
She stepped out, face unreadable. Then, without a word, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. Soft. Quick. Warm.
When she pulled back, he looked briefly startled.
"Didn't think I'd pay my debts so easily?"
"I underestimated you," he murmured.
Then he removed his mask.
Her breath hitched.
He was stunning. Unfairly so. The mix of deep red and brown in his hair looked like fire beneath shadow. His ocean-blue eyes held mischief and melancholy. His lips—full, curved—tilted in a quiet smile.
She actually blushed.
"What?" he asked.
"You look too good to be royalty," she muttered, recovering. "I need compensation."
"For what?"
"Trauma. Close brushes with death. Being blinded by male beauty. Give me something shiny."
He laughed. "You're shameless."
"I'm practical."
She walked around the room, letting her fingers trail along furniture.
"Do you know how people outside live? You lounge in velvet while they sleep in cold alleys. I steal to eat. They work and still starve."
Something shifted in her voice. A thread of rawness broke through.
"We burn through winters while you drink wine aged longer than our lives."
She paused. Looked at him. Her silver eyes gleamed.
"You've ever been hungry? Not for hours. I mean for days."
He didn't speak. His face had lost its grin.
Then, quietly, he turned. Walked to a chest and opened it. Gold. Diamonds. Sapphires like stars.
He swept them into a velvet satchel and handed it to her.
She stared, her eyes wide open in surprise.
"I was joking," she whispered.
"I wasn't."
"Why?"
He didn't answer.
She stepped forward. Kissed his cheek again. And again. Then, unexpectedly, she threw her arms around him.
He stiffened—then relaxed. His arms came up slowly, gently encircling her.
When she pulled away, his face regained it's smile.
"You're not so bad, Corwin."
She took the satchel, then climbed to the window, the moon casting her in silver.
"Tell them," he said. "Tell them I promise to end their suffering."
She looked back.
"Then you'd better keep your word. Or next time, I'll be stealing more than jewels."
He raised a brow. "Tell me your name before you go."
She paused, one leg over the windowsill.
She hesitated. Then, with a half-smile, replied, "Mia."
He pinched his chin with his brow slightly furrowed. "Mia... Like the sound cats make?"
"What?!" She laughed genuinely, "you're funny." She said as she smiled—a real one.
"And who knows," she added, "next time, you might earn a better kiss."
Then she dropped down, vanishing into the night.