The carriage carried only herself towards the Mirage—a two-storied palace painted in a vibrant blue hue, its silhouette gleaming from the light of the full moon. Were this a normal banquet, a woman of Mydea’s standing might have brought along their lady’s maid, but it would be an obvious clue during a masquerade. Those more discerning might even recognize her through Troia, unless she went to the trouble of masking her too.

Unlike when the Empress had held court some days prior, there was no line of carriages waiting their turn. The strict palatial formalities were mostly done away with for the night, and so the ball’s scheduled start time was little more than a mere suggestion.

A footman ran up to Mydea’s carriage carrying a rigid parasol of fine leather treated with beeswax. An athenaeum-trained servant would have made the object obsolete of course, but how could the House Imperial pass up a chance to impress their splendor upon the vassals of their vassals? The servant was well-practiced too, keeping perfect pace with Mydea regardless of what speed she walked up the flight of stairs. She was dry as a dune entering the palace.

Another servant—this one distinguishable as one of some seniority by being in the livery of the star and storm—led her up another flight of stairs. The Mirage was much like the Starlight Tower in that it was not a residential palace, and so the second floor existed purely to let one descend into the ballroom in style.

The herald slammed his staff twice to announce her presence. Mydea glanced down at the half-filled room of masks and mages, pausing for a moment atop the grand staircase. Then, with a small smile, she woke the slumbering spells. A blinding white light burst out of her back, drawing every eye to her person as four translucent wings took shape beneath the crystal chandelier.

Mydea descended with very small steps on a low half-toe, assisted by spellweave. Paired with the long gown covering her feet, and the wings behind her, she looked like a fae queen-to-be—floating, instead of walking.

None would think it was true flight, for such a feat was yet impossible for a lone mage, but so long as others could not crack the secret of her dress, they would remain curious.

A woman of pale Syngian complexion and a slender bronze sword at her hip approached Mydea as she arrived at the base of the staircase. “Is it glamour?” she asked immediately, although polite enough to offer Mydea a flute glass filled with a straw-colored liquid first.

Mydea took a sip, taking a moment to savor the semi-dry wine. “That’d be the first guess of many.”

The woman snorted. “Which means it’s wrong. I figured.” The simplest illusions were trivial to detect and dispel, while those difficult to pierce would be the kept secrets of select houses. Neither Kolchis nor the House Imperial were among their number.

“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of tasting a wine like this before.” Mydea held up her glass to the light.

“It’s mango,” the woman said, still undressing Mydea with her eyes to learn her secret.

“Really?” Mydea asked. “It looks and tastes nothing like it.” She would have expected a fruity wine to be sweeter.

“It surprises many.” The woman shrugged.

Mydea placed her as coming from one of the southernmost eminent regions—the Haven, Heartlands, or the Primemarch being most likely. Mangoes were native only to those tropical areas of the Empire. The Dunelands grew them as well, but she sensed no glamours on the woman’s skin and she was too pale to hail from the deserts. The sword was a strong statement too, marking her either as from a house external, or someone pretending to be from one. Bronze instead of runesteel suggested a house none too wealthy.

That ruled out the Haven. Those houses with fiefs south enough to grow mangoes would also be the very ones dominating the trade routes of the Sundered Sea.

“I’m famished,” the woman said, tilting her head towards one of many small, standing tables strategically placed nearby. “Shall we?”

“After you.” Mydea let herself be led away. The woman walked with a brazen confidence and steady steps, and it was clear from how she held herself that she was a trained warrior. She’s quite forward too, approaching me right away, Mydea thought. She was convinced now that the woman was from a house external—or an actress that put mummers and minstrels to shame.

Servants patrolled the room with trays of either morsel-sized art or hefty plates, each dish kept at just the right temperatures by plates of artificer make. Mydea’s new acquaintance helped herself to a small serving of crackling pig skin with a side of vinegar, bone marrow, and mint sauce. Mydea waved away a servant who’d offered fresh scallops on a half-shell topped with citrus and cilantro. Kolchis was not in such straits yet that necessitated she commit suicide by allergy while a guest of the Empress just to shine a light on the Pleonexias. Instead, she helped herself to strips of moist, juicy chicken that had been baked in salt, judging by the discarded crust about it.

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“I’ve not seen you make exertion all this time, so it cannot be mere sympathetic spellcraft you’ve cast repeatedly,” the woman mused. “I’d be disappointed too, if that were it.”

“Guard your heart well then,” Mydea said. “I’ve disappointed many.”

“That sounds like a challenge,” said a deep voice from behind them. The sharp clack of heels was audible and a man soon joined them at the table with a full mask that made the exact shade of his eyes unknown and unknowable.

Mydea took one look at him and frowned. “You’re not even trying, Your Excellency. It robs the game of any fun.”

“You sound so sure of yourself,” was his reply.

“As the seasons.” Mydea sipped her wine. It was a good vintage, but too dry to be her preference. “Would you like to know what gave you away?”

“Do tell.”

She gave a sweet smile. “It’s the heels and the eyes which mark you as skyborn.”

“The heels?” the woman asked.

“He wears a full inch more than either of us,” Mydea explained. “Were we anywhere else, I wouldn’t take that to mean anything necessarily, but in Aelisium? There are customs which govern the height of heels and four inches are for the House Imperial alone.”

“And the eyes?” the prince asked. “I went to great expense procuring this mask just so mine wouldn’t give me away.”

“Too great an expense,” Mydea explained. “It would have sufficed to change the color alone, but to use such complex obscuration? You were trying to hide something, and only the eyes of Synder Starbright merit such lengths.”

He settled into a contemplative quiet, for the skyborn did not sulk. “I might have been someone pretending.”

“It would be most impudent to borrow the visage of the House Imperial, Your Excellency,” Mydea said. “Though this is a masquerade, I do not think any would dare to overstep that line.” Glamour was easy, and easily countered, but they were not the only means of altering one’s appearance. Among the stoneborn, it was known that deep lore and higher mysteries existed to beguile the senses.

“Especially those who know their histories,” the woman added. “There are costs and dangers both to dabbling in such magic.”

Though centuries had passed, tales from a darker era were still talked about at the athenaeums. Many had dared commit treason against the House Imperial, stealing their face and their place, or through subtler means of control.

“Are you suggesting my Mother does not know the dangers then?” he asked, tone light.

Mydea and the woman shared a blank look. “How do you mean, Prince Altan?” Mydea asked.

He sighed somewhat mournfully. “You really do know who I am.”

“You were still in the game until your last line,” Mydea said. “I knew what you were, not who you were, but the Empress only has one son.” Nor had she heard anything about the princesses taking a liking to switching their gender in past masquerades, which would surely be gossiped about.

Altan made a half-bow towards her. “I appreciate the lessons, my lady. I’ll keep them in mind.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Mydea said. The boy had just turned eighteen, and was not even a graduate of the Imperial Athenaeum yet. She could hardly find too much fault in him for failing to keep up with herself. “You were saying about Her Highness?”

“Oh that? It’s old news.” Altan turned his eyes to where the Empress stood, surrounded by a flock of courtiers. She did not try so hard to hide Her identity, and there wasn’t much of a point. Mydea was not aware of any magic that could truly hide the impossible beauty of the House Luxuria. “She employs a second self. It’s been known for years how She might appear in two places at once.”

Mydea’s eyes widened. “That’s… I dare not say more.” The Empress surely had ears everywhere in Aelisium.

“Its a dangerous practice?” Altan guessed her thoughts. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard whispered before.”

“It’s not my place to comment on Her Highness’ choices,” Mydea said.

“The Empress is the Empress,” the woman agreed, though her voice wasn’t quite as steady.

Altan laughed. “You scare too easily. She will not take your tongues for speaking of this.”

The woman was braver than Mydea then, for she asked, “Is it Mimicry?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Altan said. “No one knows for certain the means.”

“Mimicry requires a great deal of trust, and that’s a rarity in Aelisium,” Mydea pointed out. Not just figuratively, not just because your very image was wagered. The foundation of the spell was secrets, and for a truly flawless second self, the replacement would have to know of even the Empress’ deepest thoughts. There were enough examples of trusted guards and servants and playmates taking the place of their master that such methods were generally avoided nowadays.