Masquerade [Kuskovo Estate]

[Ascendancy]

Although it was obscured by a mask, a familiar face came into view. He had been visited twice by this man: first in a dream and second on a dare.

“Adrian, I didn’t realize you were connected to the Vasilievs.” He offered to shake the man’s hand, but it was quick and not overly friendly. Adrian quietly threatened him the last time they met, not outright, but the potential was implied. At the time, Nikolai was willing to satiate the man’s request to be rid of him. He should have known he would want more.

Perhaps another tactic was in order. “How have your classes been going?” The inquiry regarded dabbling in the power, for which he had sent one of the  Dominions. Not even Michael was aware that Jay had such an assignment. It was strictly kept between the three of them because Adrian was a tool that Nikolai was not yet willing to test.

[Jaxen Marveet]

Cyrena Marveet

Cyrena’s mouth curved into a small, calculated smile. She let a beat pass, pretending to consider his question, though she already had her answer ready. A man like Carter would expect to be flattered, or teased, or both. She would give him just enough of each to keep him intrigued.

“Pity? No,” she purred, taking a leisurely sip of her own drink, her gaze never leaving his. “Let’s just say I have a weakness for lost causes. American men trying to play the part in Moscow.” Her smile turned almost imperceptibly sharper, a flash of teeth. “It’s endearing.”

She watched his reaction, pleased to see the slight shift in his expression—a flicker of amusement, perhaps even a hint of annoyance. Good. Men like him didn’t like being seen as endearing. It chipped away at their armor, introduced just a sliver of vulnerability. And Carter, with his sculpted confidence and immaculately curated persona, was no exception.

“So, tell me, Carter,” she continued, leaning in a little closer, her voice a low, conspiratorial murmur, “what brings you to a city like this? And don’t say business.” She allowed her leg to brush, just barely, against his as she rested her elbow on the bar. “Everyone says business. But a man with your…” she trailed off, letting her eyes linger on his suit, the watch gleaming on his wrist, his neatly trimmed hair, “…particular attention to detail must have a more interesting reason.”

Cyrena could practically see him recalculating, deciding what to give away, what to withhold. It was like watching a predator decide whether or not to play with its food, and the thought made her pulse quicken, though she’d never show it. She was adept at reading people, men especially, their wants and their insecurities. With him, she sensed something simmering just beneath the surface—something restless, maybe even desperate. And that made him all the more appealing.

“I’ll make a guess,” she continued, saving him the trouble of answering, her tone lightly mocking. “You’re here to chase demons. Or run from them. Moscow has a way of attracting both.” She let her gaze drift over him, as if assessing him anew. “You strike me as the haunted type.”

For just a fraction of a second, she thought she saw something flicker in his expression—a crack in the polished, confident exterior. Cyrena hid her satisfaction behind another sip of vodka. She wasn’t here to make friends: lovers, possibly; she was here to find useful connections, powerful allies. Carter, with his air of privilege and concealed purpose, had potential.

Before he could respond, she glanced over her shoulder at the glittering room, the wealthy and the ambitious mingling in their little clusters of importance. Her eyes slid back to him, cold and assessing.

[Carter de Volthström]

Carter was nearly rendered speechless by Cyrena’s captivating monologue. She wasn’t supermodel beautiful but was far more attractive. She gave off this aura of a beautiful insect, deadly and poisonous, yet he had this undeniable urge to get closer and in doing so bare every thought he’d ever had.

“Definitely not business,” Carter didn’t need to suppress any emotion there. He was a devoted son to the family legacy, but he would never discuss such things with a stranger. “And no demons, either.” The comment struck him darker than he expected himself to react to such a benign metaphor.

He took a breath to recenter himself, and in doing so, glanced around them. “Actually, I’m here for a girl.”

[Colette Moreau]

The Patron’s arrival was not unexpected. Colette studied up on Sofia’s family before tonight, and she was aware of the family relation with the Patron. Myshelov was famous in his own right, even for an American. As a Moreau, she was not unaccustomed to mingling with politicians, usually in a party atmosphere exactly like this one. So she smiled the perfect amount to not seem overeager but maintain an affable and warm presence. She thought the Patron studied her in return, if only for a moment, and she watched him escort Sofia to the dance floor.

Zixin’s offer took her attention back to the moment. He asked her to dance, to which she nodded. “I happily accept.”

Colette was a perfect dancer, of course. She’d been attending balls and galas for a decade, but an affair as lavish as this was rare in New York these days. Certainly one was never attended by the Ascendancy.

She allowed herself to be swept into Zixin’s arms where she maintained a respectful distance. “So Zixin, are you from Singapore?” It was posed like small talk, but only someone who was invested in keeping up with world events might recognize the connection to the Singaporean family.

[Daniil]

Elena was an adequate partner. Tall and willowy, her long limbs moved with the practiced ease of someone who had spent a small fortune perfecting the art of being watched. Her sky-high heels gave her a commanding height, towering over Daniil by several inches, but the tilt of her chin and the subtle shift in his grip made it clear who dictated the rhythm of the dance.

He lingered through a second song, not for her sake, but for the flickers of envy and admiration he caught in the glances of those gathered around the edge of the floor. Approval, after all, was a currency he enjoyed spending even if he cared little for its source.

When Myshelov stepped onto the parquet with Sofia in tow, Daniil’s gaze followed, and their eyes met across the gilded expanse of the ballroom. A faint, wordless acknowledgment passed between them—a shared smirk, an almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t warmth; they were not the sort for sentimental connections. But there was understanding. Recognition. Father and son, cut from the same fine and unyielding cloth, each perfectly the picture of their mutual roles in society.

[Noémi Jourdain]

  

The way Dmitri looked at her was painful, and in a blink the years closed tight; he seemed bewitched under a spell she had not cast. His dark eyes devoured. The wrap of his palm at the curve of her waist made her his again. Even the smell of him was overpoweringly familiar, drowning out the scent of Nikolai’s perfume on her skin. It was spice and heat and tempestuousness, and it made her heart skitter in fear. 

Yet to look too uncomfortable in their dance would be to risk inviting unwanted attention. She was not sure what Dima would do if someone intervened. Family was paramount to a Vaisiliev, and this event was the pride of his mother’s calendar. But the man had a temper. Upon unexpectedly finding what was lost, she was not sure how easily he would let go. If she could just survive the dance, she could find respite. Slip away without creating a scene.

For now she daren’t look to see if Nikolai had returned. Understanding the reasons for his sojourn from the party sank her heavy heart, but even knowing where rumour had placed him, she did not want him to witness this. The lay of her hands on Dima’s arms was light, her manner demure. Noémi twisted and moved to his guidance like she was air. The gold mask protected her expression at least, and she tried not to meet his eyes. A flash of scarlet in her peripheral did nothing to soothe her unease. Sofia, with Moscow’s Patron.

Dima twirled her out, and when he recaptured her he pulled her effortlessly close. The fingers of his other hand splayed through hers, coaxing intimacy she did not want to give. He leaned close, lips by her ear. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said. His tone was seductive soft, posed somewhere between a question and an accusation.

---

Alina Marveet

Maksim made an effort to usher in their introduction discreetly, but the moment Alina saw him every motivation she had to be careful fizzled to nothing. There was no one here to witness what transpired. Iason had wandered far from the party, as though perhaps he sought solitude. No one knew who he was, of course, but his loneliness broke her heart. He looked so sad, staring up at that mural.

She glanced at Maksim with wide, emotion-filled eyes. Gratitude overflowed that he allowed her this moment with the man who saved his life. But with that thankfulness bloomed the awful memories of how close she may have come to losing him. She squeezed Maksim’s hand before she stepped forward.

How many had Iason saved? And yet he stood here alone. Jensen. The man behind the mask. Alina reached softly for his hands. She daren’t speak his name, knowing the risk she and Maksim took to reveal what they knew. Her smile was gentle, as – wanting to share something meaningful, more than just her gratitude – she pressed his palm to the curve of her stomach. Though the cut of the dress was looser than it might have been there was little yet to feel or see, but the gesture was universal. Jensen had not just saved a son and a husband, but a father.

“Our family does not know yet. It’s our second,” she said to him. “How do I ever thank you?”

[Zixin Kao]

When Zixin took Colette into his arms, he was acutely aware of the eyes boring into his back. The tension in the room was palpable, but it only made his smile sharper. His palm rested just a little too low on the curve of her back, and his chest hovered a touch too close, as if daring anyone watching to comment. Up close, he took in the faint floral scent of her hair and the delicate layers of her makeup, every detail feeding his quiet dominance of the moment. He moved with the grace of a predator—fluid, deliberate, magnetic. His steps were calculated, every turn a performance, every sway a deliberate pull of her attention.

He danced like a cobra swaying out of its basket, the rhythm hypnotic, his presence undeniable. When Colette asked her question, his smile spread slowly, deliberately—a predator baring its fangs just before the strike.

“I am,” he replied, his voice low and smooth, carrying the unmistakable cadence of confidence. “Singapore is the jewel of Asia. I will take you.” He paused just long enough for the weight of the words to sink in, the intimacy of the offer unmistakable. “Let us say the day after tomorrow?”

The implication lingered in the air—an invitation meant just for her, private and exclusive. But then, almost as an afterthought, his lips curved upward again, his tone shifting just slightly, a hint of mockery lacing his charm. “We can make a party of it: Adrian, Sofia, a few others.” Whether Colette (or Sofia) noticed or not, Zixin’s grip tightened ever so slightly, his fingertips brushing against her back, a silent claim disguised as a dance.

[Adrian Kane]

He extended his hand, accepting the offered shake with measured composure. His grip was firm, deliberate, though devoid of any pretense of warmth. It was an acknowledgment, not an embrace.

“The Vasilevs have been… accommodating,” Adrian replied smoothly to the Ascendancy’s observation, his voice even, his tone carefully controlled. He let the words hang in the air, understated yet confident, implying that his presence here was no accident. The truth—that he had no real connection to the Vasilevs beyond Colette and her mercurial friend Sofia—was irrelevant. What mattered was perception, and Adrian knew how to curate that masterfully. The faint amusement he allowed himself bled into his expression, as if he truly believed the Vasilevs were nothing more than a stepping stone.

Then came the question, and Adrian’s spine stiffened, though his face betrayed nothing. How have your classes been going? The inquiry hit like a splinter beneath his skin, sharp and deliberate. The smugness, the audacity behind the words—it confirmed what Adrian had already begun to suspect. Jay Carpenter was not sent to teach him anything of worth. No, Carpenter’s arrival had been nothing more than a show, a token effort to satisfy the terms of their agreement while reinforcing who truly held the leash in their arrangement.

Adrian’s grip on his glass tightened imperceptibly, though his face betrayed no reaction. The inquiry was polite on the surface, but its purpose was unmistakable. Nikolai was testing him, reminding him of the terms of their previous arrangement. The question might have seemed innocuous to an outsider, but Adrian understood its true weight. It was a pointed reference to Jay Carpenter, the so-called ‘teacher’ the Ascendancy had sent him. Now, Adrian saw the truth for what it was: Carpenter had been a farce, an empty gesture to fulfill the bare minimum of their agreement while underscoring who truly held the upper hand.

The realization stung, not because of what it revealed about Carpenter, but because Adrian hadn’t anticipated it. That misstep—that failure to see the Ascendancy’s play for what it was—gnawed at him, the sting of his own oversight sharper than any external slight. Adrian prided himself on being two steps ahead, and yet, here he was, blindsided.

Still, he would not allow his anger to show. He respected the Ascendancy’s power too much to meet cunning with petulance. With strict discipline, he tempered his frustration, forcing him to swallow the words he might otherwise have said.

Instead, Adrian smiled faintly, the expression cool and composed. “The experience has been... illuminating,” he said, his voice as dry as a desert wind. “Though I must admit, I’d expected the lessons to be more—shall we say—challenging. Perhaps I underestimated how elementary the work would be.”

It wasn’t a complaint, nor a slight. It was carefully constructed, a diplomatic response that conveyed both respect and quiet frustration without crossing any lines. Adrian wasn’t foolish enough to insult the Ascendancy outright, but he wanted Nikolai to know that he understood. He saw the game. He knew exactly how far the man had chosen to go, and no further.

He took a measured sip of champagne, using the moment to calm his mind and consider his next move. This was no place to escalate—he needed time to adapt, to rethink his strategy now that the terms of their arrangement had shifted. Carpenter, inept as he was, would have to remain in place for now. Removing him would only betray how much the Ascendancy had gotten under his skin. No, Adrian wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

“I imagine Carpenter’s presence serves its purpose,” Adrian added smoothly, the faintest trace of humor threading his tone. “Even if the purpose is not yet entirely clear to me. Perhaps clarity will come with time.” He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the Ascendancy with the subtlety of a man who knew when to defer, but never fully submit.

There was no demand, no overt challenge. Adrian understood the need for patience, even as his mind churned with plans to regain control of the situation. He wouldn’t act impulsively, not now.

Adrian’s gaze lingered on Nikolai for just a moment longer before he shifted his attention, the faintest smile still on his lips. “It’s always a privilege to cross paths with you,” he said, his words carrying the weight of a man who understood the power of respect—even if it was tinged with the bitterness of frustration. “I’ll look forward to seeing what else you have in store.”

With that, he allowed the moment to pass, leaving the conversation in Nikolai’s hands. For now, Adrian needed to observe, to recalibrate. There would be time for action later. The Ascendancy had made his move, and Adrian would be ready when the time came to make his own.

Meanwhile, he needed to find another teacher.

[Jensen James]

The click of high heels signaled that Jensen was no longer alone. It was with a casual glance that he glimpsed a man and woman, but recognizing the face tugged him all the way around. He started to speak, but the woman stole the words from his lips as she stole his hand. As he looked deeply into her eyes, he saw the heart of a woman that truly loved someone and that love was more powerful than that of the Gift: a power that created life itself.

A twist turned her hand into his, with his palm cradling her fist gentle as holding a baby bird, one he patted in understanding. “It’s my pleasure, ma’am.” He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek before turning attention to her husband.

“I was wrong to ask you to keep such an important secret from your wife. Please forgive me.”

He took both their hands into his own in order to twine theirs together before releasing the bonded pair completely in order to step backward as if exiting the privacy of such an intimate moment. “And congratulations,” he added, thinking of similar moments when such acknowledgements were offered to him and Jessika.

[Jaxen Marveet]

Cyrena Marveet

Cyrena’s green eyes glittered with interest, the corners of her mouth curling into a smile that was equal parts amusement and predation. She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand as she studied him, her nails tracing lazy circles on the bar. His words had been disarming, a rare admission of vulnerability she hadn’t expected.

“A girl?” she repeated, her tone velvet-soft, but there was a sharp edge beneath it. “How delightfully cliché. Here I thought you might be the mysterious type, Carter. But no, it turns out you’re just another lovesick fool chasing after some girl who’s probably not even worth it.”

Her words were harsh, but the teasing lilt in her voice made it clear she was toying with him, like a cat batting around a mouse. She tilted her head, her expression turning more calculating. “So let me guess. You didn’t come with her. She doesn’t even know you’re here, does she?”

Carter’s silence confirmed her suspicion, and Cyrena’s smile widened, a glint of mischief lighting her face. “How utterly intriguing,” she purred, running her fingers along the rim of her glass. “And here I thought you were just another faceless Volthström trying to impress me with your name and scotch and your tailored suit. But no, you’re here with a purpose. I like that.”

She sat back, her confidence radiating as she crossed her legs, the slit of her black dress parting. “Now, Carter, darling,” she said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper, “you’ll forgive me if I’m wrong, but I can’t imagine you’re the type to pine from the sidelines all evening. If you’re here for her, why haven’t you gone to her yet?”

He hesitated, and she seized the moment, her voice turning softer but no less calculated. “You’re nervous, how adorable,” she said with a mock pout. “Poor thing. She must be something special if she’s got you all tied up like this. Or… maybe you’re just afraid she’s already moved on. Is that it?”

Cyrena didn’t wait for an answer; she had already decided on her next move. She stood, smooth and deliberate, and extended her hand to him, her smile shifting into something more seductive. “Come dance with me,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “It’s the quickest way to get her attention. Trust me, if she’s here, she’ll notice you with me.”

Without waiting for his agreement, she tugged him to his feet and led him toward the dance floor, her grip firm. Cyrena thrived on this, and she could already feel the anticipation building as she envisioned the scene she was about to orchestrate.

Once on the floor, her body swayed effortlessly to the music. She pressed herself against Carter with far more intimacy than those around them danced. It didn’t take long to spot her target: a young woman in a shimmering blue dress, currently laughing at something her tall, handsome partner was saying. So that’s her, Cyrena thought, her smile deepening.

She leaned in to whisper into Carter’s ear, her breath warm against his skin. “Is that her?” she asked, nodding subtly toward Colette. She could feel his tension spike and knew instantly that she was right. “Oh, she’s pretty. Lucky you’ve got me to help you, darling.”

Cyrena spun Carter with practiced precision, her movements graceful and calculated as she maneuvered them closer to Colette and her companion. She timed it perfectly, orchestrating a subtle but unmistakable collision. It wasn’t chaotic enough to draw widespread attention, but it was just disruptive enough to ensure the interaction couldn’t be ignored. Then, with the flair of a seasoned performer, Cyrena gasped and staggered slightly, feigning an injury to her foot.

“Oh!” she exclaimed dramatically, placing a hand on Carter’s arm for balance as her other hand shot to her heel. “My shoe! My poor, beautiful shoe.” She glanced down at her towering stiletto, as though it were a grievous casualty of war, before fixing her gaze sharply on Colette’s companion. “You—ow, you bear!” She smacked him lightly on the arm, though her touch lingered just long enough to suggest her displeasure was laced with something far more playful. Her emerald-green eyes sparkled with amusement as she looked him up and down.

“I don’t know if I’m more upset about my foot or my shoe,” she continued, pouting just enough to make her point. Then her lips curved into a sly smile, the full force of her charisma directed at Colette’s dark and commanding companion. “You may make it up to me by offering…” she paused, as though considering her options, her voice dripping with playful entitlement, “…to help me to a seat.”

Without waiting for an answer, Cyrena extended her hand toward him, transferring her weight from Carter to Zixin, the gesture both daring and disarming. “Unless, of course, you’d rather leave a lady injured and unattended on a dance floor. Surely not someone with your manners,” she added, her tone teasing, but just sharp enough to bait him.