The sun hovered low in the sky, casting long shadows across the cobblestones as I hurried through the streets. I had little time to waste, for I needed to be back in the square by noon. But my immediate destination was clear—I had to gather supplies for my investigations. Reagents, herbs, and, most importantly, one of Asra's magic books. My pulse quickened as I scaled the steps of my shop, placing my palm to the door. I muttered the familiar incantation, releasing the sealing spell.

A strange object caught my eye as I reached for the handle—a small leather pouch resting on the stoop. I hesitated, then crouched to retrieve it. My fingers nimbly worked the knot, and as I opened the pouch, a blend of magical herbs greeted me. Myrrh was the strongest scent, but a few other herbs I recognized for their protective properties filled the pouch. A gift from someone—who, I couldn't say. I glanced around, but the street was empty.

I pulled my keys from my pocket, inserted the right one, and turned the lock. The door swung open with a soft creak, and I nearly stumbled straight into the last person I expected to see: Doctor Devorak.

He stood in the doorway, eyes wide with an almost too-perfect grin. I froze. My fingers trembled as I struggled to find my voice, but before I could speak, he beat me to it.

"Well, hello there. Fancy seeing you here," he said, blushing slightly. "I was in the neighborhood, and, well... marvelous place you have here."

I narrowed my eyes. My instincts told me to call for the guards, but how would I explain why I had been harboring him? This was the second time he had found his way into my shop, and I couldn't afford to raise suspicions.

"How do you keep getting in?" I demanded, my voice colder than I intended. "I locked up after the first time, so you've either broken in or—"

"...Or I've got a key?" He interrupted, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. With a sigh, he pulled a small key from his coat pocket and handed it to me. "Here. If it makes any difference, you can take it. I won't be using it again. That's... that's a promise."

I stared at the key, weighing it in my palm. It matched the backroom key I had. "Who gave it to you?" I asked, suspicion rising.

He shifted uncomfortably. "You don't... well, let's just say I need to make a couple of house calls after hours." His face reddened, and I frowned. "House calls? To the shop?" I thought of Asra—had he ever been sick? If he had been, would he have kept it from me? My mind raced.

The doctor's voice broke through my thoughts. "Oh, I hope you don't think I'm a thief. I'm a lot of things, but not that."

"Then what are you doing here?" I asked, my tone skeptical.

Without missing a beat, he shrugged off his overcoat and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. "Well, if you're going to accuse me, might as well make it official." He threw his arms out, palms up in submission. "Go ahead, search me. If you find anything of yours, I'll show myself out."

He waited, his eyes flashing with an odd challenge. For a moment, I considered walking away, but instead, I stepped forward, closer to him than I ever had before. I ran my hands over his shoulders, my fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt. The closeness between us was electric, and my breath caught as I hesitated, unsure where to begin.

"Not afraid to get up close and personal, are you?" he teased, a smirk tugging at his lips.

I didn't answer him at first. My hands slipped beneath his shirt, feeling the smoothness of his skin, the warmth of his body beneath. His pulse quickened under my fingers as I trailed my hands up his throat, exploring with a curiosity I hadn't realized I'd been suppressing. But as soon as I reached his waist, he jerked away, pulling back with an almost startled laugh.

"No, no, no—not there!" He flushed a deep red. "I'm terribly ticklish, you know? Please don't tell anyone, it'll be our little secret."

I caught his arm as he stumbled, his balance wavering, but he managed to steady himself.

"Hold still," I said, my voice firm as I circled around him.

He obeyed, but I could see the tension in his body, the way his breath quickened under my gaze. I ran my hands over his back, my fingers brushing the lines of his spine, then down his sides. I checked his pockets carefully, feeling something hard and cold—a knife, hidden in his coat. I paused, fingers brushing over the edge before I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Don't worry about that," he said quickly, though I could see the nervousness flickering in his eyes. "But I'm happy to see you. I can show you if you like."

I circled back to the front of him, trailing a hand down his hip as I met his gaze. He swayed slightly, but held still, forcing himself to be composed despite the obvious tension.

"Tell me what you were really looking for," I said, my voice calm but insistent.

He blushed, swallowing hard. "You're very persistent, aren't you? And thorough." He let out a shaky sigh, the sound betraying his nervousness. "I... I was looking for answers, but not the ones I wanted."

I studied him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Alright, I believe you."

He blinked, his face a picture of disbelief. "Wait, really?"

"Really."

His shoulders slumped in a mix of relief and exasperation. "That's a terrible idea. You shouldn't take anyone at their word, least of all me," he said with a chuckle, though it was laced with unease. "But, er... well... I hope you're satisfied."

With that, he slipped his coat back on, adjusting it with a flourish as if nothing had happened.

"Well, I'm sure you have things to do," he said, making his way toward the door. "I'll be getting out of your way."

Before I could reply, Portia appeared at the entrance, her eyes flicking to me for a moment before landing on Doctor Devorak. Her face went pale, the shock and recognition obvious in her expression.

"Illiya?" Her voice cracked with disbelief.

Devorak's face softened as he looked at her, his own expression filled with emotion. "It's me."

Portia's face twisted with a mixture of anger and confusion. "You... you bastard. What are you doing here, out in the open? Are you trying to get yourself killed?" She moved toward him, grabbing him by the ears, pulling a sharp wince from him.

"You've grown up strong, Pasha," Devorak said quietly. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to see it."

Portia's expression shifted to a mixture of frustration and sorrow as she exhaled deeply. "Oh, I'll show you sorry, you unbelievable—"

She caught sight of me then, her gaze hardening. "Sapphire," she said, her tone now sharp. Without another word, she grabbed Devorak by the collar and dragged him out of the shop, disappearing down the alley.

I stood in the doorway for a moment, stunned by the exchange. Family? The connection between Portia and Devorak was unmistakable, but I had no answers. I glanced down at the leather pouch in my hand, the weight of the situation settling on me. Turning back to the shop, I made my way to the backroom, the questions swirling in my mind.

SCENE BREAK

The room felt heavy with Asar's presence—his scent, smoky and familiar, clung to his belongings, and I couldn't help but linger a little longer. His clothing, magical relics, and trinkets—remnants of his power—lay scattered across the room. But as much as I wished to sift through them for clues, my time was running short. I quickly collected the magical components I'd come for, but the book I sought was nowhere to be found. Had he taken it with him when he left? A sinking feeling tugged at my chest, but there was no time to dwell on it. The sun was high, and I could hear the distant toll of a clock in the square. The announcement!

I rushed to the door, abandoning my search, and slammed it shut behind me. I had to make it to the square.

The crowd was dense, a sea of bodies, smaller folk darting between the larger figures for a better view. The air was thick with the mingling scents of food and perfumes. But there was one smell that cut through the rest—a pleasant, spicy aroma, faintly familiar.

Portia's voice rang out, drawing my attention. "Ahem, hear ye, hear ye! An announcement for Countess Nadia!" she called, her voice booming with excitement. "On the anniversary of the passing of your beloved Count Lucio, the Countess will open the palace gates!" She paused for effect, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips. "That's right, folks—everyone is invited to not mourn, but to celebrate the spirit of the dearly departed Count!"

The crowd erupted in excitement. Cheers, clapping, and shuffling feet filled the air, and I could feel the energy of the masquerade begin to take hold. But my attention was elsewhere—the pungent scent of myrrh, the same as the herbs from the pouch, was still lingering in the air. I scanned the square, my gaze shifting from face to face. It was then that I saw the figure: a hulking shape, cloaked and shadowed, their brow heavy beneath a hood.

While the rest of the square swirled in celebration, this stranger seemed out of place, like a harbinger of something darker. I followed the scent, and soon enough, I found myself trailing them down a side street, the noise of the square fading behind me.

I caught up to them halfway down the street. "Hey, where are you going?" I called out, my voice cutting through the quiet.

The figure didn't answer immediately, only turned slowly, as though they were dreading my presence. Then, with a tone that sent a chill down my spine, they spoke.

"Blindly to the slaughter, just like the rest of you."

I frowned, stepping closer. "What do you mean? Please speak plainly."

The stranger let out a long, weary sigh. "It doesn't matter what I say. My words won't last; they never do."

Chains rattled with each heavy step they took, the sound echoing down the alley as they shuffled away. I hesitated, my thoughts racing. Did they leave the protective spell at the shop? Was this some sign from Asar? But there was no time to investigate further. I couldn't chase them now, not with the masquerade looming.

With a bitter glance, I let them vanish into the misty shadows of the alley and turned back toward the wagon where Portia was. She was already busy scattering flower petals and rice onto the cityfolk who were spinning and dancing in the streets.

"Sapphire! There you are!" she said, grinning at me. "Would you look at this crowd? It's a good thing we're ready for the masquerade, right?"

I smiled faintly but couldn't help noticing the edge of desperation in her tone. She batted her eyelashes as if to signal something unspoken.

"No incidents back at the shop, I hope? Nothing out of the ordinary?"

I opened my mouth to respond but was immediately interrupted as the wagon lurched to life, carrying us forward. Laughter echoed around us, carried by the wind as the sounds of the masquerade spread through the streets. The weight of the situation pressed in on me, but I couldn't ignore Portia's subtle prompt.

"Angel," she said, a meaningful pause between her words, as though trying to draw my attention.

I nodded, understanding the deeper meaning of her message. "You're going to be meeting with the courtiers when we reach the palace," she continued. "Want to know who they are first?"

"Oh yes," I said, my interest piqued. "That would be really helpful."

Portia's eyes sparkled with amusement as she ticked off the names on her fingers, listing the key figures we'd need to know. "Well, there's Procurator Volta, Praetor Vaklastomil, Pontifex Vulgora, Quaestor Valdmar, and Consul Valerius." She paused and gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder when she saw my expression. "Really, Valerius is the most important, my lady. Friends of him are more important than the rest. The others are a bit eccentric, but I'm sure they'll be kind to you."

As the wagon rumbled on toward the palace, the anticipation of the masquerade settled over me. There was much to prepare for—and even more to uncover.

SCENEBREAK

When we return to the palace, Portia ushers me through a wing that drowns in the delicate, intoxicating scent of a half dozen perfumes—each note drifting like a whisper, heavy in the air. The sheer opulence of it makes me pause for a breath, but Portia's hand on my back keeps me in motion. The parlor door looms ahead, and with it, the buzz of anticipation.

"Come on, Sapphire, these people can't wait to meet you," she purrs, her voice almost lazy with its suggestion, and I feel the weight of the moment settle over me like a cloak.

I step over the threshold, and instantly the atmosphere shifts—a cool, inviting haze fills the room. The courtiers lounge, half-draped on plush velvet couches like statues of silk and lace. Their chatter is a soft hum beneath the rich, swaying notes of an organ. The air shivers with elegance, all tinged with the smoke of scented candles and the faint shimmer of candlelight reflecting off crystal goblets.

The figure at the organ catches my eye. She is everything you would imagine of someone who could command such a room: poised, serene, with a delicate yet practiced hand sweeping over the keys. She looks up, her eyes catching mine like an invitation. "Welcome, Sapphire," she says, her fingers brushing across a violin chord, turning the pages of her music with practiced ease. Her smile is warm, yet there's something in it that sharpens the air.

"Portia, please introduce our honored guest," she calls, her voice a sweet command that still manages to reverberate like a subtle threat across the room. "Announcing Sapphire, friend of the palace and apprentice to Asra the Magician."

At her cue, the courtiers begin to rise—figures of intrigue, each one a puzzle waiting to be pieced together. But the first words come from a kindly-looking woman, her expression as gentle as her tone. "You're Sapphire? Oh, you're so cute!" she exclaims, her smile wide, though one eye is missing, a vacant socket that only enhances the odd sweetness of her demeanor.

A tall man with an elaborate feathered brooch and an air of nervousness adds, "What a delightful surprise! We were just talking about you," his voice laced with a layer of unease.

Another figure, a red-clad centaur with eyes gleaming like gold in the dim light, looks at me with amusement, his voice booming, "Sit—no, not with them. With me, Sapphire!" He waves me over, his manicured hands sharp, his gesture both welcoming and oddly possessive. Despite the pointed edges of his charm, I let him guide me to one of the plush couches, the warmth of the crowd now beginning to wrap around me like a cloak. The Countess watches, her fingers still moving with fluid grace over the organ, the soft, mysterious notes curling into the air like smoke.

"Tell me, Sapphire, how was the encounter received?" Her voice drips with an expectancy, a question so loaded I almost feel its weight pressing on my shoulders.

The pale man with the brooch speaks up, his voice laced with an unnerving calm. "One can only imagine... even we, the favorites of the Countess, had no idea."

In the back of my mind, I hear a whisper, as though someone is speaking directly into my thoughts: Be mindful of the courtiers, dear child. They hide things you do not want to know. They crave your power.

I glance over the room, but the figure is gone, just a fading echo of a voice—Praetor Vlastomil. I feel his presence more than I see him, a shadow lingering on the edges of my thoughts.

"Such a beautiful rose from our dear Countess," says a blonde man, his voice smooth like velvet. "Procurator Volta," I mentally note.

A gnome with vibrant red hair and a mischievous grin chimes in, his laughter almost musical. "A masquerade!" he calls. "And we don't even have to do the work." Pontifex Vulgora—his name tickles the back of my mind like a memory I can't quite place.

Naida's voice cuts through the laughter, dripping with false sweetness. "How lucky Sapphire must feel, to speak with all of us," she muses. "Oh, my word—how lucky she already is," she adds, a pointed emphasis making her words feel less like an observation and more like a warning.

I note the way Naida raises an eyebrow at Vlastomil, her gaze sharp, though she says nothing. A whisper brushes my ear: Crowd fodder. That's all they are. Trust no one.

The quiet voice grows colder as a man with a mask covering his mouth speaks next. His horns are wrapped in bandages, and his elegant dark hands seem to shimmer with some secret of their own. His tone is smooth, but there's an underlying chill that prickles my skin. "Risky, risky... so unlike our thoughtful and meticulous Countess," he muses, his voice soft and low. Quastor Valdmoar, I think to myself. Be careful with this one. He's sly as a fox.

And then, as though the weight of the room couldn't grow heavier, a man adorned with a ram's head brooch leans in, his wine glass raised as he circles closer to the couch. "Perhaps the Countess might enlighten us," he suggests, his voice dripping with barely concealed contempt. "How exactly did she find herself at the witch's door that night?"

His gaze shifts from Naida to me, his eyes narrowing as his posture shifts. "Or perhaps the witch might tell us herself."

The question lingers in the air, an unspoken challenge. I smile faintly, my voice calm but pointed, "Perhaps I might," I respond softly, my gaze never leaving his.

The organ music swells, and for a moment, the world narrows to the space around me and the eager, hungry gazes of the courtiers. They press in, drawn to my every word.

"Go on, tell us everything!" Vulgora's voice rings out like a playful command.

"We've only heard the gossip," Vlastomil adds, his gaze never leaving me.

Their eagerness is palpable. "Did the Countess truly come to you in the dead of night, barefoot, stumbling through the streets?"

"No," I answer calmly. "She simply knocked on the door."

"Please, my poor Countess! Was she weeping?" Volta asks, his voice almost mournful.

"No," I reply. "But the hour was late, and the Countess was most insistent."

The courtiers gather closer, leaning in, hanging on my every word. And just as I reach the end of the tale, Naida's fingers land dramatically on the organ keys, cutting through the room with an impressive flourish.

"If you all wanted to know so badly what transpired that night," she says with a sigh, "you might have simply asked." She sounds almost exasperated, but there's something in her eyes that tells me otherwise. "My headache had grown worse, and I was having trouble sleeping..."

Volta, ever eager, cuts in, "As you have been for some time, Countess!"

"Yes, Procurator," Naida responds, her eyes closing with a soft, almost imperceptible flutter. "That night, I woke haunted by the specter of a dream. There was no escape for my mind. Indeed, I was seeking someone—anyone—who might help me. It was I who was lucky to come across the one I needed so soon. A benevolent universe brought us together, did it not, Sapphire?"

Her red gaze lingers on me, warm and calculating, and the courtiers shift, studying me now with new intensity, their thirst for details growing insatiable.

Before I can respond, a sudden movement breaks the moment. Consul Valerius, wine glass in hand, peers at me from over the rim with a half-smile. "Countess, it pains us to hear that you felt you must look elsewhere for a sympathetic ear," he says, his voice smooth as silk. "Should you deem us worthy of your trust, we are as open books to you!"

And with that, his arms fly wide, knocking his glass of wine over me, the liquid soaking into my clothes.

A collective gasp ripples through the room, and before I can react, the Countess rises from her seat, fury flashing in her eyes.

"How clumsy of me," Valerius mumbles, though his voice betrays no real remorse.

"Surely you know some hocus-pocus to remedy this dilemma?" he teases, his tone dripping with mockery.

Naida's patience snaps. "Enough, Valerius," she spits, her eyes flashing. "You've tested my patience for tonight."

The courtiers scatter, leaving me alone with her, the echo of their departure hanging in the air like a sigh.

Naida places a gentle hand on my shoulder, her voice soft with a hint of apology. "I am sorry, Sapphire," she says. "We must rid you of these ruined clothes, of course. Tsk, such pettiness," she mutters, her gaze flickering with irritation. "But I have taken enough liberties with your wardrobe, so please, do not hesitate to tell me what you would like." She smiles warmly, her tone turning sweet once again. "And I will spare no expense."

Portia stands at the ready, folding her hands with grace, her eyes waiting for my request.

I glance at her, a smile curling on my lips. "No, thank you," I say, my voice steady. "I don't need anything special."

Portia's smile broadens, her voice warm with understanding. "Ah, as humble as ever. Very well. Your comfort is her concern, and I shall ensure your needs are met."

And with that, Portia leads me back to the guest wing, the weight of the evening settling in, a sense of foreboding already stirring in my chest.

SCENEBREAK

Sapphire stirred from their dream state, immediately alert as another presence made itself known. Through their blindfolded gaze, they perceived Lucio's spectral form, his golden arm catching what little light filtered through the darkness. Even for someone of Sapphire's power, there was something undeniably commanding about his presence.

"You know how long I've wanted you, don't you?" Lucio's voice carried ethereal weight.

Sapphire's trademark smirk played across their features as they adjusted their blindfold. "My, my... even as a ghost, you're quite presumptuous. Though I suppose that's to be expected when dealing with someone of my caliber."

The temperature in the room dropped, and Sapphire felt the familiar pulse of their Infinity technique responding to the supernatural presence. This was different from their earlier encounter in Lucio's chambers – more focused, more intentional.

"You really think you can affect someone who controls infinity itself?" Sapphire asked, their voice carrying its usual confidence despite the unusual situation. "Though I have to admit, you're more interesting than most ghosts I've encountered."

The air crackled with tension as their energies interacted – Lucio's spectral power meeting Sapphire's limitless abilities in a dance of opposing forces.

Sapphire reached out with deliberate slowness, their cold hand brushing against Lucio's spectral cheek. Their smile gleamed with supernatural brilliance, a reminder that they were far more than just the strongest sorcerer alive.

"You're going to have to try harder, Lucio," they purred, every word dripping with amused superiority. "I don't care for your human form—or your ghostly one. When you've got infinity at your disposal, it takes more than a pretty ghost to impress."

With calculated grace, they stepped away, their demonic tail curling around Lucio's leg in a casual display of power. The sight of the mighty Count blushing like a schoolboy made their trademark smirk widen. Even in death, it seemed, some remained susceptible to true power.

Lucio's golden hand reached out desperately as Sapphire moved away. "Wait—don't go," he pleaded, his voice carrying none of the authority it once held in life.

Sapphire paused, looking back over their shoulder with infinite amusement dancing in their eyes. Their tail swayed lazily behind them, a reminder of the supernatural force that even death couldn't match. "One day, perhaps, Lucio. One day. When you learn what real power looks like."

As the dream began to fade, Sapphire's last thought was of how entertaining it was to have both the infinite and the infernal at their disposal. Even ghosts, it seemed, knew when they were outmatched.

The darkness claimed the scene, but Sapphire's confidence remained unshaken. After all, what was one lovesick ghost to someone who could bend both infinity and hell to their will?