Chapter Thirty: The Mask and the Blade

They buried the truth in velvet and gold.

And now I was peeling it back, thread by thread, until all that remained was the blade beneath.

Lucien stood by the window, bare-chested, the morning sun slicing shadows across his skin. He hadn’t slept. Neither had I.

The journal sat open on the nightstand. My mother’s handwriting was carved into my bones now.

Every word was a weapon.

Reagan built an empire of obedience. Eryx inherited the throne, but not the soul. There was a second child. A girl. One Reagan hid.

A second child.

I hadn’t told Lucien that part yet.

Not because I didn’t trust him.

Because I didn’t know how to say it without unraveling.

Lucien turned to me, eyes sharp. “You haven’t said much.”

“There’s nothing left to say,” I whispered. “Only things to do.”

He crossed the room in three strides. “You found something in that journal. Something you haven’t told me.”

My hands clenched the sheets.

“I found… the edge,” I said.

He cupped my chin. “And?”

I met his eyes. “And I’m ready to fall over it.”

By afternoon, Mira returned with news.

“I intercepted a coded transmission. Eryx is planning a masquerade,” she said, dropping her gloves onto the table. “An unlisted event. Invitation-only. Off the record.”

“Where?” Lucien asked.

“Monte Carlo.”

“Of course,” I muttered. “He’s dressing war in lace and jewels.”

“He wants power to look beautiful,” Mira said. “Because he knows the world ignores ugly truths if they come in satin.”

Andrei entered, carrying a black box.

“What’s that?” I asked.

He placed it in front of me.

“For you. Your invitation.”

Inside was a mask.

Midnight velvet. Edged in metal. Dotted with bloodstone.

It wasn’t a disguise.

It was a challenge.

Lucien ran his fingers across the fabric. “He wants you to play his game.”

“Then I’ll wear the blade beneath the mask,” I whispered.

And I meant it.

We arrived in Monte Carlo two nights later.

The city was opulence wrapped in moonlight. White marble fountains. Casinos that bled gold. Power in every corner.

The masquerade was held in an ancient cathedral turned ballroom—gargoyles now adorned with diamonds, pews replaced with velvet thrones.

I wore black silk. My mask veiled half my face.

Lucien wore tailored rage.

Together, we were the storm no one saw coming.

Eryx stood at the altar like a king.

His mask was silver. His smile was sin.

“Ivy,” he said when I approached. “Welcome to the theater of your undoing.”

I smiled beneath the veil. “Then let’s raise the curtain.”

The dance began with whispered lies and gloved threats.

Champagne flowed. So did secrets.

I overheard one man mention Reagan’s hidden vault beneath Geneva. Another referenced Project Seraphim.

Lucien and I split up to gather more.

But it was in the garden—moonlit and hushed—that I heard it.

Two men in foreign accents.

“Does she know?”

“About the sister? No. Eryx says she’s not ready.”

I froze.

Sister.

The second child.

My pulse thundered.

One of them turned—and saw me.

He lunged.

I ran.

The chase tore through hedges and stone corridors.

I tripped, skinned my palm, scrambled to my feet.

And then—

A blade at my throat.

He pressed it tight.

“Ivy Blackwood,” he hissed.

And then a gunshot split the air.

The man dropped.

Lucien stepped out of the shadows.

Eyes murderous.

“Touch her again,” he growled, “and I’ll paint this city with your blood.”

Back at the hotel, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Lucien wrapped me in a towel, pressed a glass of brandy into my hand.

“What did you hear?” he asked.

My voice cracked. “I have a sister, Lucien.”

He didn’t react with disbelief.

Only silence.

Weighted. Measured.

“You think she’s alive?” he asked.

“I think Eryx kept her secret for a reason.”

He nodded slowly. “Then we find her.”

The next morning, a letter arrived.

Unmarked. No signature.

Just a location.

And three words:

The crown lies deeper.

We flew to Geneva under aliases. Mira and Andrei joined us. The vault was beneath an abandoned asylum—shuttered in the eighties. Owned by a shell company. Traced back to Reagan.

The descent was through concrete tunnels and iron gates.

And then, a room.

Stark. Sterile. A medical facility, decades old.

In the center: a single chair.

Straps across the arms.

A screen flickered on.

And Reagan’s face appeared.

A recording.

“If you’re watching this, I’m dead. And you’ve made it to the center of the Blackwood legacy. Congratulations.”

My stomach churned.

“Project Seraphim wasn’t about money. It was about evolution. The next generation of control. Of heirs.”

“I had two children with my subjects. A boy… and a girl.”

“The boy you know. The girl… well, she’s a wildcard. If she survives this long, she’s either a weapon or a mistake.”

“You’ll have to choose which.”

The screen went black.

And in the silence that followed…

A cry.

Small. Human.

Behind the far door.

Lucien moved first.

Inside was a glass room.

And a girl—sixteen, maybe.

Eyes too old. Scars on her wrists.

She looked at me like she knew me.

Like she was me.

My knees gave out.

Lucien caught me.

The girl stepped forward.

“Ivy?” she asked, voice trembling.

I nodded, tears breaking loose.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes. I’m your sister.”