Chapter 2: Fool’s Gold

The upper floors of the House of Aris were a stark contrast to the cellar. Where the forge was dark, hot, and smelled of honest labor, the drawing room was an explosion of pastels and cloying lavender perfume.

Julian stood by the doorframe, waiting to be acknowledged. In his hand, he held a velvet tray containing the two tie pins Aris had demanded: large, gold knots encrusted with garnets. They were technically flawless—Julian didn’t know how to make things any other way—but they were gaudy. They screamed for attention rather than commanding it.

"Too small," Bastian grumbled, squinting at his reflection in the gilded mirror. He was the older of the two stepbrothers, a man with a wide neck and a wider ego. He tugged at his silk cravat. "The Queen will be looking for power, Father. This looks like a trinket."

"It catches the light, doesn't it?" Aris replied, lounging in a high-backed chair with a glass of sherry. "That is what matters. You dazzle them from across the room. Once you’re close enough to talk, the trap is already sprung."

Giles, the younger brother, snatched the second pin from Julian’s tray without a word of thanks. He was thinner, with a perpetual sneer that suggested he smelled something rotting. "Bastian is right. The Duke of Westfall will be wearing rubies. We look like merchants."

"We are merchants," Julian said. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the room.

The three men froze. Bastian turned slowly, his face flushing a mottled red. "Did the soot speak?"

"I only meant," Julian continued, keeping his gaze level, "that a merchant shows his wealth through the quality of his wares. Those pins are solid eighteen-karat gold. The Duke’s rubies are likely set in gold-plate to save weight. Anyone with an eye for density will see you are the richer men."

It was a lie—or at least, a half-truth—but it stroked their vanity perfectly.

Bastian puffed out his chest, the pin suddenly looking much more appealing. "He has a point, Father. Quality." He stabbed the pin into his cravat. "Besides, when I’m King Consort, I’ll have access to the Crown Jewels."

Aris stood up, smoothing his doublet. "Good. The carriage arrives at eight. Julian, is it ready?"

" The axle is greased, and the leather is polished," Julian said. He took a breath. This was the moment. "Sir, since the work is done... I would like to request the evening off."

Aris raised an eyebrow. "Off? To do what? Drink cheap ale in the gutters?"

"To attend the festival," Julian said, careful not to say 'The Ball.' "The city is celebrating. It would be good to see the... market trends."

Giles laughed, a high, sharp sound. "He wants to watch the fireworks, Father. Look at him. He thinks he’s people."

Aris walked over to Julian. He was a tall man, but Julian had grown taller in the last year, a fact that seemed to irritate his stepfather. Aris leaned in close.

"You are fed, Julian. You are housed. You are given the privilege of working in your father’s old shop," Aris hissed. "Do not mistake my charity for freedom. You belong to this house. And this house needs guarding while we are away."

"Guarding?"

"There are thieves about," Aris lied smoothly. "With the city distracted by the Queen’s desperate little party, the estate is vulnerable. You will stay here. You will lock the doors. And you will inventory the silver stockpile. If an ounce is missing when we return, you’ll be sleeping in the street."

He turned his back, dismissing Julian as if he were furniture. "Come, boys. Let us not be late for your destiny."

An hour later, the house was silent.

Julian stood at the window, watching the carriage rattle down the cobblestones toward the distant glow of the Royal Palace. The city was alive; even from here, he could hear the faint strains of violins and the rumble of excitement.

He turned away from the window and walked to the inventory ledger on the desk. He opened it, dipped a quill in ink, and stared at the page.

Inventory the silver. It was busy work. A punishment for having a voice.

He looked at his hands. They were clean now, scrubbed raw with lye soap. He wasn't a guard dog.

He was a Silas.

He slammed the ledger shut.

He didn't need their carriage. He knew the shortcuts through the Merchant District. He didn't need their permission. The mask would hide his face, and the night would hide his absence.

But he needed clothes.

Julian ran up the stairs to the attic—his old room, before he was banished to the cellar. He pushed open the door. It was filled with dust sheets and broken furniture, but in the corner stood a dressmaker’s dummy draped in a heavy canvas sheet.

He pulled the sheet away.

Underneath was a suit of midnight-blue velvet. It wasn't finished—the hem was pinned, and the buttons were missing—but the cut was impeccable. He had started sewing it months ago, late at night, using scraps of fabric discarded from the orders Aris deemed "ruined."

It was sleek, modern, devoid of the lace and frills Aris favored. It was a suit for a man who built things.

He stripped off his tunic and pulled on the trousers. They fit perfectly. He donned the jacket, the velvet cool against his skin.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet bundle from the cellar. The silver swans.

He pushed the stems through the buttonholes of his cuffs. The mechanism clicked—a sound as satisfying as a lock tumbling into place.

He looked in the cracked mirror leaning against the wall. The man staring back wasn't a servant. He looked sharp. Dangerous, even.

But his face. His face was still Julian Silas, the stepson of the loud-mouthed Aris. If anyone recognized him, the game was over.

He needed a mask.

He rummaged through his father’s old tool chest in the corner and found a sheet of hardened leather he used for polishing pads. It was black and rigid.

He took his shears and began to cut. He didn't want a generic domino mask. He cut the leather into an angular, geometric shape that covered the upper right side of his face, mimicking the sweeping wing of the swan on his wrist. It was stark, asymmetrical, and entirely unique.

He tied it on.

Julian took one last look at the empty house.

"Let them inventory the silver," he whispered.

He blew out the candle, opened the attic window, and climbed out onto the trellis. The palace lights were waiting.