Chapter 3: The Menagerie

The Grand Ballroom of the Royal Palace was designed to make people feel small. The ceiling was a fresco of the cosmos, the pillars were marble monoliths, and the chandeliers held enough candles to rival the midday sun.

To Julian, it felt like stepping inside a kaleidoscope.

He had slipped past the guards during a commotion caused by a Duke’s carriage losing a wheel—a fortunate accident. Now, standing at the edge of the dance floor, he adjusted his cuffs. The weight of the silver swans against his wrists was a grounding presence in a sea of sensory chaos.

The room was a riot of color. Men in canary yellow, crimson, and electric blue strutted like exotic birds, their masks encrusted with feathers and sequins. They postured and bowed, desperate to be seen.

Julian remained in the shadows of a pillar. His midnight-blue suit absorbed the light rather than reflecting it. He felt like a drop of ink in a glass of fruit wine.

He scanned the room and spotted his stepfamily near the buffet. Bastian was laughing too loudly at a joke he likely didn't understand, the garnet pin in his cravat flashing aggressively. Aris was deep in conversation with a minor baron, no doubt trying to secure a contract for plated candlesticks.

Julian turned his gaze away, looking toward the far end of the hall.

There, upon a raised dais, sat the reason for this madness.

Queen Althea.

She was not what he expected. The rumors called her the "Cold Queen," and looking at her now, he understood why. She wore a gown of silver-grey silk that looked like liquid mercury, unadorned by lace or ruffles. Her mask was a simple, elegant strip of white porcelain that covered only her eyes.

She didn't look like a monarch enjoying a party. She looked like a judge presiding over a sentencing.

Althea tapped her finger against the arm of her throne. One, two, three, four. It was a soothing rhythm, a way to keep from screaming.

"The Earl of Hemlock," whispered Lord Corvis, her Chief Advisor, leaning into her ear. "Very wealthy. His family controls the northern timber trade."

Althea looked at the man bowing before her. He was wearing a mask shaped like a bear’s head. It was ridiculous.

"He has spinach in his teeth, Corvis," Althea murmured, not moving her lips. "And he is looking at my crown, not my face. Next."

"Your Majesty, you must dance with someone," Corvis hissed, his patience fraying. " The Treaty of the Southern Isles depends on—"

"The treaty depends on stability," she cut him off, her voice sharp. "Marrying a fool will not stabilize my kingdom. It will merely give the vultures a new target."

She stood up. The music—a frantic waltz—grated on her nerves. The air was hot and smelled of too many perfumes mixing into a cloying stench.

"I need air," she announced.

"But the Duke of Westfall is approaching," Corvis protested.

"Tell him I am inspecting the perimeter," Althea said, stepping off the dais. "Or tell him I’ve gone to count the stars. I don't care."

She moved through the crowd with practiced grace, the nobles parting for her like the Red Sea. They bowed and curtsied, murmuring her name, but she didn't stop. She needed quiet. She needed to think.

She headed toward the East Wing, away from the gardens where the "romantic" encounters were staged, and toward the Gallery of Antiquities. No one ever went there during parties. It was too dusty, too boring for the social climbers.

Julian had reached his limit with the ballroom.

He had watched a man in a peacock mask spill wine on a lady’s dress and blame the waiter. He had heard his stepfather lie about the purity of their gold to a naive merchant. It was all a performance, and a bad one at that.

He wandered away from the noise, drawn by the silence of the adjoining corridors. He found himself in a long, high-ceilinged gallery lined with glass cases.

It was peaceful here. The roar of the party was just a dull thrum in the distance.

He walked slowly, admiring the artifacts. Ancient coins, ceremonial daggers, navigational sextants. He stopped in front of a display case housing a complex clockwork mechanism made of brass and gears.

It was an Astrolabe from the Second Era. A beautiful piece of engineering, but Julian frowned.

"It’s mounted wrong," he whispered to himself.

"I beg your pardon?"

Julian spun around.

Standing ten feet away, watching him with an intensity that made his breath catch, was the woman in the silver-grey gown.

The Queen.

Panic flared in his chest—he wasn't supposed to be here; he was an intruder, a fraud—but he forced himself to stand his ground. He bowed, low and respectful, but not servile.

"Your Majesty," he said. "Forgive the intrusion. I sought refuge from the... exuberance of the ballroom."

Althea didn't call for the guards. She tilted her head, studying him. He was tall, dressed in a suit that was starkly modern compared to the frippery in the other room. And his mask—black leather, cut in a sharp, sweeping wing. It was striking.

"You said it was mounted wrong," Althea said, stepping closer. She gestured to the Astrolabe.

"Explain."

Julian looked from her to the machine. The fear evaporated, replaced by the comfort of technical truth.

"The gimbal," Julian said, pointing to the brass ring. "It’s tilted on a north-south axis. But this is a maritime astrolabe. It should be free-floating to account for the sway of a ship. Mounted rigid like this... it breaks the logic of the piece. It turns a tool into a toy."

Althea stared at him. Then, a slow, genuine smile broke through her stoic mask. It transformed her face, making her look younger, human.

"A tool into a toy," she repeated softly. "You sound like the only sane person I have met all evening."

She moved to stand beside him, looking at the glass case. They were close enough that he could smell her scent—not flowers or musk, but something crisp, like old paper and rain.

"I am Althea," she said, turning to look him in the eye. Not 'The Queen.' Just Althea.

"I am..." Julian hesitated. He couldn't say his name. "I am just an observer, Your Majesty."

"Tonight," she said, "titles are as fake as the masks. Walk with me, Observer. Tell me what else in my palace is broken."