The Porcelain Shards
The ballroom was a sea of moving shadows, a symphony of whispered treasons hidden behind painted smiles. Aurelia adjusted her mask, the cold porcelain pressing tightly against her skin. It was her shield, her identity, her cage. Every noble in the capital wore one, a permanent illusion to hide the decay of their true intentions. But tonight, the air tasted different. It smelled of sulfur and impending ruin. When the first spark landed on her cheek, she didn’t move. She watched in the mirror as a thin line of fire crawled up the cheekbone of her mask, cracking the perfect surface. It didn’t burn her flesh; it answered to it.




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