Serin Parcival Dammerung took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She unclenched her hands, nails leaving marks in the skin.

“This will work,” she said to the empty study. “You’re a Dammerung. We never lose. It’s all theatre. Play your part.”

She looked out the window, where her guests were enjoying themselves in the light of the setting sun. A summer ball under open sky. An chance for fun and conversation. A stage.

Most of those gathered belonged to the lesser houses of the region. They salivated at the mere thought of taking part in the evening, spinning fantasies about the position they would carve out for themselves.

But there were people here who truly mattered. The Andernachts, the von Rosses, the Nordernsterns, the Gutenweins. Those whose word decided the fate of the duchy. These were the ones Serin had to court, the ones she cared about most.

She adjusted her dress. The expensive white fabric flattered her figure, the gold ornaments lent her gravity. On her breast, the Dammerung crest. A white rose on a burgundy field.

She pinned up her hair with quick, mechanical motions that helped settle her thoughts.

She allowed herself one last uncertain smile of the evening, and opened the door.

Dozens of lanterns swayed lazily between the trees, their warm light mingling with the golden rays of the setting sun. Music played somewhere off to the side. Something light, something danceable, chosen so the guests would feel at ease, so they would say more than they meant to. Laughter. The clink of glasses. The rustle of costly fabrics.

Servers carried round expensive wine, brought up from the deep cellars for the occasion. For those with a taste for something more exotic, special ciders had been shipped in from the islands. The magic there was said to change their flavour, giving them colours unobtainable on the continent.

All of it was for show. Carefully considered. Every detail meant to build one coherent picture. The Dammerungs are a strong house, and one that cares for their friends.

Knights in Dammerung colours stood in silence at evenly spaced posts. Warriors in pairs, each watching the other’s back. White armour with scarlet trim. Plate not gleaming, not polished, but bearing the marks of use. Patrols of horse archers were visible between the hills. Over it all watched Kasdan, the swordmaster, a short kord and a longsword at her belt.

This, too, was for show. Like a scene in a theatre. The Dammerungs are a strong house, and one that shows their enemies no mercy.

That’s what politics was about.

Serin moved deftly through the web of conversations. She put on different masks depending on who she was speaking to. A bored noblewoman whose time was being wasted. A warm friend who could tell anything. Ruthless, when it was called for.

She was not alone. Her husband helped, deftly. He pulled her out of conversations she didn’t want to have, drew attention away, changed the subject. He introduced her to the people she ought to know. With a look, a gesture, an expression, he warned her which smiles weren’t sincere. Together they were good at this.

She smiled at him as she passed - he was gesturing with his wine glass, absorbed in conversation. The only sincere gesture of the evening.

The first fireworks tore open the sky.

Serin looked around at the gathering. She watched them counting in their heads how many gold pieces a single burst cost. Watched the disbelief and awe spread across their faces as they realised what the whole display had come to. She was burning money, but the reputation was worth it.

“Serin Dammerung?” she heard behind her. “I believe we have some business to discuss.”

She turned. A young man wearing the de Germain crest stood before her. She had known their house would send someone that evening.

“Let’s go to the study,” she pointed at the building.

Time to change the scene.

He came with three bodyguards. Serin noticed mail under their shirts. So these are the kind of negotiations he’s expecting. A gesture brought Kasdan to her side. He wants a show of strength, he’ll get one.

She sat down behind the desk and offered him the armchair. She reached for the papers with their rows of figures - how many swords the Dammerungs had forged for sale, how many spears. Their blades, roses struck into the steel, were among the sharpest in the Empire.

“I can offer you seven hundred swords over the next year.” She did not know this nobleman; matter-of-factness seemed the safest option. “Within six months, if-”

He cut her off, insolent, raising a hand.

“I know your son is a mage.”

She froze. How did he-

“I know your son is a mage.” He all but spat the last word. “One word to the Inquisition and they’ll take him to Auftrag. You know that hiding mages carries the death penalty? But they wouldn’t kill you, you’re a noblewoman, after all, at most they’d strip you of your title. No, you would live. Live knowing that your son’s soul is being tortured in the Grand Inquisitor’s dungeons. You’d live long enough to watch them take your daughter as well, and-”

“Enough.” She had to stop herself from screaming. It took all her will to keep her voice under control. She could not show that she was afraid. She could not show that he was right.

You’re a Dammerung. We never lose. It’s all theatre. Play your part. It’s all theatre. It’s all theatre.

She set her hands on the desk to stop them shaking. Looked out the window and sighed heavily, buying herself precious seconds. She felt the eyes of everyone gathered on her. It seemed to her that every one of them could hear how loudly her heart was beating.

She rolled her eyes. Hoped it looked like irritation. She caught Kasdan’s eye.

“Kill his escort.”

In the silence that fell, the only sound was the whisper of a kord drawn from its scabbard.

The first died before he could turn. He did not even cry out. The second reached her sword in time, but the long blade snagged on the desk. That was enough. Kasdan closed on her, severed the woman’s hand with one clean cut, opened her throat with the second.

The third did not reach for a weapon. He struck Kasdan in the chest with a mailed hand, and when she staggered, he grabbed her blade. They wrestled a moment before she kicked his knee out from under him. He went down. She tore the dagger from his belt and drove it into his eye, all the way to the hilt. Something crunched.

Serin flinched as the blood spattered the desk. A moment of weakness she could not control. The young nobleman did not notice. He was just as terrified as she was.

Now she spoke slowly. She was bluffing. She could not really do anything to him. Not here. It would mean war between the houses. She had to seem ready for it.

“Listen to me carefully. Never insult the House of Dusk of Kehlia. You are alive only because of the respect I hold for your family.”

She took another breath. I don’t have to pretend, she thought. I don’t have to pretend I would be ready to make war on half the duchy if the fate of my children depended on it. I would burn the whole empire. I would strangle with my own hands anyone who threatened Ariadna and Oliver.

“You have two options. The first: you die in this room.”

De Germain was pale as a wall. The confidence he had begun the conversation with, the confidence behind his threats, was long gone from his eyes. Only fear was left.

He has to know, Serin thought. He has to know that if anything happened to him, his house would demand my head and my children’s. But he also has to know that I have allies. That even some of his friends would side with me. Out of fear and out of loyalty. Maybe in the end we would lose anyway. But I would see to it that we took as many souls with us as we could.

“The second option. You never show yourself to me again. You forget the absurd threats you threw at me. You get off my land and you do not come back. You tell your family that we could not come to terms, and they send someone else to negotiate.”

“I would prefer the second.” She looked at him, waiting for an answer.

Just let him be gone. As fast as possible.

He nodded.

“Then what are you still waiting for?”

She stepped outside. The fresh air was pleasantly cool on her skin. She could still see the guards dropping limp to the floor.

The performance had bought her a few days to act. To find out where de Germain had got his information about her son. Whether it was hard proof or only guesswork. She cursed. He had to die. She would not have passed up the chance to use the Inquisition to destroy a rival house herself - and failing that, he would use what he knew as leverage, extracting better and better favours.

Even if his death can’t be traced back to the Dammerungs, we’ll pay for it anyway, she thought. At best we lose a few alliances. At worst-

She shuddered. She would deal with it tomorrow. Kasdan was already spinning plans. A staged bandit attack. Poison at an inn. An unfortunate accident at a river crossing. Far from here, long after he had gone. The swordmaster was irreplaceable.

She looked around. Neither the light of the lanterns nor the noise of the party reached this part of the garden. The music and the conversations came from the other side of the building. Under one of the lamps a little girl was playing. In her white dress, dirty by this hour, the sleeves torn, she was swinging a stick, fighting off imagined demons.

“Ariadna!” Serin called to her daughter.

“Yes, mama?”

“I love you so much.” She pulled the child close. “I would do anything for you.”

She was not sure Ariadna understood how true that was.

“I would do anything for you.”