Chapter 67: The Ball Begins

I HAVE SEEN many beautiful things in my life.

I have watched the sun set over the Eld, painting the ancient trees in shades of honey and blood. I have seen the moonless dark of the Fae, where stars wheel in patterns that have no names in mortal tongues. I have held a woman in my arms while she sang a song that made the world weep.

But the Grand Ballroom of Renere was something else entirely.

The palace of the High King rose from the heart of the city like a dream rendered in white stone and glass. Its spires caught the dying light and threw it back in ribbons of gold and rose. But the true wonder was within—the great hall where King Roderic Calanthis held court, where the most powerful nobles in the Four Corners gathered to dance and scheme and pretend they weren’t doing both.

I stood at the entrance, dressed in borrowed finery that fit better than it should have. Stapes had arranged it—the old retainer still had contacts in Renere, still remembered the young man who had saved his Maer’s life. The coat was deep green velvet, cut in the Vintish fashion, with silver buttons shaped like leaves. The shirt beneath was white silk, soft as water against my skin. My boots were new leather, so polished I could see my face reflected in their surface.

I looked like a lord. I felt like a liar.

That was the point.

The ballroom stretched before me like a cathedral of light and music.

Chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings painted with scenes from Vintas’s history—battles, coronations, the founding of the realm. Each chandelier held a thousand candles, their flames steady despite the movement of air from hundreds of dancing bodies. The light they cast was warm and golden, falling on silk and velvet and skin like benediction.

The walls were lined with mirrors, each one tall as a man and framed in gilt. They multiplied the light, multiplied the people, multiplied the sense of being surrounded by beauty and danger in equal measure. Between the mirrors hung tapestries older than the Aturan Empire, their threads still bright with colors that had no names in common speech.

And the floor.

The floor was a mosaic of tiles in a thousand shades of blue and white and silver. From above, I knew, it would form a pattern—the crest of House Calanthis, the white tree on a field of azure. But from where I stood, it seemed more like a frozen sea, the tiles catching the candlelight and throwing it back in ripples.

I could see it now, with eyes trained by Elodin’s teaching. The pattern beneath my feet wasn’t merely decorative. It was a binding—ancient, intricate, woven into the very stones of the palace. Each tile was a symbol. Each symbol was a word. And together they formed something that had been holding for three thousand years.

The Doors of Stone were not in the palace.

But the palace was built on one of their foundations.

The smell hit me next—a complex perfume of beeswax candles, roses in crystal vases, the sharp bite of expensive wine, and beneath it all, the musk of too many bodies pressed too close together. There was sweat beneath the perfume, fear beneath the laughter. These nobles knew something was wrong with the world. They just didn’t know what.

I took a glass of wine from a passing servant and began to move through the crowd.

The music was provided by a small orchestra in a gallery above the main floor—strings and woodwinds playing a waltz in three-four time, the melody bright and intricate, the kind of music that made you want to move your feet whether you meant to or not. I recognized the piece. “The Spinner’s Dance,” arranged for full orchestra. Not my arrangement, but close enough that I felt a strange pang of familiarity.

The dancers moved in patterns as old as the music—lords in tailored coats, ladies in gowns that cost more than most families earned in a year. They smiled and bowed and turned, and beneath their masks of courtesy, they watched each other with the careful attention of wolves circling a kill.

I was looking for two people in this crowd of hundreds.

I found Cinder first.

He stood by the eastern windows, a glass of wine in his hand that he hadn’t touched. He was dressed as a Vintish noble—silver-grey coat, white cravat, boots polished to a mirror shine. His hair was the same pale silver as always, but here, among the grey-haired lords and ladies of the court, it drew no particular attention.

What drew attention were his eyes.

Even from across the room, I could see they were wrong. Not the color—he’d done something to change the color, turned them from that inhuman black to a more acceptable grey-blue. But the way he looked at the people around him, the way his gaze slid over the dancers like they were insects pinned to a board…

That, he couldn’t disguise.

“You’re staring,” said a voice beside me.

I turned to find a man I didn’t recognize—middle-aged, distinguished, with the kind of face that suggested good breeding and better tailors. He held a glass of wine identical to mine and smiled in the way of men who know they’re important.

“Forgive me,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “I was admiring the view.”

“Lord Ferule, isn’t it? I thought I recognized him.” The man’s smile turned knowing. “New to court, I take it. Otherwise you’d know better than to stare at that one.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s close to the King. Very close. Appeared about a year ago, no one knows quite from where. But he has Roderic’s ear like no one else.” The man leaned closer, his breath sweet with wine. “Some say he’s a bastard cousin. Others say he’s something worse.”

“What do you say?”

The man laughed. “I say nothing. And neither should you. Lord Ferule has a way of making problems disappear.” He patted my arm with the casual familiarity of the aristocracy. “Enjoy the ball, my friend. And for your own sake—don’t let him catch you watching.”

He drifted away into the crowd, leaving me with a name I already knew and a warning I didn’t need.

Lord Ferule.

In Tema, it meant nothing. A nobleman’s title, unremarkable, easily forgotten. But in the old languages — the languages that came before the Creation War, before the names were buried — Ferule was a word of power. Haliax had used it to command obedience in my parents’ troupe the night they burned. It was Cinder’s true name, or close enough to make no difference.

The audacity of it staggered me. He was walking through the court of the High King wearing his own name like a badge, and no one alive knew what it meant. Three thousand years had buried the knowledge so deeply that Cinder could carry it openly, a wolf wearing its own fangs as jewelry.

I found Denna next.

She was standing near the great doors that led to the King’s private chambers, dressed in white silk that flowed around her like water. Her hair was unbound, falling in dark waves past her shoulders, and in the candlelight, I could see traces of something in those waves—patterns that weren’t quite natural, shapes that seemed to shift when I looked at them directly.

Yllish knots. Woven into her hair. Carved into her very self.

She was talking to an older woman in a gown of deep burgundy, nodding at appropriate moments, smiling when smiled at. But her eyes kept darting toward the eastern windows. Toward Cinder. And each time they did, something in her expression flickered.

Not fear, exactly. Something worse.

Recognition.

I began to make my way toward her, slipping between dancers and conversationalists, keeping my movements casual. I was halfway across the floor when the crowd shifted and I saw who else was standing near those great doors.

King Roderic looked different in the ballroom than he had at the feast the night before. At his own table, he had been warm, approachable—a man who loved music and saw people clearly. Here, surrounded by the full weight of court ceremonial, he had become something harder. More guarded. His grey eyes swept the room with the sharp assessment of a man who trusted no one in it.

He wore a coat of deep blue velvet, cut simply for a king, and around his neck hung a chain of office so heavy with gold and sapphires that it must have been uncomfortable. But he wore the weight of it like he wore the weight of his crown—with a grace that came from decades of practice.

He was speaking with Denna.

No—he was questioning her. I could see it in the tilt of his head, the slight forward lean of his body. He was asking questions and listening to the answers with the attention of a man who was used to being lied to and had learned to hear the truth beneath.

Denna was answering carefully. Too carefully. Her hands were folded in front of her, her shoulders back, her chin lifted. The posture of a woman being interviewed by someone dangerous.

I stopped. Watched. Tried to understand what I was seeing.

The King asked something I couldn’t hear. Denna’s lips moved in response. And then something happened that made my blood run cold.

Roderic glanced toward the eastern windows. Toward Cinder. And something passed between them—a look, a nod, an acknowledgment of shared purpose.

The King knew.

The King was part of it.

I needed to think.

I retreated to one of the alcoves that lined the ballroom’s edges—small spaces screened by potted plants and designed for private conversations. From here, I could see the entire room: the dancers in their endless whirl, the clusters of nobles gossiping in corners, the servants moving like ghosts with their trays of wine and delicacies.

And the three people who mattered.

Cinder by the windows, watching everything with those wrong eyes.

Denna near the King’s chambers, answering questions she couldn’t refuse.

And Roderic himself, moving now through the crowd, shaking hands and accepting bows, playing the gracious host while something darker moved behind his eyes.

What was happening here?

I had come to Renere expecting to find Cinder. I had expected to need to expose him, to reveal the monster hiding behind the nobleman’s mask. But if the King already knew—if Roderic was working with Cinder—

Then this wasn’t an infiltration.

It was a trap.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard.”

The voice came from behind me. I turned to find Simmon standing there, dressed in a coat of warm brown that suited his coloring perfectly. His face was pale beneath his usual flush, his eyes moving constantly, but he managed a smile when he saw me.

“You made it,” I said.

“Barely. The guards at the gate don’t like University students much.” He slipped into the alcove beside me, keeping his back to the wall. “Devi’s in. Fela too. We’re positioned like we planned.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“But you don’t look like it’s good.” He followed my gaze toward the eastern windows. “Is that—?”

“Cinder. Lord Ferule, they call him here.”

“He’s not even trying to hide?”

“He doesn’t need to. The King knows.” I kept my voice low, barely above a whisper. “They’re working together, Sim. I don’t know how or why, but Roderic is part of whatever’s happening tonight.”

Simmon was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was steady, but I could hear the fear beneath it.

“That changes things.”

“It changes everything. If we move against Cinder and the King is his ally—”

“We’re dead. Or worse.” Sim rubbed his face. “Kvothe, maybe we should abort. Regroup. Come up with a new plan.”

“There’s no time. The ritual happens tonight. Whatever Cinder is planning, it’s happening here, now, in this room.” I looked at Denna, still standing near the King’s chambers. “And Denna’s at the center of it.”

“The song?”

“The song. The binding in her hair. The marks on her skin.” I felt something twist in my chest. “He’s been writing on her, Sim. Not beating her—writing. Yllish magic carved into her flesh.”

“That’s not possible. Yllish knots are woven, not—”

“Not inscribed into flesh?” I cut him off. “There’s an older form, Sim. A darker form, lost to most practitioners but remembered by the Chandrian. They were there when the art was first created. They know versions that were deliberately forgotten.”

“Inscribed how?”

“With needles and ink, like a tattoo. But the patterns are Yllish—commands written into the skin itself. Painful and permanent and possible. Every mark on her body is a word. Every word is a chain.” I took a breath. Steadied myself. “She’s not just singing the song anymore. She is the song. And when she performs it tonight—”

“She opens the doors.”

“Or she dies trying.” I looked at my old friend. “I can’t let that happen.”

“Then what do we do?”

I didn’t have an answer.

The music changed.

The waltz ended and something new began—slower, more stately, with a melody that seemed to resonate in the bones. It was the kind of music that demanded attention, that made conversation fade and movement cease.

“The royal dance,” Sim murmured. “The King chooses a partner for the first dance after the tenth bell. It’s tradition.”

I watched as Roderic moved toward the center of the floor. The crowd parted before him like water before a ship. He walked with the easy grace of a man who had never been refused anything in his life.

He stopped in front of Denna.

Bowed.

Extended his hand.

And I watched as the woman I loved was led onto the floor by a king who was planning to use her as a key to unlock something that should have stayed sealed forever.

They danced.

The King and the sacrifice. The power and the pawn. They moved through the steps of the royal waltz with perfect precision, and if you didn’t know what you were looking for, you might think them simply a monarch and a favored guest enjoying a dance.

But I knew.

I could see the way Denna’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. I could see the slight stiffness in her movements, the way she held herself like she was waiting for a blow that hadn’t fallen yet. I could see the faint glow beginning to show in her hair, where the Yllish knots were responding to something—the music, the proximity to the binding in the floor, the approaching moment when everything would break.

And I could see Cinder watching.

He had moved closer to the dance floor, his wine still untouched. His eyes followed Denna’s every movement with the focused attention of a craftsman watching his greatest work perform. There was pride in his expression. Anticipation.

He had spent months making her. Carving his magic into her skin. Teaching her the song that would unmake the world.

Tonight, she would sing it for a king.

And the doors would open.

I needed to get closer.

I stepped out of the alcove and made my way toward the edge of the dance floor. Other nobles were watching too, their faces showing the polite interest expected at such events. But their eyes kept sliding toward Denna—toward the woman none of them really knew, the woman who had appeared at court just weeks ago and somehow earned the King’s special attention.

They were jealous, some of them. Curious, others. None of them understood what they were really seeing.

The dance continued. The music swelled. And as I watched, something changed.

Denna’s eyes met mine across the floor.

For just a moment, the mask dropped. I saw the fear beneath. The desperation. The silent plea of someone who had gone too far down a path they couldn’t escape.

Help me, those eyes said.

Save me.

It’s too late.

All of those things. All at once.

Then the King turned her in his arms, and the moment was gone.

The dance ended.

There was applause—polite, measured, appropriate. Roderic bowed to Denna. She curtsied. And then the King did something unexpected.

He took her hand.

Not releasing her after the bow, but holding on. Keeping her close. He raised his other hand for silence, and the ballroom fell quiet with the practiced obedience of a court that knew better than to disobey.

“Lords and ladies of Vintas,” the King’s voice carried easily through the hall—the voice of a man who had spent his life speaking to crowds. “Tonight is a special occasion. Not merely my daughter’s engagement, but something more. Something that has been three thousand years in the making.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. I saw confusion on faces, curiosity, the first stirrings of unease.

“For generations, the Calanthis line has held a sacred trust. We have been guardians of the realm—not just against mortal enemies, but against threats older and stranger than most of you can imagine.” The King smiled, but there was something cold behind it. “Tonight, that trust will be fulfilled. Tonight, we will witness a new dawn for Vintas. For the Four Corners. For the world itself.”

He turned to look at Cinder.

“Lord Ferule. If you would join me.”

Cinder moved through the crowd like a blade through silk.

The nobles parted before him, and I saw some of them shiver as he passed. An involuntary reaction to something they couldn’t name. The wrongness of him. The ancient cold that leaked from his presence like frost from a winter window.

He reached the King’s side and bowed. It was a mockery of a bow, the gesture of someone who had never truly bent to anyone.

“Your Majesty.”

“Lord Ferule has been my adviser for some time now,” the King continued, addressing the crowd. “He has shown me truths that our histories have forgotten. He has revealed secrets that our ancestors tried to bury.” Roderic’s eyes swept the room. “Some of you will resist what comes next. That is your right. But I would ask you to consider: what if everything you believed was wrong? What if the villains of our stories were actually heroes? What if the heroes were the true monsters?”

“Your Majesty—” someone started to say.

“Silence.” The King’s voice cracked like a whip. “You will listen. And then you will choose.”

He turned to Denna.

“My dear. I believe it’s time for your song.”

I moved.

I don’t know what I planned to do—stop her, warn her, grab her and run. It didn’t matter. Before I could take three steps, guards appeared on either side of me. Not the King’s guards in their blue and white—guards in grey, with blank faces and eyes that held nothing human.

Chandrian.

Not all of them. Not the Seven. But servants—those who had been touched by the Chandrian’s influence, who had been shaped into tools over years of patient work.

“Don’t,” one of them said. Just the word. Just the warning.

I felt Simmon tense beside me. Felt the air shift as Devi and Fela moved to intercept. But we were outnumbered. Outmaneuvered. The ballroom was filled with innocents who had no idea what was about to happen.

If we fought now, people would die.

And the song would still be sung.

Denna stepped forward.

She didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at anyone. Her eyes were fixed on something far away—a horizon only she could see, a future she had accepted with the terrible courage of someone who knew they were already dead.

She opened her mouth.

And she began to sing.

The song was beautiful.

That was the worst part. The song that would unmake the world was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

It began softly—a simple melody, rising and falling like breath, like the tide, like the turning of seasons. But as Denna’s voice strengthened, the melody changed. It grew deeper. More complex. Harmonies emerged that shouldn’t have been possible from a single voice, overtones that resonated in the bones and the blood and the deep places of the heart.

I had heard this song before. In the Eolian, when she had first performed it. In fragments, when she hummed while walking beside me through the streets of Imre.

But I had never heard it like this.

This was the complete version. The true version. The version that had been locked away for three thousand years because it was too dangerous to sing.

The story of Lanre.

The story of his love.

The story of his fall—but told differently this time. Told as if he were the hero. As if his betrayal were a sacrifice. As if the cities he destroyed had deserved their destruction.

And as she sang, I felt something shift in my mind.

Not a compulsion. Nothing so crude. It was subtler than that. A whisper in the back of my thoughts, asking me to consider. To reconsider. To wonder if maybe everything I believed was wrong.

This was the power of written magic. The power of a song that was also a spell. The power of a woman who had been carved into a key.

And she was only just beginning.

The floor began to glow.

The blue and white tiles beneath our feet—the binding that had held for three millennia—started to pulse with light. First faintly, then brighter, responding to the song like a lock responding to a key.

The nobles started to panic. Some tried to run, but the doors had been sealed. Others cowered, covering their ears, trying to block out the music that was changing them even as they listened.

The King watched it all with a smile on his face.

Cinder watched with hunger.

And Denna sang, tears running down her cheeks, her voice never wavering even as she wept.

I should have acted sooner.

Should have broken free of the guards. Should have disrupted the song before its climax. Should have done something—anything—to stop what was happening.

But I didn’t.

I stood there, frozen, watching the woman I loved unmake the world with her voice.

And by the time I finally moved, it was already too late.

The pattern on the floor blazed white.

The song reached a crescendo.

And somewhere beneath the palace, beneath the city, beneath the very foundations of reality—

A door began to open.