accismus (n.) pretending to be disinterested in something when you actually want it.

Evanne Chae hadn't spotted Pjotr just yet – she was trying not to think about that, either, because she had only met him twice and because it was already a wonderfully intriguing evening full of fantastically interesting people and it would be a damned shame if she let a man she'd met twice – twice – distract her from that fact. The Selected would have made for a great party on their own, each of them uniquely fascinating; speaking with them felt like a masterclass in queenliness. Those who had believed the Selection to be some petty matter of beauty and modesty would have been sorely disappointed to converse with some of these girls, who were equal measure brilliant and hilarious; they were quick-witted in both senses of the word, such that even Evanne herself, keenly aware that her education had ended with her enrollment in the tagma, felt enormously out of her depth trying to keep up with their talks of politics and arts.

There was only thirteen of them left – poor Tereza, Evie thought, poor Deepika – and Evie had the distinct impression that many of them felt as lost as she did, surrounded by strangers in masks while they alone remained bare-faced and identifiable and vulnerable. Perhaps Evanne distinguished herself in one, unusual, sense: surrounded by broken men and broken women, the tagma who were ostensibly being honoured at this elaborate, elegant event, she was a step closer to them than the rest, only a few split-second decisions away from ending up as one of them rather than who she was now: Evanne Chae, Lady Obušek, the twelfth of the thirteen Selected. Her leg, hidden beneath her skirts, was a powerful reminder of this fact, and she found many tagma catching sight of it and flinching, reflexively, as though she reminded them of some poor unfortunate friend, or of a fate they had barely avoided. The guards, too, seemed to consider her a step closer to enemy by virtue of the green pin she had affixed to the strap of her dress, but Evanne only met their gazes evenly and smiled beatifically while they scowled and looked away.

Thankfully, Eunbyeol had appeared from the crowd a few moments ago, and confirmed that the guard who had been looking for had found her. Though she looked a little rattled, she was alive and whole, so Evanne surmised that it had not been anything so serious. Nonetheless, she was glad that she had lied about not knowing where Eunbyeol was; it was a simple act of friendship, but an act of friendship nevertheless. She could read in the other Selected's dark gaze that she was appreciative of the same; she only squeezed Eunbyeol's gloved hand to confirm that they were on the same page, and said, softly, "all okay?"

"Yes," Eunbyeol confirmed. "All okay."

Evanne nodded firmly, and smiled as Eunbyeol handed her the drinks that she had obtained for them to share. One was light and fruity, something that she would have guessed was mango-flavoured if she had not known well that mangos were out of season this time of the year. The other was rich and spiced, some kind of rum cocktail, that burned on the way down and gave her a strange kind of weightlessness. Beside her, Lady Tiamat and Lady Mag Mell were discussing a shared acquaintance, who had a particular penchant for thievery; over Eunbyeol's shoulder, two tagma were discussing whether they were permitted to invite the Selected to dance, or if it would simply invite a beheading to interfere with Silas' women so. They could have been worse, all things considered, Evanne thought; though their eyes roved across the girls, there was no true lasciviousness in their gaze. It was inoffensive enough, all things considered, and yet she found herself hoping, rather feverishly, that they would not pick her.

Evanne had always appreciated people on a rather aesthetic level; she had never experienced the kinds of attraction that others spoke about, that Mirabelle hinted at when she saw a particularly handsome courtier moving past without a lady to accompany him. Evanne had always craved attention first, and closeness, and familiarity; any desire for intimacy limped in the wake of these more vital needs, as a shadow attached to something far more precious. Though Mirabelle and Eunbyeol teased her about Pjotr, it was nothing so crass or primal as they suggested – she just liked talking to him, and listening to him. He took time to piece his sentences together, but Evanne didn't mind waiting.

Speaking of the devil – was that him? Evanne had never had much reason to use the word skulking before, but that was determinedly, transparently, what Pjotr was doing now: skulking about. Hoping not to be noticed? She was tempted to avert her eyes, just in case that was, indeed, his intent – she would not impose upon him if he wanted solitude – but before she could, he had caught her gaze and smiled slightly, and that was all the invitation that she needed. She said, "excuse me," but Mirabelle was caught up in a story about a particularly scandalous soirée in Nav the previous winter, and seemed to pay no heed as Evie slowly retreated from the narrow knot of observers and moved towards Pjotr, who was standing in a shadow of a spiral staircase leading to an isolated balcony. He looked pale – his skin was nearly grey, in fact – and his eyes had a strange, glassy glow to them. Despite his strong frame, he looked ill.

Evanne reached for him reflexively. "Pjotr? Are you alright?"

He said, slightly dazedly, "I think… another."

"Another what?" She paused, her hand grasping his sleeve, as though she could possibly have any hope of steadying him thus. There was a strange metallic sheen to his golden hair; there was a vein jumping in his forehead, stuttering out an uneven pulse. Evanne thought, bizarrely, that it rather resembled something trapped under the skin, beating feverishly to escape. "Pjotr?"

He said, "have… you seen… Aviram?"

Not the king. Not his Majesty. Aviram. As though they were old friends – or, perhaps, old enemies. For a split second, Evanne felt silly for even thinking that much, but then the thought of Shae, forced to her knees, screaming in Asenath's wake, crept to her mind. You sent us to our deaths. For not the first time, but a new measure of gravity, it occurred to Evie that people within the walls might pose as much of a danger to her as the druj without, and that those people might be people that she knew and – almost despite her best instincts – cared about, even in some small measure.

She said, "I haven't seen him."

Asenath had been here, only a moment ago, but she had departed without warning, quite silently; she wasn't sure that she had identified any other royals amongst those sweeping the dance floor. Eunbyeol's friend from home, Sherida, was the centre of attention; Evanne was quite certain that Silas himself could have crept by unnoticed, if he so wished, if he was so inclined, with all eyes turned towards the girl in red.

Pjotr drew in a shuddering breath, and moved a little out of the shadow, as though he had been physically struck. He looked like he was holding something in; he looked like he was resisting something. Evanne's heart ached to see him hurt so – to see him in the state to which so many soldiers were relegated by their time in the corps – but there was something different here, something new about the strange, wild look in his eye as he looked up, and stared at her, and stared through her, as though for a split second he had no idea where he was, who he was, who she was.

"Evanne," Pjotr said, and the word sounded precious in his mouth, "you said… the world…. was kinder. Here."

Evanne said, "is that not so?"

"No," he said, "it's not."

In this candlelight – how had she not seen it before? Fractures were creeping across his skin, jagged and sharp, like cracks in stone. From his lip, they splintered across his cheek; it split one eye, allowing a strange golden light, the same colour as his hairy to leak from somewhere deep inside him, illuminating the fissures which had juttered across his throat and fractured his collarbone into two thin fingers of stone.

She said, softly, "Petja?"

He looked at her. His eyes had been stained golden by that terrifying inner light, golden and empty and unseeing. It was as though dying stars had been implanted in his skull. He said, dully, confusedly, "Ina?"

And then –