The outfit Aurelian prepared for Julian, though not a dress, was a masterpiece of cruelty.

It was a doublet and high-collared coat of midnight-blue velvet, so dark it was almost black, embroidered with thousands of tiny silver threads.

The pattern wasn’t random; it was a perfect, shimmering map of the Northern constellations—the very stars Julian used to look at when he was at the North.

It was a beautiful, suffocating reminder that everything Julian loved was now a costume in Aurelian’s theater.

As the maids cinched the silver-buckled belt around his waist, the air in the room shifted.

Aurelian had stepped into the room.

He didn’t say a word at first. He simply leaned against the bedpost, his golden eyes scanning Julian from the silver-stitched boots to the pale, sharp line of his throat.

He looked at the hollows beneath Julian’s eyes—the dark, bruised shadows of a week spent in hell—and a slow, satisfied smirk spread across his face.

"You look exquisite, Master Astrea," Aurelian purred, his voice a low, vibrating hum. "Like a star that has finally realized it’s falling."

He walked a slow circle around Julian, his fingers reaching out to trail along the silver embroidery of the ’Great Bear’ constellation on Julian’s shoulder.

But Julian did not respond. He stood as stiffly as a fitting mannequin, his expression void of whatever might amuse the Emperor.

"Why the long face, Master Astrea?" Aurelian asked, stopping directly in front of him. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray black hair and tucking it behind Julian’s ear. "Today is the day you’ve been looking forward to. The Masquerade. You’ll finally see the Duke. You’ll finally see your ’Lucien’ again."

Julian still didn’t respond. He didn’t flinch, and he didn’t lower his gaze either. He simply looked through the Emperor, his mismatched eyes flat and unreadable.

Inside, he was chanting the letter. I will come get you. We shall never be apart again. I love you, Julian.

Those were the words that were keeping him sane even at this point.

Aurelian’s smirk faltered for less than a second at the lack of a reaction. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Julian’s cold skin.

"He won’t recognize you, you know. He’ll look at this beautiful, broken thing in my shadow and wonder where his scholar went. He’ll look at the man gone pale and weak, and feel nothing but disgust."

Still, Julian remained silent. The letter was burned. The evidence was gone. All that remained was twenty-four hours of endurance.

He did not care what the Emperor said anymore. He would not fall for any more taunt and had closed his heart.

This was the only way to keep his mental state from plummeting.

Thanks to the letter, it had risen to 20, and he planned to keep it that way until he finally left this hellhole.

> [Mental Stability: 20% — Status: The Silent Anchor]

Aurelian did not get the reaction he wanted, and judging by the dullness in Julian’s eyes, it seemed like he could no longer get anything out of him.

Broken. He thought. The scholar is finally broken.

"Finish him," Aurelian barked at the maids, his voice suddenly sharp with irritation. "There are still a few imperfections in this ’doll’s’ outfit. I want it all worked out wonderfully. He should be at the ballroom entrance by sunset." He turned to leave but paused. "Oh, and make sure the mask is tight. I want him to feel every breath he takes tonight."

As the Emperor’s robe swept over the room during his exit, Julian finally rolled his eyes to look at the door.

He was finally gone.

Then, the maids hurried to place the mask—a half-face of white porcelain, cracked with silver leaf—over Julian’s face. It felt like a second skin.

A disguise.

But Julian guessed that was what all this was about. A masquerade ball to not only trap the thief lurking around in the Palace’s grounds, but also to trap his soul.

"Would you like to have breakfast before we continue the fitting?" A maid asked, but Julian shook his head.

"No, it’s fine. Let us continue."

He didn’t care for breakfast. He felt he would do fine without stuffing his mouth when all he could taste was grains of sand.

In a couple more hours, he thought to himself and closed his eyes. It’ll all be over.

As the sun began its slow descent, the Imperial Palace came alive. It was as if it had been holding a long golden breath of anticipation and exhaled, breathing life into the very hallways that had been cold and desolate for weeks on end.

One by one, carriages bearing the crests of the Great Houses clattered over the cobblestones, their lanterns flickering like fireflies in the gathering dusk.

Inside the ballroom, the air was already thick with the scent of expensive oils, powdered faces, curled wigs, and the nervous, electric hum of a thousand secrets hidden behind silk and mask.

It was a sea of shimmering embroidery and whispered scandals, a masterpiece of artifice where everyone was someone else. Faces were tucked away behind porcelain and lace, but it wasn’t as if they were all truly unrecognizable.

The crests on their carriages gave them away first and foremost. And then there was the way they carried themselves and their distinct personalities gave them away, not to mention the familiar cadence of their voices.

It wasn’t a ball meant to hide each other from an acquaintance, but a ball presumed to bring two strangers wearing masks together. It could be for love, friendship, and so on.

Yet, Julian was the only one who felt like a true stranger in his own skin.

He walked through the high, silent corridors of the inner palace, following the maids leading him from the front.

The midnight-blue velvet of his doublet seemed to absorb the light of the passing sconces, the silver constellations on his shoulders shimmering with a cold, distant fire.

He didn’t look at the tapestries or the gilded mirrors. He kept his eyes fixed on the space just ahead of him, his mind a fortress built of those few, precious words: My love, Julian.

The porcelain mask was tight—exactly as Aurelian had ordered. It pressed against his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, forcing him to feel the humid warmth of every breath he took. It was a cage for his face, but behind it, his eyes were no longer simple, fragile glass.