The Rylans were always enthused with the idea of the supernatural.

Alright, maybe ‘enthused’ isn’t the right word for it. ‘Concerningly paranoid’ might’ve been a better one.

“Afternoon, Edgar,” I mutter to the rickety chair that has been my home for the past three weeks. Learning each duck, dive, and curve of the Rylan Ballroom was no easy task, considering each individual wall was draped with an intricate pattern depicting Rylan history though was incredibly different to tell the difference with—zoomed in with a sniper rifle, of course.

Today is the day. I know that; it’s been one of the longest weeks of the year, with Prince Ilya barking commands left, right and centre, sending guards to monitor each square inch on the building, firing half of his maids and employees within the span of four days, though the patchiness on his blonde head does indicate rampant stress. His father is very much the same—King Rufus—whose voice is as gruffly as the moustache that crawls across his face, demands his orders quicker than the speed of light despite the fact nobody can actually understand him.

“I see you’re early,” the girl waiting on the opposite side of the pathway of the highest floor which branches upward like a bridge raises an eyebrow. The eyes are inquisitive; jade, and always watching and perceiving. Not once have I seen her guard down.

“The Prince’d have my head off if I’d have been a minute late,” I respond, the lens of the rifle squeaking under my adjustment. Custom-made by the Rylan Guard themselves, chosen especially by the King, The Watcher, as I like to call it, stands taller than any weapon I’ve encountered in my years of experience with these sort of jobs. All black, slick, and lightweight, no protection would stop a bullet from piercing the skin from this one.

She releases a huff, more of a chuckle than anything else. “That’s my brother for you. Always barking up the wrong tree, placing his head where it doesn’t belong. I told him to leave the experts to their jobs.”

“It seems you’d be much easier to get along with then.”

We make eye contact in the dimming light. “It seems so.”

Princess Valeria remains still for a moment, eyes lingering toward the expanding crowd beneath us. They darken, matching the same shade as her hair. “I must go. My father will need me any minute now. I trust you’ll be here all night?”

“Your trust is not misplaced.”

A smile upturns her lips; the first I have seen of hers. “Good.”

The quiet shuffle of her dress decreases until the only sound is the chatting of royals.

My scope zooms.

“The sacrifice needs to be beneficial. It needs to be worth the spirits’ time,” the words echo across my brain, Ilya’s phrasing causing a physical roll of my eyes. Everyone here has enough wealth and status to be perceived as ‘beneficial’, so which one is the black sheep of the others?

The lining of the scope trails along the Duke and Duchess of Sarsai. Important enough to be seen as beneficial. Connected enough to be seen as beneficial.

Yet before they dance, they converse energetically with both the Prince and Princess. Too tight of a connection.

Mayor of Sarsai— Freider West. Incredibly well known, and tied to every single person at this event. The pure arrogance of his face is enough to draw the scope over his head several times.

Too costly.

I lower my eye from the scope. Low music erupts from the orchestra at the very end of the hall, which begins the ballroom dance.

Everybody is aware that someone is going to die tonight.

Let’s hope the majority wore red on purpose.

My scope refocuses— it travels down to the most recent arrivals of Sarsai, the partnership of Giovani and Linda Rin, also known as some of the most popular artists in all of the region. They ooze wealth, with Linda’s sparkling gold earrings draping from her lobed ears, crimson dress shimmering in the light, and Giovani’s textured grey suit matching the signature style of his goatee, grey and curling almost too perfectly.

Costly? Potentially. Do they have many connections? No. If anything, the money they have combined would give more power to the Rylans than they could ever imagine.

Which one, however?

The scope first falls on Giovani. So much status in one person. And for what? Drawings? Canvases that reflect little to nothing of the every day, or any sort of struggle? The hypocrisy of an already wealthy man to pursue artistry while his wife is already earning millions thanks to her own skill—

The scope glances from left to right. Linda Rin is nowhere to be seen.

The cocking of a gun ruminates through the room.

“Lower the scope, sacrifice.”