Evelyne Thorne stood at the center of the grand ballroom, the weight of countless eyes pressing upon her. The nobles, once engaged in hushed gossip and whispered speculations, now hung onto her every word. The air was thick with anticipation, the flickering chandelier lights casting long, wavering shadows on the marbled floor. Somewhere in the distance, a violinist's hesitant note faltered before silence swallowed the room whole.

A story, that was how she would lead them. Not with blunt accusations, not with crude finger-pointing, but with the carefully spun silk of revelation. Evelyne knew that the web had been woven tightly, a labyrinth of lies and misdirection, but she had unraveled its threads piece by piece.

She took a deep breath, letting the hush of the crowd stretch. The power of silence was as potent as any word she could utter. And then, she spoke.
"It was not a man who committed this crime."
The ballroom erupted into startled murmurs. Gasps and hushed whispers spread like ripples in a pond, disbelief coloring their reactions. Evelyne let them process, let them grasp onto their fragile assumptions before she shattered them completely.

"It was a woman."
This time, the silence was deafening.
"A woman?" someone repeated, aghast.
"A woman cannot—"

"She did," Evelyne interrupted, her voice sharp as a blade. "And she planned it meticulously, ensuring that every detail pointed in the wrong direction. Lord Hawke, a man of… unsavory appetites, was never meant to die publicly. His death was meant to be quiet, unseen. But fate, it seems, had other plans."
She turned slightly, eyes settling on Cassius, then on Alice, and finally on Denise. Each had played their part in this twisted tale, but none of them were the ones who had delivered the fatal strike. No, that role belonged to another.
"She was both-handed," Evelyne continued, pacing slowly. "A professional. Not a crime of passion, nor one of clumsy opportunity. This was calculated, deliberate. The weapon was wielded with precision."
She let the weight of her words settle before speaking again.
"The woman I speak of… I noticed her during the ball." Evelyne's mind replayed the moment—the way the woman stood slightly apart from the rest, neither blending in nor truly standing out. Feigning disinterest but watching everything. Not a noble, not a lady of the court. Yet she had been there, a wolf in the den of lambs.
The silence in the ballroom thickened, the nobles barely daring to breathe. Evelyne's next words were not just for those before her but for the one who had orchestrated it all. She was here. Watching. Listening. And Evelyne needed her to believe she was still safe, still unseen.
"She was from the Northern Dominion of Rhenova," Evelyne revealed, her voice like the click of a lock. "A land known for its warriors, its mercenaries."
A few gasps punctuated the quiet. The Northern Dominion was not a place of frivolous balls and idle courtly affairs—it was a place of steel and blood. A place where grudges did not fade; they sharpened into blades.
"And she had a motive."
Evelyne let her eyes scan the room, lingering just long enough to see the apprehension settle into certain faces. Some had already begun to connect the threads, but none could see the full picture yet.

"Two years ago, Lord Hawke conducted business with certain people from the Northern Dominion. It was no secret that his dealings were often… less than honorable. Among those he encountered was a woman—young, strong-willed. She caught his eye. But when she refused his advances, he did not take kindly to the rejection."
A beat of silence, then Evelyne delivered the truth with the weight of a judge's gavel.
"He raped her. And then he killed her."
The ballroom exhaled in one collective, horrified breath. For all his charm and status, those who had known Lord Hawke had always known the darkness that lurked beneath his smile. They just never spoke of it.
"The woman who killed him was her sister."
Now came the final piece of the puzzle—the execution of the crime itself.
"She knew Lord Hawke's weakness," Evelyne continued, her voice lowering as if recounting a ghost story. "Women. He never saw them as a threat, only as playthings, conquests. That would be his undoing."
"She waited." Evelyne's voice dropped to a whisper, the nobles leaning in unconsciously. "She watched as each person left the anteroom, taking her time, choosing the perfect moment. And then, when she was certain they were alone, she entered."
A scene unfolded in her mind's eye—
The killer, dressed finely yet not extravagantly, walked into the anteroom. She staggered slightly, the scent of spilled wine clinging to her as she let out a soft, intoxicated giggle.
Lord Hawke, ever the predator, did not hesitate to approach. "Are you all right, my dear?" he asked, his voice drenched in false concern.
She swayed slightly, feigning the effects of too much champagne. A delicate hand reached out, brushing against his sleeve. "Oh, my lord," she murmured, her lips curling in a coy smile. "I seem to have made a mess."
Hawke, believing himself to be in control, smirked. He leaned in, reaching out to steady her, to lead her somewhere more private.
And in that moment, she struck.
With a swift motion, precise as a blade through silk, she withdrew the hidden dagger and drove it into his abdomen. The force behind it was unrelenting, a warrior's strike, not a noblewoman's timid attempt.
Hawke gasped, staggering backward, his hand pressing uselessly against the wound. The killer, calculating and composed, took a single step back, watching him fall.
She waited. She watched his breath grow shallow, his body slump forward.
And then she left.
She had done what she came to do. It was finished.
Except… it wasn't.
"What she did not foresee," Evelyne said, her voice drawing the listeners back to the present, "was that Lord Hawke would survive long enough to stumble into the ballroom. Long enough to disrupt the perfect murder."
Another wave of murmurs surged through the crowd. The pieces were falling into place, yet the most important question still remained unspoken.
Who?
Evelyne did not answer it. Not yet. She had the attention of every noble, every whispering servant, every lurking shadow within the grand hall. But she needed more. She needed the killer to make a move.
And so, she let them dangle.
"The question now," Evelyne mused, tilting her head, "is how did she gain access to a ball meant only for nobles?"
That was the true mystery, the unseen hand pulling the strings. Someone had ensured she was there, someone who had as much to gain from Hawke's death as the woman who sought revenge.
But that was a revelation for another time.
For now, she let the weight of her words settle over the room like a heavy fog. And in the silence, she listened.
For a gasp. A shifting footstep. The quickening pulse of a woman who realized her false hope was slipping away.
The web had been spun. Now it was only a matter of time before the prey struggled within it.