Ruthless Kings of Obsession (Leighton Royals University #3)

14. A Models Mask

A Model's Mask

~ A RES~

The grand ballroom of Leighton Manor drowns in whispers that aren't really whispers at all. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light across marble floors, illuminating faces that don't even try to hide their judgment. My perfectly manicured fingers grip the delicate stem of a prosecco glass while I stand alone, a crimson and gold statue amid a sea of black and white formal wear.

"Can you believe they're not here yet?"

"Matteo and Benedict missing... something must have happened."

"The model thinks he can lead? Please."

The custom-tailored red suit hugs my frame like armor, golden threading catching light with every subtle movement. Hannah outdid herself, somehow producing outfits worthy of Ascension in mere minutes. The suit is a statement – bold, unapologetic, dangerous. Everything I've spent years pretending not to be.

"Where's their Maiden? Ascension starts in three minutes."

"Probably ran off with Domino. Did you see that video?"

My face remains perfectly composed, a mask I perfected on countless runways. But beneath it, memories surface like wounds reopening:

"It's fine, Father. I'm the older one – I'll take responsibility."

Aries, always shielding me, always taking the blame. Even when Father made it clear he wanted me to take over, wanted the son with the face that could charm board rooms and challenge beauty standards.

A couple nearby whispers behind jeweled fans, their voices carrying despite their pretense at discretion. "He hasn't moved in ten minutes. Just standing there like a mannequin."

"Well, he is a model. Probably all he knows how to do."

The prosecco tastes like ash in my mouth. They're right – I could have learned so much from Aries. Could have paid attention to more than just maintaining my image and booking campaigns. But my brother made it too easy to stay in my comfort zone, always stepping in, always handling the messy parts of our world.

"You don't need to know this stuff, little brother," he'd say, cleaning blood from his knuckles. "Let me handle the ugly parts. You just keep being beautiful."

The massive clock above the stage shows 2:57 AM. Three minutes until Ascension begins, and we're still missing our Queen. The crowd's murmurs grow louder, more pointed.

"They're going to lose their titles."

"Good riddance. The Kings should be people who take this seriously."

"I heard the model can't even shoot a gun properly."

That last one makes something shift inside me. The memory of the warehouse flashes through my mind – the weight of the gun in my hand, the crack of the shot, the spray of blood. I may not have Aries' training or Zander's natural talent for violence, but I pulled that trigger to protect what's mine.

The crowd suddenly hushes as the stage lights dim. In the sudden quiet, I catch my reflection in a nearby mirror and barely recognize myself. The red suit makes my skin look paler, more ethereal. But it's my eyes that give me pause – there's something dark there now, something that wasn't present this morning.

"He looks different," someone whispers. "Something's changed."

"Maybe something did happen to the others..."

"Look at his eyes – he seems almost... dangerous."

A small smile curves my lips, and I watch several nearby guests take involuntary steps back. Let them whisper. Let them underestimate the pretty model who's only good for photographs. They don't need to know about the gun residue I washed from my hands, or the way Eva's blood stained my shirt when I caught her.

The stage lights begin to dim further, and a hush falls over the crowd. The massive clock strikes 3:00 AM exactly as a single spotlight illuminates the center stage.

It's time for Ascension to begin, and somewhere in this crowd, our enemies are watching. Waiting to see if we'll fall.

Sorry, Aries, I think, straightening to my full height. But it's time I learned to handle the ugly parts myself.

The spotlight grows brighter as the organizer's silhouette appears, and I feel the weight of countless eyes upon me. The only Ruthless King currently present, standing alone in crimson and gold.

Let them watch. Let them whisper.

They're about to learn that even the most beautiful masks can hide deadly secrets.

"Leighton Royal University continues to be a prestigious academic institution, admired across the globe. With applications tripling by 500%, it's clear how worthy and high-demand our university is among the top legacy-creating foundations."

The organizer's voice carries the same rehearsed pride it did three hours ago, when this event was originally supposed to begin. I take another sip of prosecco, watching the barely-concealed irritation on faces that have been waiting since midnight for the Ascension to start.

"Many of our students are not only taught various skills and knowledge that can help them survive the royal lifestyle outside these walls, but there are also many who have proven great promise in becoming grand leaders of empires that have been running for generations."

If they only knew where those "grand leaders" really are right now – Matteo and Zander in hospital beds, Eva unconscious from hallucinogens, Marcus frantically trying to salvage our plans. My crimson suit stands out like a wound among the sea of black and white formal wear, making my solitary presence even more conspicuous.

"Did you hear?" someone whispers too loudly to her companion. "They made us wait because the Ruthless Kings couldn't get their act together. Something about their Queen causing chaos across campus."

"Three hours," another guest hisses. "They made us wait three hours, and still half their court is missing. The model's the only one who bothered to show up."

The Savage Heirs' delegation seems particularly amused by my isolation, their smirks growing with each passing minute. They've never approved of a "pretty boy" holding such a prestigious position. Now they probably think they're witnessing our downfall.

"I heard there was a shooting at the hockey stadium," someone murmurs behind their champagne glass. "And Benedict's nowhere to be found..."

"The bodyguard's brother isn't here either. Probably couldn't handle the pressure."

My fingers tighten on my glass, but my face remains perfectly composed. Let them speculate. Let them underestimate the "model" standing alone in his blood-red suit. None of them know about the gun residue I washed from my hands just hours ago, or how natural it felt to pull that trigger in defense of our Queen.

"Someone said their Maiden went rogue," a voice carries from the balcony. "After that video of Leighton went viral..."

"Probably hiding in shame. Can't have a Queen who airs dirty laundry."

The massive clock shows 3:02 AM – we're running out of time. But as I scan the crowded ballroom, I notice something interesting. The whispers and sneers can't quite hide the undercurrent of fear. They've all seen the video. They've all witnessed what our Queen is capable of.

And now they're watching the "pretty" one stand unflinching in a suit the color of fresh blood, no longer hiding behind his brother's shadow or his modeling portfolio.

"He looks different," another mutters to his companion. "Something's changed."

"The way he's standing... it's like he's waiting for something."

Or someone , I think, catching my reflection in a nearby mirror. The golden threading in my suit catches the chandelier light like flames, and there's something in my eyes I've never seen before – something that makes even the most hardened Savage Heirs take a step back when I meet their gaze.

The organizer drones on, but all I can think about is Eva lying unconscious in Marcus's arms, Zander fighting for his life in a hospital bed, and Matteo's broken body being rushed to surgery. My pretty face and perfect posture weren't enough to protect them.

But maybe it's time to show them all what else this model can do.

A hush falls over the crowd as the stage lights begin to dim. The massive clock strikes 3:05 AM as a single spotlight illuminates the center stage. They're all watching me, waiting to see if the Ruthless Kings will fall.

Let them watch , I think, straightening to my full height. Let them whisper.

They're about to learn that even the most beautiful masks can hide the deadliest secrets.

Mr. Leighton emerges from behind the curtain with the same commanding presence that's built empires and broken lesser men. His perfectly tailored black suit seems to absorb light, creating a void that demands attention. But there's something different in his bearing tonight – a tension that speaks of carefully controlled fury.

"Distinguished guests," his voice carries effortlessly through the grand ballroom. "I must address the unexpected delays that have brought us here at this unusual hour. Certain events have transpired that required immediate attention?—"

"You mean your son's viral coming out party?" Someone calls from the crowd, alcohol making them bold. The words carry clear disdain, triggering a wave of barely suppressed laughter.

Mr. Leighton's expression doesn't change, but the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. Before he can respond, more voices join the chorus of criticism.

"Did you see the hashtags? #LeightonLegacyLost is trending worldwide!"

"How can we take this institution seriously when your own heir is broadcasting his... proclivities for all to see?"

The whispers grow bolder, years of carefully hidden contempt finally finding voice. I maintain my position, standing perfectly still in my crimson suit while chaos erupts around me.

"If you care about Leighton's reputation, you'll expel him immediately," a board member's wife declares, her diamonds glittering like ice. "We can't have that sort of scandal associated with our children's education."

"Thank God you had the foresight to name Matteo as your true heir," another voice adds. "At least he has the proper breeding for leadership."

The irony of their words almost makes me laugh. If they only knew where their "properly bred" heir was right now – lying in a hospital bed with broken bones and a concussion. But I keep my face carefully neutral, years of modeling teaching me how to wear any mask required.

"Mr. Sinclair," a Savage Heir's father addresses me directly, his tone dripping with false concern. "You've been unusually quiet. Surely you have something to say about your fellow Ruthless King's disgraceful behavior? After all, he's potentially compromised everything we stand for."

All eyes turn to me, waiting. They expect the pretty model to join their chorus of condemnation, to distance himself from the falling star that is Domino Leighton.

Instead, I take a deliberately slow sip of my prosecco, letting the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. When I finally meet their eager gazes, something in my expression makes several of them step back.

"It's interesting," I say softly, my voice carrying despite its low volume, "how quickly vultures gather when they think they smell death."

The man who questioned me flushes red. "How dare you?—"

"But tell me," I continue as if he hadn't spoken, "while you're all so concerned about reputations and secrets... who leaked the security footage from the private parking structure? Who made sure those particular cameras were working when they're usually conveniently disabled?"

A different kind of silence falls over the crowd. Mr. Leighton's eyes find mine across the room, something like approval flickering in their depths.

"After all," I smile, and it's not the camera-ready smile they're used to seeing, "if we're talking about compromising society's secrets, shouldn't we be more concerned about the inside job that made this possible in the first place?"

The whispers take on a different tone now, suspicious glances being exchanged throughout the room. I can almost see them mentally reviewing their own secrets, wondering what else might be exposed.

"Or perhaps," I add, swirling the prosecco in my glass, "we should discuss how many of your own children have starred in similar videos that haven't quite made it to social media... yet."

The threat hangs in the air like poison gas, making several prominent families shift uncomfortably. They're starting to realize that the pretty model might have been paying more attention than they thought during all those fashion shows and charity galas.

Mr. Leighton clears his throat, drawing attention back to the stage. But I don't miss the slight nod he gives me – acknowledgment from one predator to another.

Mr. Leighton straightens his already perfect posture, commanding silence with mere presence. The tension in the room has shifted from scandal-hungry excitement to something more dangerous – the quiet before a storm.

"Let us proceed with the acknowledgment of our current hierarchy," his voice carries authority that cuts through remaining whispers. "Beginning with our Ruthless Kings, followed by the Deviant Lords and Savage Heirs."

My heart pounds beneath the crimson suit, but years of runway experience keep my expression neutral. Each step toward the podium feels like an eternity, the sound of my shoes against marble echoing through the suddenly silent ballroom.

"Where are the others?"

"Benedict's missing..."

"Matteo too..."

"And their Maiden?"

The whispers follow me like shadows, growing bolder with each step. By the time I reach the stage, the murmurs have become a steady stream of commentary.

"They need their Queen for Ascension?—"

"Can't crown Kings without a Maiden?—"

"He's breaking every rule..."

Mr. Leighton's eyes meet mine as I take my position beside him. Though his face remains impassive, I catch the flicker of concern in his gaze – the same look he gave Matteo during particularly risky operations.

"Albrecht,” he addresses me formally, though we both know he's attended enough of my birthday parties to call me by first name. "Where are your fellow Ruthless Kings and your Queen?"

The spotlight feels hotter than any fashion show lighting, but I don't flinch. Instead, I channel something of Zander's dangerous grace, Matteo's quiet authority.

"Due to unavoidable circumstances," my voice carries clearly through the hall, "some members of our court are temporarily indisposed. However," I add with careful precision, "our Maiden is present and will be joining us shortly."

Gasps and mutters ripple through the crowd. Someone actually laughs in disbelief.

"The audacity?—"

"Three Kings missing?"

"He can't possibly think?—"

But Mr. Leighton sees something in my stance that makes him pause. The worry in his eyes shifts to something else – recognition, perhaps, of the same steel that runs through his own veins.

"You understand," he says carefully, "the requirements for Ascension?"

"Perfectly, sir." The smile I give him isn't one I've ever used on a camera. It's sharper, more dangerous – more real. "Everything has been arranged."

More whispers erupt, the crowd unable to comprehend how I can stand here, seemingly breaking every sacred rule of their society, yet maintaining such confidence. They see the pretty model in his blood-red suit, but they're starting to sense something else beneath the surface.

"He's lost his mind?—"

"The pressure must have broken him?—"

"Someone should stop this farce?—"

But no one moves. No one dares approach. Because something in my posture, in my eyes, tells them that the mask has finally cracked – and what lies beneath might be more than they're prepared to handle.

A ripple of electricity courses through the crowd as Saint Joaquin walks down the platform until he’s beside Mr. Leighton. His presence alone commands a different kind of respect – not born from institutional power or family legacy, but from the kind of influence that can make people disappear without a trace.

Even in my years of high-fashion circles, I've never seen someone wear wealth so effortlessly. His black suit probably costs more than most people's houses, but it's the casual confidence in his movements that truly speaks of his power. Every drug lord, crime boss, and underground king in this room has answered to him at some point.

"My friends," his voice carries a hint of Spanish aristocracy, smooth as aged whiskey. "Tonight's unexpected summons was, as some of you have guessed, quite intentional."

The whispers die completely. When Saint Joaquin speaks, even the most entitled heirs know to stay silent.

"This shift in our traditional timeline serves a greater purpose," he continues, moving across the stage with predatory grace. "One that requires immediate attention and..." his eyes find mine with unsettling intensity, "adaptation."

I maintain my composure, though my mind races. The last time I saw that look in his eyes, he was testing Eva's loyalty over dinner, playing games within games that none of us fully understood.

"Change," he announces to the silent crowd, "is the only constant in our world. Those who cannot adapt..." his smile shows too many teeth, "drown."

The metaphor hangs heavy in the air, making several people shift uncomfortably. We've all heard stories of those who crossed Saint Joaquin ending up at the bottom of various bodies of water.

"This year's theme," he pauses for effect, "is Obsession."

The word echoes through the ballroom like a gunshot. My heart skips a beat as understanding begins to dawn.

"No longer will our courts be defined merely by their ruthlessness, their deviance, or their savagery," Saint Joaquin continues. "Instead, they will be marked by their depth of devotion. Their absolute commitment. Their..." his eyes find mine again, "consuming obsession."

*Ruthless Kings of Obsession.*

The new title rolls through my mind like thunder. Everything clicks into place – Eva's calculated revenge against Domino, our collective inability to let her go, the way she's become the center of our entire world.

"The Ruthless Kings of Havoc," Saint Joaquin gestures toward me, standing alone in my crimson suit, "will now be known as the Ruthless Kings of Obsession. Their devotion to their Queen must transcend mere loyalty. It must become all-consuming, absolute, potentially devastating."

The crowd murmurs, understanding the implications. This isn't just a name change – it's a fundamental shift in the power structure. Our Queen isn't just a partner anymore; she's meant to become our entire focus, our reason for existing.

"The same applies to our other courts," he continues. "The Deviant Lords of Chaos become the Deviant Lords of Desire. The Savage Heirs of Discord transform into the Savage Heirs of Vengeance."

But I barely hear the other announcements. My mind is racing, calculating what this means for us – for Eva. We're already protective of her, already devoted beyond reason. But this new title suggests something darker, more dangerous.

*What happens when obsession becomes official doctrine?*

"Of course," Saint Joaquin's voice drops lower, more intimate despite the size of the room, "such devotion comes with... risks. Not everyone survives being the object of absolute obsession. Not everyone should."

The threat in his words is clear. This isn't just about elevating our Queen – it's about testing all of us. Seeing who breaks first under the weight of such all-consuming focus.

I think of Zander, already so possessive of Eva that he'd kill for her without hesitation. Of Matteo, whose quiet devotion runs deeper than any of us suspected. Of myself, standing here in blood-red silk, ready to reinvent myself completely for her.

*How far will this obsession push us?*

"The game changes tonight," Saint Joaquin declares. "Those who cannot adapt to this new level of devotion will be... removed. Those who survive..." his smile turns predatory, "will rewrite the very foundations of our society."

The implications hit me like a physical blow. This isn't just about our court anymore. It's about transforming the entire underground hierarchy into something more primal, more dangerous.

And Eva – our brilliant, deadly, damaged Queen – sits at the center of it all.

"To accommodate this new era of Obsession," Saint Joaquin's voice carries a hint of amusement, "two additional Kings will be added to the Ruthless roster."

The announcement hits the crowd like a thunderbolt. Gasps and exclamations of disbelief echo through the ballroom, the perfectly maintained facade of society etiquette cracking under sheer shock.

"Six Kings?" Someone whispers too loudly. "That's impossible!"

"One Maiden can't possibly handle that many?—"

"Even four would be excessive?—"

"The standard three was established for a reason?—"

I fight to maintain my composed expression as the whispers grow bolder, more critical. These people, with their inherited wealth and borrowed power, think they understand the dynamics of our court. They know nothing of the intricate dance we've created, the delicate balance we maintain.

"Look at their track record," someone sneers. "Their Maiden could barely handle Leighton and Benedict, let alone this... model."

"Wasn't there another one?" A woman in diamonds asks. "Warren, was it? The bodyguard who joined for sport?"

My fingers clench around the stem of my champagne glass at the mention of my brother's other name. The crystal protests under the pressure, threatening to shatter.

"Oh, him," another voice drips with disdain. "Barely saw him most of the time. Probably couldn't handle the responsibilities."

"Well, being a Ruthless King isn't for the weak."

Weak. The word echoes in my mind as I think of Aries – my brother, my protector, the man who sacrificed everything to keep me safe. They don't know about the nights he spent training instead of sleeping, the careful balance he maintained between his duties to me and his devotion to Eva. They never saw how he would appear from nowhere the moment she was in danger, how he fought his own demons while protecting us from ours.

They don't understand that his absence wasn't weakness – it was strength. The strength to step back when his past with Iris and Theo threatened to compromise everything. The strength to love Eva enough to let others protect her when he couldn't trust himself.

"Would the Ruthless Kings please approach the stage?"

Saint Joaquin's command cuts through my thoughts and the crowd's whispers. I catch a waiter's eye and place my champagne glass on his tray with deliberate care. Every eye in the room follows my movement as I step forward, my crimson suit a slash of blood against the sea of black and white.

The walk to the stage feels longer than any runway I've ever walked. Each step echoes with purpose, with the weight of everything we've sacrificed to get here. Let them whisper. Let them doubt. They don't know what's coming.

This isn't just about being Kings anymore , I think as I mount the steps. This is about becoming something else entirely. Something driven by obsession, fueled by devotion, shaped by the darkness we all carry.

The stage lights feel hotter than usual as disapproving murmurs ripple through the crowd. These aren't the Deviant Lords or Savage Heirs – these are the socialites, the wealthy parents, the board members who've never seen me as anything more than a pretty face on magazine covers.

"Since when does he lead anything except fashion shows?"

"Look at him, standing there like he belongs?—"

"The model thinks he can fill Benedict's shoes?"

Some of the whispers take on a different tone, tinged with confusion. "He seems... different tonight. Something's changed."

"But what's the point? What's he trying to prove?"

The silence grows heavy as they wait for others to join me, but the stage remains conspicuously empty. Saint Joaquin steps forward, his presence immediately commanding attention.

"Mr. Albrecht" his voice carries both authority and curiosity, "where are the rest of your Kings?"

Mr. Leighton moves smoothly, extending the microphone to me with a subtle nod. His eyes convey what his position won't allow him to say aloud: Show them who you really are.

I take the microphone, years of media training allowing me to project calm confidence despite the skeptical faces before me. "As many of you are aware, we just concluded an intense hockey match earlier this evening. Unfortunately, both Matteo Leighton and Zander Benedict sustained serious injuries during the game and are currently receiving medical treatment."

Gasps and murmurs of genuine concern ripple through the crowd.

"I saw Matteo take that hit?—"

"The way he went down..."

"No wonder they delayed the ceremony?—"

"They will, of course, maintain their positions as Ruthless Kings," I continue smoothly, "but due to doctors' orders, they are unable to attend tonight's proceedings."

"Poor Mr. Leighton," someone whispers loudly. "To be here while his heir is hospitalized..."

"Such dedication to tradition?—"

"Always puts the institution first?—"

Saint Joaquin raises his hand, and the whispers die instantly. His dark eyes fix on me with an intensity that would make lesser men flinch. But I've spent too many hours being scrutinized by cameras and critics to break under his gaze.

"Obviously," he begins with dangerous softness, "this presents us with an unusual situation."

You have no idea , I think, maintaining my composed exterior while remembering Eva unconscious in Marcus's arms, Zander fighting for his life, Matteo's broken body being rushed to surgery.

But they're about to find out just how unusual things can get.

"As you're well aware, Mr. Albrecht," Saint Joaquin's voice carries just a hint of challenge, "protocol requires a minimum of three Ruthless Kings present for Ascension. Currently, I see only one."

The crowd's satisfaction at my apparent failure is almost palpable, but I allow myself a small smile. "If I may, sir, I'd like to introduce our new Ruthless Kings, chosen specifically by our Maiden."

Saint Joaquin's eyebrow raises slightly – the closest he ever comes to showing surprise. He gestures for me to proceed.

"First, may I present Marcus Williamson Wright."

The crowd's reaction is immediate as Marcus emerges from the shadows. His silver and navy blue suit catches the light like moonlight on water, the precise cut emphasizing his lean strength. His usually pristine appearance is marked by a black bandage across one cheek and another over his nose – battle scars from the hockey game that somehow only add to his commanding presence.

The way he moves reminds me of a scientist approaching a crucial experiment – measured, deliberate, every step calculated for maximum effect. His dark blue hair is slicked back elegantly, but there's something dangerous in his eyes that has nothing to do with his family's reputation.

"Wright? The medical empire Wrights?"

"Their research facility practically owns half the hospitals in the country?—"

"What's he doing here?"

Marcus takes his place at my left side, and I catch the slight tremor in his hands that speaks of exhaustion barely held at bay. Few would notice it, but I've learned to read the subtle signs of those who hide their struggles behind perfect facades.

"How did their Maiden manage this?"

"What kind of deal could she have possibly made?"

"The Wrights never align themselves with?—"

"Did you hear about the fire?" The whispered question catches my attention, making my ears strain to hear more.

"What fire?"

"At their main facility... years ago... such a tragedy?—"

But before I can hear more, Marcus shifts slightly beside me, his jaw tightening in a way that suggests the whispers aren't as private as the crowd believes. The slight movement is enough to make several people step back, suddenly remembering that the Wright family's power extends far beyond mere medical research.

"The lab genius joins the model," someone mutters. "What an odd collection she's gathering."

If they only knew. I glance at Marcus, seeing the same knowledge reflected in his eyes. They think they understand power because they have money and influence. They know nothing about the kind of power that comes from being broken and reforged in the fires of trauma and survival.

Saint Joaquin studies Marcus with unsettling intensity before turning back to me. "And the third King?"

The crowd leans forward eagerly, wondering what other surprise our Maiden has orchestrated. They're about to learn that Eva's choices are never what anyone expects.

"Our next Ruthless King," I announce with careful precision, "Ren Augustus Hudson."

The reaction is instantaneous – shocked gasps and disbelieving murmurs rippling through the crowd like waves. Ren emerges from the shadows, his emerald suit so dark it appears almost black until the light catches it just right. His shoulder-length hair, a striking mixture of forest green with streaks of midnight blue and obsidian black, is styled back elegantly behind his ears, the multiple piercings along his cartilage catching the light like stars.

"Hudson? As in Chief Hudson's son?"

"The police commissioner's golden boy?"

"This has to be some kind of trap?—"

Ren moves with the fluid grace of someone equally comfortable in black-tie galas and back-alley fights. His numerous tattoos peek out from beneath his collar and cuffs, a deliberate reminder that he's not quite what his family name suggests.

"Is this a setup?"

"Generations of law enforcement?—"

"His mother runs the largest trauma center in the state?—"

He reaches my right side, but instead of taking his position quietly, he plucks the microphone from my hand with practiced ease. His smile carries all the danger of a predator playing with its food.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice smooth as aged whiskey, "please don't mind me. I'm just the golden retriever ex-boyfriend trying to get a second chance with his girl." He ends with an exaggerated wink that somehow manages to be both charming and threatening.

Laughter ripples through the crowd, but it's tinged with uncertainty. They can't quite reconcile the playboy persona with the calculating look in his eyes.

"He must be after Prescott?—"

"Always had a thing for her, even back then?—"

"Classic playboy move, joining the Kings to get close to her?—"

If they only knew how many bodies we'd left behind at the warehouse just hours ago. How efficiently he'd handled that female officer. How naturally violence came to him beneath the carefree facade.

Ren hands the microphone back to me with another wink, this one private, sharing the joke of how easily people believe what they want to see.

"This should fulfill the requirement," I state, but Saint Joaquin's expression remains unreadable.

"Perhaps," he says slowly, "except for one rather crucial detail." His eyes scan the ballroom. "Where is your Maiden?"

The question hangs in the air like smoke, reminding us all that even with three Kings present, we're still missing our Queen.