---
Chapter One: The Hall of Lies –
Beneath the pale blue dome—streaked like the snow-capped peaks of the frozen south and veined with the breath of an ice dragon—the nobles gathered like a flock of exotic birds.
Here stood Lady Damaris, her hat adorned with the glass eyes of preserved owls, whispering to Duke Feren, whose golden mask mimicked the face of a forgotten ruler, while his crimson eyes smoldered in the shadows like embers beneath ash.
There, Countess Lisabet twirled in a gown woven from spider-silk, each step releasing a faint chime from the tiny bells at her ankles—as if warning of approaching danger.
In the corner, Baron Ulric leaned on his crystal-topped cane, within which a small scorpion writhed whenever a maiden passed by.
Among the guests, the silent handmaidens glided with pale faces and black-gloved hands, carrying trays as though they bore severed heads. One paused before Valerian, and as he reached for his goblet, he noticed the faint breaths escaping through the cracks of her porcelain mask.
Everyone seemed strange tonight.
On the platform, the musicians sat with faces hidden behind parchment masks that seemed to melt under the heat of the lights. Their fingers danced across the strings like spiders weaving webs of poisoned melodies.
Everywhere, the blue light played upon the masks, and each melted candle revealed a new lie. The dim glow exposed treachery hidden beneath gilded visages and rare plumes. Painted smiles twisted into grotesque grins, and false eyes became hollow pits swallowing whispers. Even the breeze drifting through the high windows carried distant murmurs from the city beyond—as if reminding them that the world outside still breathed and waited.
In the corner, Valerian stood alone, his weary frame propped against a marble column like a forgotten record from the palace archives. Even the white marble seemed stained by his shadow.
In his hand, a goblet of crimson wine—sipped as though it were a fading memory. The worn cup, its golden engravings dulled by neglect, was the only thing that had not yet betrayed him.
Around him, the masks swirled in a macabre dance, recoiling as if repelled by the stench of his failure clinging to his clothes. From afar, a whisper reached his ears:
"When will he realize death is a mercy for those who've lost their place?"
Even the shadows avoided him, leaving him bare in a circle of harsh light, exposed for all to see.
But what they didn't see...
What they didn't know...
Was the slender blade hidden in the folds of his coat—starving to tear apart this farcical theater.
Suddenly, the crowd parted like the sea.
Tharulin approached him, her silver hair flowing like mist, her white gown concealing more than it revealed, her blue eyes twin frozen oceans.
"Ah, who graces us tonight?" she murmured, her fingers brushing a sunken mark on her wrist—the ghost of an unanswered question.
At that moment, glass shattered.
The music stopped.
The guests turned to statues of wax, waiting.
All eyes fell to the floor where:
A red flower from Queen of the North Eliara Morvain's crown lay.
A shattered wine cup belonging to the heir Raylen Sandor had broken.
Miralin did not flinch at the fall. Instead, she fixed Valerian with a gaze as though reminding him of another day... a day when blood between them was still fresh.
Eliara bent to retrieve her fallen flower, only for her hand to collide with Raylen's, who had moved to help.
"What's wrong with you? Have you gone mad? Everyone is staring!" she hissed.
He replied softly, "Don't worry. Nothing happened."
Their guards closed in at once, while Raylen shot a sharp glance toward Valerian—the man in the black mask—a look as sharp as a blade, charged with old hatred.
In that moment, Valerian thought:
"What is this nonsense? Are you mocking me, Fate? Tharulin and the 'Pauper' standing side by side?"
But Tharulin paid no mind to the chaos. Instead, her gaze remained locked on Valerian, as though recalling another day... a day when blood between them was still fresh.
"I still prefer crimson," she said, her voice for his ears alone.
He replied, staring at the glass shards: "It reminds me of the color of dried blood."
They stood face to face, their words silk-wrapped daggers.
"What finally dragged you from the depths of your drunken stupor?" she asked, glancing toward his distant, ruined palace—now a ruin on the lips of the elite.
He answered with a tone that melted mockery into deadly seriousness:
"An empty wineglass... and a stage ruled by puppets who wove their steps before they were even made."
Her eyebrow arched behind her golden mask:
"I didn't take you for one to read their fates."
Then, with a subtle gesture, she nodded toward Thirdor, heir of the White Wine dynasty, who was sweating profusely in the shadow of the pillars.
"Is the hall so warm?" she mocked. "Or does the blue sapphire in your ring hold a secret that melts the ice of your mountains?"
Soft laughter rippled through the crowd, but the Royal Advisor in the red mask bit his lip until blood welled, while the old king on his throne seemed barely able to keep himself from collapsing.
"And what of you?" Tharulin turned her head dismissively toward Valerian. "Have you drained the last barrels of wine in your crumbling palace?"
He did not answer.
Setting down his goblet, he removed his black mask—letting it fall like a dead raven—and walked away with heavy steps.
"Three cups were enough, Lady of Secrets..." he said as he vanished behind the pillars. "Until next time, take care."
As Valerian left the hall, Tharulin returned to the circle of light, where the masks swirled again like waves on a mercury sea. Suddenly, for the second time that evening, the crowd parted.
A tall knight stepped forward with unwavering confidence—maskless in a masquerade where faces were never known. His short golden hair gleamed like a wheat field under midday sun, his brown eyes cold as polished metal. On his bare forearm, a circular tattoo—the mark of "Skin Magic," practiced only by the Imperial Knights after their lethal trials (one in a hundred survived).
"You outshine every candle in this hall," he said, bowing with royal grace before lifting her hand to his lips. "It is an honor to meet you on this joyous occasion."
She did not hesitate. Placing her fingers in his outstretched hand:
"And I am honored to dance with a knight who needs no mask to hide his beauty."
Her words were sweet as poison, but her eyes tracked the Royal Advisor, whose face had suddenly paled.
To the strains of violin and piano, they spun in a dance that sent the edges of her white gown billowing like clouds. The entire assembly watched—Eliara with frozen expressions, Raylen with a white-knuckled grip on his sword, Thirdor downing his wine in one gulp.
Midway through the second turn, the knight whispered in her ear:
"It seems it has begun."
She smiled, though her eyes remained cold:
"Are you certain?"
His grip on her hand tightened in warning:
"All signs have appeared. The eclipse is but three nights away... and when the moon bleeds, everything will change."
On the high platform, where the black oak throne stood carved from ancient wood, King Adrian III looked like a ghost of a bygone era. His heavy golden crown tilted to the left, revealing thinning white hair like melting snow. His trembling fingers toyed with an empty goblet as his glassy eyes followed the dance from afar.
Advisor Malcolm de Royer approached silently, his crimson mask hiding a deep scar running from brow to chin.
"Your Majesty, are you well?" he rasped.
The king lifted his head slowly, as though bearing the weight of the world.
"Yes, Malcolm... Seeing my daughter dance reminds me of my late wife. It... gladdens this old heart." His words came in broken whispers, like final breaths.
The advisor signaled a servant, who hurried to refill the king's goblet with aged wine.
"The festivities proceed splendidly, Your Grace. But..." He paused, eyes glinting behind the mask, "That golden-haired knight—he is..."
"Derkvil Blackmore, yes. I know him," the king interrupted. "My nephew, whom we thought dead in the Northern War." His lips twisted into a bitter smile. "The dead return these days, my advisor."
At that moment, another red flower fell from Eliara's crown—this time untouched.
---
The Departure Scene
On his way back to his palace beneath a storm-rent sky, rain fell like tears for a kingdom without a true king. Heavy drops struck the carriage's aged glass, reminding him of that day years ago—the day he lost more than just a throne.
He opened the window to the driver:
"Faster, Thomas."
The driver kept his eyes on the slippery road:
"Apologies, my lord. This is the fastest we can go. We lost the favored horse last week, and... other losses."
"Very well, Thomas. No need to remind me." Valerian replied, his voice thick with gloom, fingers pressing against the hidden blade in his coat. Outside, the bent cypress trees loomed like specters mourning his dead kingdom.
Suddenly...
As the carriage vanished into the rain-soaked streets, the palace's high windows exploded in an eerie blue light.
"My lord! Look to the sky!" Thomas shouted, yanking the reins.
The beacon—they had lit the blue flame!
---