The Invitation
The Masquerade of Truth was the Dominion's most dangerous stage.
Once a year, beneath the vast crystal dome of the Hall of Refractions, the city's elite gathered in masks of glass, metal, and neon. Nobles, corp scions, councilors, and syndicate emissaries — they all mingled here, veiled and veiled again, their faces hidden but their reputations naked.
It was not a celebration. It was an execution ground.
A single whisper, overheard by the right ear, could ruin a House. A rumor, dropped like poison, could set markets crashing. Those who entered the Masquerade played not for pleasure, but for survival.
And this year, three names had drawn the most attention: Kaelen Veyra, the ambitious young heir; Serenya Veyra, the exiled phantom returned; and Ashira Valen, whose tongue was as dangerous as any blade.
Kaelen — The Young Lion
Kaelen's mask was simple steel, polished but unadorned. He had refused ornamentation, thinking it honest, strong. Now, walking beneath the prism chandeliers, he felt the weight of that choice.
Everywhere, masked eyes followed him. Snickers traveled like sparks.
"Too green for this stage," someone muttered.
"His House lost its luster years ago," whispered another.
"An heir without allies is no heir at all."
The words stung. His instinct screamed to defend himself, to confront, to prove. But the Law whispered in the back of his mind — words the Oracle had once etched for him:
Your name is the only fortress in this city. Guard its gates. Lose it, and you have no walls left.
When a corp-minister in an obsidian mask cornered him with a mocking smile — "So tell us, boy, are the Veyras still relevant, or should we mourn your House in advance?" — Kaelen clenched his jaw.
Every eye turned to him, expecting anger, denial, weakness.
Instead, Kaelen forced a smile. "Mourn us, if you wish. Funerals in Dominion often end with the dead walking out stronger than the living."
A ripple of surprise ran through the crowd. Some laughed, others exchanged thoughtful looks. The mocking minister fell silent.
It was not a victory — not yet. But Kaelen had survived his first strike.
Serenya — The Silent Flame
Across the hall, Serenya Veyra observed through a mask of fractured glass that caught the light in shards. Where Kaelen sought to assert himself, she chose invisibility.
Whispers trailed her too:
"Why has she returned after vanishing?"
"Some say she has no claim to the family name anymore."
"She walks alone. That tells you everything."
But Serenya did not respond. She let the words gather around her like storm clouds. Her silence was her weapon — each unanswered rumor feeding an aura of mystery, not weakness.
When a masked woman leaned close and asked slyly, "Are you truly a Veyra, or just a ghost wearing their skin?" Serenya only tilted her head.
"I suppose that depends," she said softly. "Do ghosts frighten you?"
The woman recoiled, unsettled. Around them, the whispers shifted — from doubt to unease, from mockery to wary fascination. Serenya had given nothing, yet gained everything.
Ashira — The Serpent in Silk
Ashira Valen entered late, as if time itself waited for her. Her mask was a sculpture of white porcelain streaked with golden veins — flawless, until one looked closer and saw the cracks. A perfect metaphor for the woman herself.
Unlike Kaelen and Serenya, she did not weather rumors. She created them.
With every step, she whispered to a different guest.
To the mercenary captain: "I heard Dresk plots against you."
To the syndicate envoy: "Serenya's return signals a power shift."
To the councilor's aide: "Kaelen is hungry for contracts — reckless enough to sell secrets."
Her words traveled faster than the music, weaving across the floor like smoke. She smiled as she watched the ripples spread.
Reputation, for Ashira, was not something to guard. It was something to weaponize.
Later, as she stood on the balcony overlooking the glittering city, she caught Kaelen's eyes across the hall. He looked tired, his jaw tight from restraint. Serenya stood in the shadows, calm but distant.
Ashira lifted her glass to them both. Not in solidarity, but in challenge.
Guard your reputations if you must, she thought. I'll use mine to burn you when the time is right.
The Oracle's Reflection
At midnight, when the masks were removed and the hall emptied, only echoes remained.
In the silence of his chamber, Kaelen studied his reflection. His name had not been destroyed tonight — but neither was it invincible.
In another tower, Serenya stood before a mirror, her face unreadable. A ghost needed no reputation, only the fear of one.
And in her chamber of silk and glass, Ashira replayed her whispers with a smile. A reputation carefully sharpened was not a shield. It was a dagger.
LAW V: Reputation is the armor that precedes you into every room. Lose it, and you are naked. Wield it, and you are invincible.