“I knew it,” Grin mumbled, his face shrouded in shadow. “What did I say? We were nothin’ but entertainment to them after all. That Blackthorn lady played you all for fools. Just wanted some more sacrifices so these pompous asshats could shout and chatter about the deaths of some more sorry souls.” A deep, guttural frustration hung from his words. They hung in the air like some wicked omen for what was to come.

  Ma’at found it hard to refute them. His claim about Beatrice’s true goal was most likely unfounded, but everything else was clear and plain to see. In the end, they really were just pawns in a larger game managed by those with the power of wealth and sheer strength. That was self-evident, though the flashy clothes, the beautiful decorations, the splendid music… they all distracted her for far too long. At times, she had even fallen into the role of another royal guest attending an event planned just for her. She had thought herself lucky to be there. What a joke, she thought. In fact, Beatrice had even warned her, she remembered. In her own way, at least. She had spoken of the reception and the Masquerade as a whole as a prelude to great suffering. How would she know such a thing? Was the Scarlet Masquerade always like this?

  Her ruminations and conjuring reply to Grin’s despair were interrupted and went unheard as the Count appeared before them. He held out a glass coin to each of them, then swiftly made his way to deliver the rest to the other contenders.

  Tien placed a calming hand on her shoulder, a trustful smile lighting up her face. “Don’t worry so much. You, too.” She glanced at Grin.

  Noticing her, he looked away, violent ire flashing in his eyes.

  “The Writer planned for this contingency,” she continued. “It’s all within our careful calculations.”

  “Of course he did.” Ma’at sighed, shaking her head. “He tells you so much more than he tells me these days. To be honest, it makes me a bit sad.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. The days when I used to be freelance were so much simpler. Half the time I’d be going after small fry on the outer reaches or second-rate thugs in the city. Everything changed the day I met you and Sato.” Her amber-tinged corneas glowed from beneath her horned mask. The bow in her hair complimented them perfectly.

  Tien nodded with understanding. “It’s simply the natural change from a tiny office to a company conducting large-scale operations. But, I get where you’re coming from. Before I was a Reville engineer, I worked odd jobs all across Vastyliad. Some days it would be as simple as fixing up some old man’s wheelchair, other days we’d get to tinker with pre-war artifacts. I even got to meet a goldcutter once.” She paused, floating in memories long-forgotten. “I miss those days, too. When you’re aimless and wandering, in the moment, it’s terrifying. But when you look back later on, you realize they were some of the best times of your life.”

  The truth of Tien’s statement hammered home her feelings. Except, they weren’t necessarily better days. She had been alone then, content with herself, yet lonely all the same. The freedom she’d had was gone, but in its place was companionship that, as the Writer had tried to tell her before, was something she had dearly needed at the time. She was freezing in a ‘bleak coldness’ as he had put it. The warmth of her fellows had done a great deal at reawakening her heart and soul, helping her strive for a brighter future… for both herself and the others.

  Tien took a few weary glances at their competition. Among the ones that had willingly volunteered (ones other than those affiliated with Vroque due to their strict contract with Beatrice Blackthorn), there weren’t many that posed any real significant threat to them. The individuals who were a substantial danger, however, made up for the lack in quantity with quality. In other words, they were terrifying forces, those they would normally never want to fight even under the most dire of circumstances.

  The great powers they feared the most were indeed the three most esteemed guests of the Masquerade: Beatrice Blackthorn and her apocryphal sorcery, the Witch of Warmth and the untamed wildfire lurking within her slim frame, and Ilzif the Scourge and whatever strange and unknowable illum witchery she had at her disposal along with the myriad of archontic tomes hanging heavily from her chained body.

  Besides the most obvious threats, there were a few that drew her analytical eye. There were the Wolves of Relkry, Beatrice’s companions. There was Bifrons, the devil-masked man whose powers were still unknown, and his smirking posse. There was Isabella, the maid of the couple Grin had knocked unconscious with plagueroot bolases. Her appearance certainly made him shudder, and he hated himself when the thought crossed his mind that he may have to fight her. There was the garish husband wearing a tragedy mask that had won the game against Bifrons earlier. Lastly, there were a handful of mercenaries here and there also contracted by nobles to fight in the tournament just as Vroque was.

  They all took a coin from the Count in turn, then took their places around the large Lothaire crest in the center of the room.

  Julius took a step backward from the crest and snapped his fingers with an enthusiastic smile. A chime rang out, and following it, a red aura flashed around those chosen for the first round to signify their choosing. After it was clear who would step up first, the aura dissipated into a thin, red mist, then vanished entirely.

  “For the first round,” Silas announced, “those who shall partake in the duel will be… Noth of the Wolves of Relkry and Lomm of the Uld family.”

  Noth, runic greatsword in tow, stepped forward with bulging muscles. Once he was in the wide circle surrounding the crest, he stood in wait for his foe to be.

  A shapely woman wearing round glasses with braided, pale blue hair stepped out of the tide of witnesses and stood stock still before the behemoth of a man. She shivered in fright, her voice frail and light. “I am Lomm of the Uld family. I don’t have much experience in the art of duels, but I’ll do my best…!” She seemed to be one of the mercenaries working under a more noble, rich name.

  “Mm,” Noth grunted, giving her a firm nod. “I am Noth, a Wolf of Relkry. I would much rather have a fine duel than a boring hunt.”

  “Uh… I don’t quite-”

  “That is to say,” he interrupted, looking her up and down, “that you appear to be no more than prey to me. A rabbit to be hunted and slain by the pack, stripped bare of flesh and left as mere bones in the snow.”

  “How charming,” a noble lady watching with the crowd said, snickering.

  “Y-Yes, I know I’m weak. But nevertheless, I’ll give it everything I’ve got! I have to.” She nodded firmly as if to mimic the warrior, confidence building in her chest.

  “Then, let it be so. Take your readying stances, and the duel shall commence at first strike!” Julius shouted.

  “Father… about the arena…” Millarca spoke in a quiet yet slightly aggravated voice.

  “Oh, yes! This is the most important rule: there is to be no blood spilled outside of the crest and the circle surrounding it. Is that perfectly clear? Failure to adhere to this rule will result in an… unfavorable fate befalling you.”

  Many nodded and gave silent affirmations. The duel had commenced, but neither Noth nor Lomm had moved an inch.

  The meek girl didn’t appear to have any weapon on her or in her hands, so Noth assumed she was a mage of some variety. A warm-looking, fluffy robe wrapped her body. The Uld family… Lomm… He thought about the names and her attire. She had to be from the north, but from what sect of mages? Skybridge? No. Icespire? No. Uthrelai? He scanned her again, gripping the hilt of his massive blade even tighter. His rigid, frostburned knuckles cracked. That was it… Uthrelai.

  It was a female sect of mages from the north, known to foster orphans and teach them magic from an early age. Whoever she was, no matter how shy and weak she seemed, she could still manage to kill him with a well-placed spear of ice or something of the sort.

  Before he was lost in more thoughts, he quickly raised his greatsword to defend. A whistling sound came from the girl, heralding a long, needle-thin projectile of ice. It careened through the air and broke apart upon colliding with the side of his blade.

  “Damn…!” she cried, jumping backward and creating a wall of misty frost.

  Characteristic of those from the northern region, Lomm had naturally heard countless stories of the Wolves from her friends at the orphanage and her adoptive parents. She knew the man who introduced himself as Noth was no normal man, more akin to a beast than anything human or humanoid. She would have to put up a strong defense to tire him out, then strike when he accidentally created an opening out of exhaustion. No matter how strong a person is, her teacher had taught her, everyone gets tired eventually. Bodies break down. Machines, too. Flowers wither. Extensive energy expenditure only rattled the brain and slowed movement. She had a chance if she could bring him to his limits.

  Boom! Crack!

  An extraordinarily loud sound shattered her hopes instantly. Large, jagged cracks formed in the wall of ice separating them into two halves of the circular arena.

  Boom! Crack!

  They grew larger and larger now, the bestial northerner launching heavy strikes against the barrier with the blunt end of his sword and running into it with his huge shoulder.

  BOOM!

  And right after the great wall had been erected, it fell all the same, broken and shattered into hundreds of melting pieces. The monster behind its broken remains stared at her with blind fury and focus like a true hound, on the hunt and following its instincts to a tee. Blue trails shone and left shimmering afterimages from his eyes as he leapt toward her with his blade raised. It fell upon her, casting a shadow across her face like death itself had wrapped her in a dark cloak.

  Ching!

  But it was blocked yet again. An ultra-thick layer of rime stood between her and certain death. A tiny shield of ice full of multi-layered fractals creaking and sputtering beneath the behemoth’s might. She didn’t have much time before it broke completely. She poured more magical energy into the tiny barrier held aloft. It gleamed, pale blue light fixing the damage and creating even more layers for the blade to cut through.

  “...Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” Noth screamed and roared at the top of his lungs like a banshee of the night. His eyes burned a cold blue. He reared back, his blade behind him, then swung with all of his strength.

  …Had it been worth it, Lomm? Selling yourself to some rich family so you could finally help your parents out of debt? Was this what you imagined for your future? She berated herself. Was this how you would die, in your eyes?

  Noth’s greatsword made contact with the bolstered shield of ice. There was no resistance this time.

  Was this what they wanted? For you to go somewhere so far, far away from home and work tirelessly? And for what? For nothing. I’m… really… such an idiot. If only I’d stayed. If only-

  Lomm’s quivering body was cleaved in half from the top of her skull to the end of her spinal cord. The sword struck the floor and let out an ear-piercing cry as if to join its master in his howling. A fountain of blood launched upward, then came back down and settled into a goopy, sanguine mess of ice chunks, bodily fluids and intestines.

  The crest glowed a deeper crimson, signifying the end of the duel. Lomm had died, and Noth was the victor.

  Cold air left his nostrils as he regained his usual stoic composure. For a long time, he stared at the bisected body of the Uthrelai girl with mixed feelings. Then, he took a deep breath and spoke. “May you find rest, rabbit. May your sleep be full of bliss.” He hung his head as if in prayer. “Full of possibilities, squandered,” he said under his breath. Finally, he took Lomm’s coin from her corpse and left the circle.

  “How brutal…”

  “Those Wolves truly are beasts disguised as men.”

  Julius raised a hand to silence the chatter arising from the violent spectacle.

  Lomm’s desecrated flesh and blood then began to melt into the floor, the grisly aftermath floating up and disappearing as the crest regained its normal hue.

  After confirming Noth’s victory, the Count snapped his fingers again. “The next duel, if you please.”

  They went on for quite some time. Dozens of duels took place atop the Lothaire crest, inside the round arena. Numerous no-name mercenaries, much like Lomm, just trying to get by, fought and killed one another in the very same spot. Class C and below fought each other with all they had, which wasn’t much at all. Simple weapons. Noctite-infused steel swords, bows, makeshift hammers, some even fought with nothing but their fists and won.

  Ma’at dueled a few of them. Though they put up about the same fight as a single member of the Gunblades would, the toll they had on her energy was nothing to laugh at. With all that they lacked in funds and overall weaponry, they’d put their time into refining their swordplay and battle sense to make up for it.

  Sato and Tien fought a couple, but the true test was yet to come.

  Eventually, the strange magician known as Bifrons came into the circle and stood facing his foe. Miraculously, it was the very same man he’d gambled against and lost to, the tragedy-faced one. “Heheh… what’re the odds, aye lad? Hope you’ve got some pepper in your step, chum,” the devil jeered.

  “If I can beat you at cards, I believe I could also beat you in a friendly bout.”

  “Friendly?” he enunciated, confused. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on ya. Really now, you don’t know the half of it. Game was rigged from the start.”

  “Don’t listen to him, honey! You can beat him!” the nobleman’s wife cheered.

  “I know, dear. I know. This is nothing,” he said, turning to Bifrons. “I’ve beaten up my fair share of crooks each and every Masquerade. Nothing like a little gamble here and there. I’ve made quite the sum participating in the Count’s tournament… until my competitors become a tad out of my league, that is. A man’s got to pick his battles.”

  “No cowardice in forfeiting to secure your coins,” Bifrons agreed. “If there is any consolation I can give, it’s that I respect you as a fellow gambling man, friend. That’s why the reality is so… humorous. Heheheh…”

  “What do you mean by that?” he asked, his voice becoming unsteady. “What, do you have some hidden ace up your sleeve?”

  The devil-masked deviant cackled like a true demon, delighting in the noble’s coming end painting his imagination. “No! No ace up my sleeve.” He pointed wickedly at the man… or rather, one of his pockets. “But you sure do. A sneaky trickster lurkin’ in your suit jacket.”

  Entering a panicked fervor, the noble patted himself across his chest and waist, searching for the ace of spades Bifrons had given him in earnest. Finally, he felt a bump in one of his pockets and pulled out the card. It was the ace of spades, its etchings and drawings glowing a sinister silver.

  “It ain’t a blessing, curse it. Quite the opposite,” Bifrons sneered.

  The spade on the card glowed brighter and brighter, and a strange piercing sound rang from it and grew louder until it felt as though needles were jammed into the nobleman’s eardrums. He made to discard it, to throw it away before it could become a danger to him, but he was too late. The card exploded, sending tens of thousands of needle-like arrows through his skin. Like a swarm of ants underneath it, they came into being and grew in number, digging through his flesh and making their way along his wrist, up his arm, and to his heart.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk.

  His heart exploded out of his chest. It had only taken a single silvery spade manifesting within it to cause the horrifying reaction. Following the bloodbath, every tiny needle covering the rest of his body grew ten times in size suddenly, skewering the man and rendering him a closer entity to that of a porcupine or pincushion rather than the human being he once was. It was like a modern art piece had replaced the confident nobleman who once stood with his fists raised.

  His wife screamed in horror, running toward the arena.

  “Stay outside of the crest!” Julius warned. “You-”

  But she did not listen. As the crimson light of the crest glowed again, soaking up the defeated’s entrails, his wife ran into the circle while shouting his name ad nauseum. As soon as she passed the threshold, her body was stripped of its flesh and blood in an instant, and nothing but her skeleton passed through. It fell to her beloved’s side with its boney hand extended, though it did not manage to reach his form. After a brief moment, they both vanished along with the red luminescence. The crest lost its luster again, and the cycle began anew.

  “Argh! Incompetent fool!” Julius yelled in exasperated anger. He did not want such a fate to occur. In a duel, such tragedies were commonplace. But for someone to interfere, to jump into a sacred duel under his watch would render their life forfeit as soon as they passed into the realm of uncertainty. Her soul had wandered in, destroying his perfectly laid magic like a random number inserted into an equation. Naturally, his magic made constant adjustments to make sure the formula was logically sound. She had been the error, and so, the error was quickly corrected without mercy.

  “A pity,” Millarca said languidly. “Please, if you could, do not repeat her mistake,” she warned the crowd without a hint of grief.

  “Cocky blighter went and won it big, but it was too much for him it seems. Heheh.” He laughed jovially, one hand in his pocket. His posse of no-name mercs joined him in his laughter. “And the damned man’s wife up and killed herself for his sake as the cherry on top. Couldn’t have asked for a better show, aye mates?”

  “Laugh it up, asshole,” Sato admonished him from the side. She glared at him, her beautiful, opaline eyes overflowing with disdain for the chuckling devil.

  “Easy, easy birdy lass. I beat him fair and square, aye? No hard feelings.”

  “I didn’t know him,” she replied. “But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to stand here while you laugh it up. They loved each other. You can’t blame her for what she did. She didn’t know it would-”

  “Can it! I’ve had enough of wordy bitches for one night. See? She’s real quiet. Not gettin’ on anybody’s nerves now. I did her a favor. Call it a ‘behavioral adjustment’, yeah?”

  A noctite blade found itself right under his chin. It startled him, but it didn’t show. A bead of sweat fell like a winding river down from his temple to the base of his neck.

  “Call her that again, and I’ll kill you.” The Sirithisian glared at him, not a drop of joy in her face.

  “Do it, then. Spill my blood, dark-skin whore. Your lot is good for nothing scum, runts with no home. Where’s your city, eh? Where’s your prized city, shining gold on the horizon? Nowhere.”

  Her face twisted with unbridled hatred.

  “That’s it. Get mad. Get angry. Spill my blood. You want to do it, so do it. Break the rules.” His voice tempted her to no end.

  She wanted so deeply to cut his throat and spill his innards across the Great Room floor. It was her only desire, constricting her breathing and fueling her beating heart.

  They stood in a deadlock.

  “They’re all good for nothing, aren’t they? Their city’s gone.” He spoke to his ruffian allies, an audible shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “Dead and lost with nowhere to go. That’s why all the dark-skin men become monks, and their women end up working at the brothels. Can’t blame ‘em, really. How do you cope with your entire livelihood vanishing into thin air like that? It’s madness, that’s what. Utter fucking madness. I don’t blame the lot of you. It must be real sad. Real, real sad. The kind of sadness that doesn’t bring tears, eh? The kind of sadness that eats at your battered, tired old soul. That kinda… heh. Heheh.” He stopped as the blade raised and cut into his throat slightly. He swallowed, a guttural sigh escaping his lips. It was muffled by the mask.

  The familiar, calming hand of Tien found itself on her shoulder yet again. How was it that Tien’s confident logic and Sato’s calm, rainy eyes could ease her heart nearly to the same degree as Camelia’s campfires? Her anger subsided somewhat. “If you want to kill him, fight him in a duel.”

  It was really that simple.

  Ma’at released the tension she’d put into the levitating blade and called it back to her side, the air whistling as it did so.

  “Heheh. That’s too bad. Was looking forward to a real show,” Bifrons vomited, the words contemptuous and ugly as they fell from his mouth.

  “Don’t listen to that bastard,” Grin said calmly, his anger from earlier lessened by the horrific display. “Some people just want to see the world burn. I’d bet he has some kind of plan in mind. It doesn’t seem like he’s here for the money, right? That, or he’s suicidal.”

  “Mhm,” Tien agreed. “He was goading you for a reason, and you resisted. I’m proud of you, Ma’at.” She gave her a genuine smile.

  “With your help,” the Sirithisian added, downcast. “Who cares what he has planned? As long as he isn’t after the Roseblood Heart, it doesn’t matter.”

  It was at that moment that another snap was heard emanating from the Count of the Crimson Castle’s fingers. The red aura returned, signifying the next combination of duelists that were destined to fight next.

  “The next duel,” Silas announced in his grave voice, “is to be between Lady Beatrice Blackthorn and Ma’at, the Swordstress of Ironside.”

  The Witch of Warmth turned her head in a puzzling manner. As if to conceal her intention, she eyed Ma’at from the corner of her eye, almost the side of her mask. Her little mouth rounded by gleaming red lips opened as if to say something, anything, yet remained silent and closed shut a few seconds later.

  “Well…” she eked out. A terrible fear of the woman born from their last duel came back in stride. “Unless she chooses to spare me…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  “She will,” Tien assured her. “If you die, it’s only a loss for her. She doesn’t care about the festivities, the entertainment, any of it. She does, it seems to me, care about you.”

  Ma’at let out a heavy sigh. Mortality, with its dark black wings, began to descend onto her with daggerlike talons. She felt frail and cold, like her bones were made of frosted glass.

  The Sirithisian in the feathered dress took center stage along with the petite woman in a frilly, onyx dress. In any other situation, they might have appeared like dancers heralding the beginning or the end of a lengthy play.

  Beatrice wordlessly gave a little bow in greeting. A common, feminine expression of respect at the start of a duel in the Theocracy.

  Ma’at mimicked her good manners, returning with a bow of her own.

  “The bell tolls. The Masquerade nears the end of its festivities, and soon true tragedy will strike. Are you ready?”

  “I think so.” She pondered the ominous message. “Go easy on me, alright?” Ma’at gripped her right blade.

  “Hehe. I will try,” she replied, an insouciant smile on her white, doll-like face. Her black eyes didn’t hold even one discernable emotion. They simply sat in the sockets of her skull like two broad brushstrokes of dark paint, two pinpoints of infinite darkness both unknowable and seemingly indifferent to the world.

  And thus, the two women clashed as they had aboard the sky deck of the airship. Though, some more mercy was had so that the nobles were more entertained. A close battle makes for more excitement. Cheers and passionate cries escaped the nobles’ mouths as they drank and sang in merriment, unbothered by the atrocities that had just played out beforehand. Noctite and crystalline thorns smashed into one another, their clustered atoms bouncing off without a chance of merging into one. They played a chaotic, meaningful melody.

  As the excitement began to grow stale and a winner had to be chosen, Beatrice surprisingly allowed herself to be disarmed and thrown to her knees, her throat vulnerable and ready to be cut. A knowing grin warped her face as she met Ma’at’s determined gaze.

  The Swordstress held a blade out to her neck, practically proving her win to the others similar to the winning player of a chess match calling out ‘checkmate’.

  Beatrice hung her head and declared: “I hereby forfeit this duel and all of my coins to my foe.” She reached out with an epiphyseal limb, her hand and arm skinny and alien like a bat’s appendage, and held out her glass coins to the Sirithisian mercenary.

  Ma’at knelt down and grasped the collection of coins, the glass clinking satisfyingly as they collided in her hand.

  “It’s all a show to them. Entertainment… for now.” She spoke enigmatically, relinquishing her winnings purposefully.

  Ma’at didn’t know whether to feel grateful or terrified of what the future held. She was glad to be alive, and glad still that Beatrice had had pity on her to some extent, though she feared in equal measure the next time she would be chosen.

  “What?” a noble complained. “She managed to defeat the Black Blade? That Sirithisian rat? I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”

  “She must be holding back. You’ve heard the rumors, I’m sure.”

  “Rumors? What rumors?”

  “About them working together. That she made a contract with that upstart business… whatever its name was.”

  “Vroque, sir.” The noble’s friend’s assistant had reminded him.

  “Right. Vroque Company and Firm. It’s headed by a certain Nathaniel Vroque, if you remember his name.”

  The noble scoffed. “Of course I remember! That buffoon wastes all of his great inheritance on the most pointless of endeavors. Think about what better men could do with that money!”

  “Men like us?” his friend said slowly, smirking, then fell into a fit of laughter in spite of himself.

  “Haha! Right. Any man, really. Anyone could manage that man’s finances better than himself!” The noble, in his puffy, flamboyant suit, scratched his chin and fell into a rabbit hole of ponderous thoughts. Thoughts on all of the things he could do with Nathaniel Vroque’s near infinite wealth.

  “The next duel,” Silas announced once again, “shall be between Ilzif the Scourge and the mysterious Witch of Warmth.”

  The decadent nobles bustled with crackling energy, their excitement rising and getting the better of them. Now, the true powers would be at odds. The show they had been waiting for was finally about to begin.

  The ghoulish illum witch, the chains wrapping her body jangling, walked carefully out onto the sigil in the middle of the room as if she were on her tiptoes. Her enemy, the intruding witch that held some unknown familial connection with Julius, did the same and met her within the circle without delay, her fervent flames creating a pseudo-hypnotic mirage around her like a shimmering aura.

  “Numaroviscet. You are a tricky fox, witch-kin.” Ilzif cackled, brushing dust off of her tattered apparel. “You lie and you tell the truth, both, in kind. It is an… uncommon trait among us. I do not know you, yet I’ve met a thousand like you; similar minds in far-off places. We are a circle of minds spinning along the same silk, the same sweet-smelling gossamer. We have tasted the greatest euphoria the world has to offer, and so we desire more than the mind can withstand. We are loquacious and mellifluous; promising sweet possibilities and open doors when we can only snip rotting threads and open high-up windows. Windows naught but us can crawl up and out of.” She smiled to herself, her mind drowned in a thick, viscous felicity that only she could understand. “You tire of this game, no?”

  The witch cloaked in fiery air across from her let out a short chuckle, surprised by the illum’s words. “I suppose. What do you have in mind?”

  Ilzif extended her pale arm to the side and opened her boney hand as if she were holding something in it, but nothing was there. “Let us change the rules of this game. Mitra-kai. As it is, fate will not be kind to us. They will revel in entertainment, and we will grow bored and go our separate ways.” Ilzif cackled again, a terrifying glint in her gray, dull eyes. “Instead of a noble’s masquerade, let it be a witch’s banquet. What do you say?”

  Dread filled the Great Room in an instant. The nobles muttered, confusion running rampant throughout them like a plague.

  The Witch of Warmth crossed her arms and thought pensively, almost in a comedic fashion, but what they were alluding to was not at all comedic in nature. After several seconds, she met Ilzif’s gaze yet again and nodded decisively.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the Count’s voice boomed, ordering them to answer. “You dare conspire against me within my own home?”

  But Ilzif returned his question with dead silence. Flicking one of her jagged, pallid fingers, one of the few archontic tomes unhooked from the chains on her body and flipped open, the pages making a satisfying sound as they turned over each other. The runes marking its cover glowed an even eerier color, a darker shade of violet. The book hovered above her open hand, the text scrawled across it fine and hard to make out. Actually, it was illegible to them all except the two witches. The ancient language hurt to even try to comprehend, let alone read fluidly. Yet, the two women, so very human and inhuman at once, had managed to overcome their limitations at some point in their long lives.

  Julius’s eyes flushed with deep crimson liquid, his Ocularis activated, but the Witch of Warmth stood in his line of sight, blocking the power from penetrating Ilzif’s mind.

  “Julius… we don’t wish to ruin your plans. We just want to make things a little more interesting. How can this vast crowd have any fun when their lives aren’t at stake?” the fiery witch asked, her voice calm and disquieting.

  “So… even when you are truly a Lothaire, you seek to tarnish my fun anyway? What exactly is it that you desire, nameless wretch?” Wrath warped the Count’s face, his eyes squinting and deep frown lines burrowing into his skin.

  A disorienting chime rang out from the floating tome, and a loud, overbearing screech assaulted the ears of all those present. The magic circle designating the arena for the duels set to commence expanded. It started out by inching farther out, little by little, then sped up, enveloping the nobles and all the guests accordingly, until finally a sound similar to a mirror being shattered sounded and one singular truth was implanted into all of their hearts: that the arena had become the world. The entirety of the Crimson Castle was now the arena.

  “I still struggle to understand your whims,” the vampire lord said in response, a lock of brown hair across his forehead. “You interfere with my sacred magic for the sake of increasing the area of influence? I could have done that myself.”

  “That is not the only alteration I have made,” Ilzif replied in her croaking voice. “There will be no more duels henceforth. All is forfeit. All is at stake. Your guests, rich or poor, must put it all on the line. What is more fun than that? A true battle of might and wits, conducted all across the castle!”

  “That…” Julius began, but stopped himself. He was going to say that it was impossible, but nearly nothing was impossible for an archontic tome, relics that were known to be virtually capable of rewriting the laws of reality and causality given the user is attuned to the wish and desire burning deep within their soul.

  “Madame Ilzif, what are your orders?” One of the illum wearing the transparent, gleaming Veils spoke to her in a light, unbothered tone.

  “Hmhm. Let the Eternal Procession wreak havoc! Scatter their bones! Paint the halls with noble blood! Read to them the scriptures of the Earthplague! Let none stand unless wreathed in death and decay!” Ilzif called, falling into a coughing frenzy.

  Chaos took hold. The small army of illum warriors wreathed in Timeda Veils charged forward, curved blades raised aloft, and began slaughtering the panicked nobles left and right. Those armed took to fighting a losing battle, and those at the back and downstairs ran for their lives, losing themselves in the labyrinthine maze of the Crimson Castle and its hundreds of unmarked rooms.

  Screams and bloodshed filled the Great Room as the Vroque trio, Grin in tow, escaped through the back and ran down a hall on the other side of the second floor.

  It was a beautiful and terrible dance of death. Nobles were slain, their fluffy, extravagant clothes splattered with their own blood and covered in their own viscera. The slain, then, were resurrected by Ilzif to be puppeted as wretched, soulless ghouls just as the nobles in the woods had rumored. It seemed as if the tale of the town known as Falk and its fall had been credible after all.

  “Enough!” Julius roared, his fangs showing in the dusk. Bloody bodies surrounded him. The stench threatened to overwhelm him, sinking into his nerves, but he fought off the instinct for now. Still, it called to him… an unbearable thirst built upon hundreds and thousands of years of history. “I cannot sit idly by and watch this massacre.”

  “Oh?” the Witch of Warmth exclaimed, standing in the corner. She hadn’t contributed to the murders one bit, instead choosing to simply enjoy the unraveling plans of the vampire. “Is this any different from your usual entertainment, Julius? Death is death, all the same. This fellow witch… Ilzif, yes? She’s just speeding things along.”

  “Honorable duels!” Julius cried, despair clawing at his heart. Just the sight of the piles and mounds of corpses drove him into a clawing consumption. “This… is madness! That’s all it is!”

  Roaming ghouls raised by Ilzif’s magic cornered the few surviving nobles and dogpiled them, tearing them to shreds and eating their innards with rolled-back eyes.

  “A child not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth,” the Witch of Warmth stated. “If there is any proverb that can help to understand her will, this one comes to mind. But, I think the notion can be applied to any madwoman. Take your sister, for example. When Imeldra murdered her husband, it was an act of absolute defiance.”

  “Do not speak her name either! Not with your wicked tongue, sinner!” Julius cried. Without even an intonation, his servants Silas and Vivian each exploded and became his spear and mantle again.

  “...I understand. You don’t know me, after all. I’m nothing but a wandering witch, poking at secrets of the world that are sore and scarred. I’m barely human. But my want for understanding… for the knowledge of all burns me greater than any flame.” The inferno erupted and came into being behind her. “Where is it, Julius? I know you have it.”

  Julius primed his Spear of Judgement. The deaths of his dear guests could never be rectified. They were gone. But he could still put an end to this thorn in his side. This abominable witch that was the source of all of his woes. He cursed himself for trusting her with even a fiber of his being. He was stupid for allowing even a distant family member to enter his abode without a proper invitation. Without a proper identity. “Millarca, tend to the guests that remain. Save them from the Procession’s onslaught. I will keep the witches at bay.”

  “Father…”

  “Go, my love. I will be fine. The curse will not control me… not like it controlled dear Imeldra. The blood of the kel-anisai is no match for the unyielding soul of the Lothaires!”

  Lady Millarca von Lothaire nodded silently, took a worried glance at the devilish witches, then absconded in a plume of rolling, shadowy mist.

  “Speak your name. I will not ask, and I will not beg.” He pointed the tip of his black spear so that it perfectly overlapped her chest, her beating heart in his sights. “What is a true duel without knowledge of the other’s name? And what is a name if not the first step in understanding?”

  The scarlet witch thought on his command, her finger pressed to her red lips. Firelight danced around her unflinching form. Ilzif’s tome chimed, her ghouls attacked more sorry nobles, and the mercenaries left in the room were on their last legs. She looked around, searching for someone. When she didn’t find them, she grinned happily, then shrugged. “The Scarlet Masquerade is reaching its end. There’s no point in anonymity any longer, I suppose.” She sighed. It wasn’t quite how she thought the night was going to go. She had surmised Ilzif had some grand plan in mind, but it seemed the wry, croaking hag had falsely assumed that she shared the same murderous ideals. The hubris of an old, dementia-ridden witch, she mused. “Okay, Julius. I’ll tell you, and only you. I owe you that much, for what I’ve caused. My name… is Camelia.”