A sumptuous feast awaited the guests invited to the grand event. Many, many voices reverberated across the atrium as they ate and conversed to their hearts’ delight. Despite the haughtiness, the supercilious nature of them all, a contagious joviality seemed to float about the place, briefly pulling even the most serious of them from their cage of professionalism, goading them into giving in to the enticing music, the scrumptious food, the lively waltz.

  As planned, they pushed their way through the tangled mess of bodies over to the elaborate banquet where Beatrice stood conversing. Though she grinned her mysterious grin, it was not born of the joyful occasion, and rather a catalyst for what was to come. Ma’at remembered it only after, and when she did, it sent yet another shudder down her spine even when the woman wasn’t anywhere near her.

  “Is it true, Lady Blackthorn, that your family has upped their shares in the northern noctite mine? Surely they do not think it will bear any more fruit. It’s been dry for years.”

  “My family’s whims are none of my concern. Their downfall would only bring a smile to my face,” she responded to a nobleman with her textbook grin. A knowing look.

  The man scowled, then stifled the feeling and hid his befuddlement. “Mnh. Is that so…? I was not aware that you detested them.”

  Her dark eyes, wreathed in gloam, narrowed. “‘Detest’ is a strong word. Words have power, mind. No. I do not detest them. I do not think of them. I am indifferent.”

  “Would someone who is truly indifferent be happy upon hearing of their misfortune?”

  “You question my lady’s words?” Noth spoke up, sending an instant pang of fear through the man.

  Beatrice raised her hand, dismissing Noth with a wave. “Heh. Yes, it is as you say. I would delight in their deaths, but they are not special in that regard. As many are filled with electrifying glee upon witnessing a new birth, I am excited by the opposite. Seeing the end of a subject I have observed for quite some time brings me a joy that is impossible for me to attain otherwise. Do you see? Beginnings bore me, ends draw my eye more than anything in the world. …Will you offer an entertaining end, I wonder?”

  The nobleman stood still, shocked for a moment, then straightened himself out and coughed anxiously. “Hmph. You wonder, yes…? Right… Well, it was nice talking, dear. Perhaps I will see you later.” With that, he quickly made way for the Vroque women in a hurried gait, escaping the situation promptly.

  Beatrice giggled at the sight of them. Somehow, even after acquiring masks and total makeovers, she instantly recognized them as though she could see through it all. “Hehehe… I see the seamstress has done her job. How do you feel?”

  Ma’at wanted to run away, to shield herself from everyone’s eyes, but ignored her self-consciousness for the sake of the mission. “Does it matter how I feel? We had to dress like this to get in, that’s all there is to it.”

  The lady in black tilted her head slightly, her abyssal eyes dragging Ma’at into them as a black hole swallows worlds. No stars nor any light for that matter could be seen in them. “The piano. The music. Isn’t music wonderful?”

  “I never took you for someone passionate for the arts,” Tien articulated.

  “Does art not reflect the world? And isn’t the world infinitely reflected in art? Music itself communicates the fathoms of the soul more so than any words or language. Here, draw your eye; look, look at the piano and the pianist in conjunction. I intone the words ‘piano’ and ‘music’ and my meaning is known to you four immediately. But the word itself is not the object. The word does not even reflect its own meaning, no, it is simply a signpost, an acting device in communicating an idea that would otherwise be excruciatingly difficult to convey through other means. But art, and music moreover, do not rely on such trickery. You could say the notes are themselves actors in conveying emotion and feeling, yes, but as we can describe words and language, who can truly explain music? Who can truly describe art?”

  A certain emotion had eked into Beatrice’s words. It would be barely noticeable to the average person, but to Ma’at, it was a stark contrast to her sadistic quietism. “What are you rambling about now? Shouldn’t we be talking about the contract? …And, wait a minute. Why the hell didn’t you tell us you were the client back at the airship!?”

  The petite woman closed her void-bathed eyes, enjoying the pleasant song being played slowly and carefully. Guests around them gesticulated, swooned, and let out sounds of contentment as they ate. “You are always so quick to move along the narrative. The best of times are in the quiet apprehension of great events.”

  “How so?” Tien asked, genuinely curious.

  “Recall any book or play you’ve read or witnessed. Aren’t the most wonderful and poignant scenes those that precede great misfortune? Tragedy and suffering?” She opened her eyes again, the music swelling in her black soul. “Look about you. Every person is a whirling world of their own, unknowable to all but themselves. Every scene, no matter how crucial, reflects the universe as the universe reflects them. The worlds sway and dance through the alighted cosmos, the stars twinkling overhead, the fiery crimson of dead galaxies dotting the expanse, the overbearing thirst and passion that threatens to overflow, the innumerable personalities that dwell within man and his cousins. I asked how you felt about those clothes because they are a reflection of yourself. Even if you may hate them.” She glanced at Ma’at. “You would not be wearing them otherwise. Call it fate or fortune, it does not matter. You are wearing them, the world has pushed you into wearing them, and thus your garments reflect what wills you. Beatrice… Blackthorn. It is a name that scarcely describes myself. Because I am simply a role to play. A shell filled with emptiness that is tangible, but it is still nothingness regardless. My clothes reflect that, see?”

  The others were silent as Beatrice rambled on, though they were not bored. Intrigued, yes. That otherworldly nature of hers, mysterious and all-consuming, was both charming and off-putting. Alluring and dangerous.

  “Miss Blackthorn, I apologize, but we must expedite things. The Count will soon make his entrance.” Noth spoke in his deep, stoic voice, his hands resting on his greatsword. His brother Wolves stood resolutely behind him, facing the other direction.

  Beatrice let out a little sigh through her nose. No one but Ma’at heard it. “For all of my love for music, and my critical eye for words, they are both a necessity for the world to revolve as it does. Music is the river, and words are the stones which shape its flow.” She paused, as if contemplating. She then looked Ma’at straight in the eyes. Those dark pools threatened to swallow her up. “Does your soul still seek that wretched place? The feretory? Or do you still follow in Camelia’s footsteps?” Her question was stern and resolute.

  All at once, Ma’at felt as if she were making some climactic choice. Wasn’t this just an idle conversation? The busy bodies and cacophonous voices faded from her senses. The dim, dusky crimson of the atrium grew even darker. The white cloth adorning the banquet table transformed into a dull, gray shade. The food lost its luster, even to her aching stomach.

  Yet, the piano still rang true in her ears. A wonderful melody.

  “A wise lady once said that words and music are like the relationship between the world and the Blissful Sleep. Our words manage, if barely, to describe the world, yet the outer edge is still imperceptible to us. And the existence that lies outside of existence… outside of the soul… is and will always be impossible for us to understand.”

  “Mhm,” Sato agreed, nodding. “Mother once said something similar to me. That true happiness is finding contentment in knowing nothing. That to truly live happily, one must follow the guiding star of pain and strife, and only at the end would they reach death and understand whatever lies outside the world.”

  A small smile graced Lady Blackthorn’s lips. It seemed genuine, born from the connection the Maiden had made with her. “Exactly. We must know our limits.” She chuckled and her smile faded into her usual demure conduct as she gazed back at Ma’at. “The Sirithisian grows anxious and annoyed, so I will speak plainly. The Writer seeks a conclusion, nothing more, yet I seek answers. It is the Roseblood Heart he wants from this Masquerade, yes?” She turned to Tien, her raven-black hair swaying behind her.

  “H-How did you…?” Astonishment escaped her, and she was taken aback.

  “Roseblood Heart? Is that some kind of relic?” Ma’at questioned her, a grim seriousness in her voice.

  “It is the prize,” Beatrice clarified. “But I seek something more… substantial. There is a room among hundreds, thousands of rooms somewhere in this castle. It is a room within a room within a set of rooms. In it is housed perhaps the most grand collection of objects one could ever hope for.”

  “You’re looking for a different relic?”

  “No, not particularly. I want you to enter that room, Ma’at.” Her eyes widened to an unnatural degree, instilling a primordial fear into them suddenly. An intense cold gripped them.

  Ma’at could not stray from her gaze. They locked eyes, and she was lost to them yet again. Her soul could not run from the grasping darkness that was Beatrice’s character.

  “Miracle, mystery, authority.” Beatrice grinned devilishly. “All under the aspect of eternity. Open the way to the feretory, to the Reliquary Room.” Her words echoed endlessly in the Swordstress’s mind, like a booming announcement. Her head pounded, and a familiar ache entered it. “What better place to find it than a festival of entertainment? The most solemn, dreadful places are always on the outskirts of triumphant battles and honorable duels. Hehe… Now, it seems our time is running out.”

  Ma’at’s brow twitched, she grasped her head in agony, then the feeling faded just as quickly as it had manifested. The echoing voice of the woman in black was gone, and promptly, she walked away from them with her companions as if she had said all that needed to be said.

  “What the hell was that about? Did any of you understand a bleedin’ word she said?” Grin asked as he gave Beatrice’s fleeting form a contemptuous glare. He was completely out of the loop.

  “Beatrice has a very… interesting way of talking,” Tien remarked. She looked at Ma’at, her face full of worry and suspicion. “Maybe… she simply wants us to experience the Masquerade in its entirety.”

  “What was it she mentioned?” Sato mused. “The… Reliquary Room? Is that a real room in the castle somewhere?”

  The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room. The Reliquary Room.

  “Argh!” Ma’at let out an exasperated cry, shaking her head as if to literally shake the words from her mind. She heaved, her breathing ragged and unsteady.

  “Ma’at!? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Sato shook her shoulder.

  After an inordinate amount of time, the feeling passed, and she calmed herself. “It’s… nothing. Really. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine to me,” Grin reprimanded. “In fact, you look like shit. The hell’s the matter with you? Do you know her?”

  “Not really. We all met her before we boarded the Cloudstriker,” Tien answered for the pained woman.

  “Hmph. Don’t like her.” Grin crossed his arms. “Shady, wordy people like that piss me off.”

  Tien sighed audibly. She was at a loss. “I don’t trust her either, but she is our client. But the Writer didn’t mention them having different goals…” She adjusted the blue rose threaded above her blouse absentmindedly. “I don’t know…”

  A conversation caught their ears not ten feet from them. The prissy noble lady from earlier was still making a fuss to her husband’s embarrassment. “Where is the Count, dear? It’s been a good long while and I’ve waited enough!” she mimped, her hands on her plumed hips.

  “Yes, yes, just a little longer I’m sure. He’s a very busy man, and we don’t want him to rush the preparations, now do we?”

  She pouted, her conjured excitement deflating. “I suppose…”

  “Oi! Tell that whiny bitch of yours to keep it down, yeah? Trying to enjoy the music,” a man in a devil mask, the same one that seemed to be allied with the man Silas had executed, jabbered mockingly. He chuckled evilly afterward.

  “Excuse me!? Well, I never-” the noblewoman started, but she was interrupted by her husband coming to her aid.

  “Now, good sir, I reluctantly agree that my wife has been a tad too loud, but that does not mean that you can call her such a grotesque word! I suggest you apologize to her, and we can end this dispute civilly.” He raised an eyebrow, looking the ruffian up and down. The nobleman’s eyes were a piercing dark brown.

  But the man in the devil mask made no motion to back down, and the husband’s gaze did not make a dent in his steeled confidence. “Heheh. Tell ya what. Let’s play a game, eh? If you win, I’ll apologize, kiss her feet, whatever you want.” With a trained hand, he reached into his striped suit’s pockets and revealed a deck of playing cards. The suits painted onto them seemed to glow and shimmer as he ripple-shuffled them in front of himself. The hearts bloomed, the spades shone, the diamonds gleamed, and the clubs shimmered.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The nobleman cackled beneath his mask, which was a gold and white-trimmed tragedy mask. “I have no time for games. None of a pauper’s sort, anyway.” He and his lady laughed.

  “And if I win,” the devil continued, ignoring their jeers, “then you allow me one blow to ya. One strike on your body.” He raised his index finger in emphasis. “You could even make a damn duel out of it, I don’t give a shite.”

  His money-blessed foe at first thought to deny his challenge for the last time, but upon a moment of contemplation tied with the tapping of his foot, he concluded that to back out now in front of his lady (especially on the grounds that it was practically a fight for her honor) would be deeply shameful for him. “It is all so foolish… but, why the hell not?” It wasn’t as if this scrawny fellow could do him any real harm. That was how he rationalized his decision. “What are the rules of this game?”

  A crescent, toothy smile formed beneath his devil mask, but of course, it went unseen to all. “It’s real simple. Listen carefully,” he said, shuffling the cards for the last time and holding the deck out in his right hand. “Call a suit, one of the four: hearts, diamonds, spades, or clubs. Whatever you pick is what ya think the top card is. If you’re right, you win. If you’re wrong, I win. Easy, right?”

  So, it’s simply a 25% chance of winning. “Is there a joker in this deck?”

  “Nope. You have my word, mate. If you pull a joker, I’ll kill myself here and now.”

  “Not a very interesting game,” his wife sneered.

  “Well, we can’t all be in the peacock parade, missy. Heheh…” he chuckled suspiciously.

  “You have quite the amusing lexicon, mister…?”

  “Bifrons.”

  “Bifrons? Hmph. Don’t mind me saying that it’s a very odd name. Never in my life have I heard it before.”

  The devil-masked hooligan stood silently, waiting for the man to make his call.

  “I will choose spades,” he finally decided.

  Bifrons cackled. “Spades, yeah? Let’s see, let’s see~” He gripped the topmost card of the deck, waited a few seconds for dramatic tension, then slowly and deliberately revealed the card to himself, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Well? Have I won or lost?”

  He turned the card in his fingers to show him the other side. It was indeed a spade, an ace of spades to be exact.

  “Hoho!” he guffawed proudly. “I win!”

  His wife jumped for joy, hugging him and chattering.

  “It seems ya won. You have me beat.” Bifrons still cackled menacingly, but he exuded the posture of a man who had been truly defeated. “Sorry for what I said, my lady.” He bowed to the woman, then the boisterous noble.

  “No, no. It is quite alright. Good game, sir, and thank you for the apology.”

  “Just the rules from the outset. Here, your reward.” He handed the ace of spades card out to the victor.

  “Ah, I see now!” he declared, taking it and stuffing it into his suit jacket. “You’re a performer of sorts, yes? That was all an act to entertain us while we waited, hm?”

  “Is that so!?” his wife chimed.

  “Heheh! Who knows…?” Bifrons drew out the last word with a mysterious, exaggerated tone. Then, he sauntered away and slipped into the dense crowd surrounding them.

  “What an odd fellow. He really had me convinced that he meant to berate you in earnest.”

  “Oh, honeypie, you were so brave standing up to him!” she cried. “But, yes, he was quite odd indeed…”

  Their puzzled mutterings were cut short by the sudden hush of those around them. The flickering candlelights across the banquet seemed to dim. As absolute silence descended upon the atrium, Silas’s gruff, resolute voice resounded clearly across the room.

  “Gentlemen and ladies, I ask you to lower your voices. My lord, Count Julius von Lothaire himself, makes his entrance at last.” The extravagant servant made yet another graceful bow to all of whom were gathered there.

  And shortly after, an exceedingly handsome, even beautiful man with lustrous black-brown hair appeared above the gathering perched atop a stone overlook much like a bat. His regal garments, dyed crimson and black as death, flowed behind him as though they were an extension of his body; like wings they rose up and crowned him. He would have looked very much like some gothic creature or gargoyle if it weren’t for his captivating appearance.

  The crowd gasped and cheered, raising their hands almost in religious reverence.

  The gorgeous Count smiled, his glistening teeth bone-white and sharp like miniature knives. His fangs were like two pallid needles that protracted from the roof of his mouth. He closed his eyes, then opened them suddenly, flashing crimson light shining from them as though a great power slumbered within and, with each blink, threatened to escape his bodily cage but could not. Finally, he jumped from the platform and descended down into the atrium.

  The crowd quickly made way for him, rudely pushing each other outward.

  A pool of blood seemed to suddenly materialize beneath his landing, and other numerous droplets gathered around his feet and form as well. His fall was slowed somewhat, but even so, he plummeted straight into the conjured sanguinity with a mighty splash that emulated an explosion. Some faint droplets even fell upon the guests who were too close. A veil of shimmering blood expanded, cloaked him, then ran up like a snaking river around him in circles until it re-entered his body through his posh clothes. There, before them all, was Count Julius von Lothaire.

  “Hoho!” the nobleman in the tragedy mask cried ecstatically.

  His lady gasped, overcome with emotion. “Is that…? Is it him? The Count!?”

  “It’s our gracious host!” someone yelled.

  “He’s so beautiful! So incandescent!”

  “My, he’s even greater than the rumors made him out to be! Quite the splendid lord for such a miraculous castle.”

  “Count Julius! Do you remember me!? I love you!”

  The youthful lord came to his feet after his dramatic arrival and gave a deep, thankful bow. A bow in thanks for his kind guests, and as a street magician might bow after performing a wonderful trick upon being rewarded with rapturous applause. He took a deep breath, then spoke. His voice had in it a dazzling imperiousness, though it was light and pleasant to the ears. “Honored guests, one and all, I welcome you to my Crimson Castle. I thank my wonderful servants, most especially Silas and Vivian, for being true paragons in a world of utter darkness. This event simply would not be possible each year without their assistance.”

  The noblefolk clapped for Silas and Vivian, who gave more grateful bows in return. It seemed the seamstress had made her way to the atrium in a short time, quick enough to receive her master’s praise.

  “I see you all have already dug into the splendid banquet we prepared,” he said joyfully. “Don’t despair if you are not hungry yet. This is only an appetizer of sorts. We will all dine together later this night.”

  Some laughed, some jeered, some patted their engorged stomachs with glee.

  “Now, where is my lovely daughter? Millarca, my exquisite rose, come out to receive our guests in kind.” His red eyes slid across the crowd and darted to a passageway nearest to him.

  A slender and graceful girl walked out from the unseen door and made her presence known. Her hair matched her father’s, rolling in wavy, wispy tides over her shoulders and bosom. Her movement was slow and languid, which gave the impression that she was a terribly fragile creature, when, in fact, it was extremely self-evident that her disposition was quite similar to Beatrice Blackthorn’s. They were both small (although not particularly short) women who seemed as though they had bones of glass, but whom anyone could plainly see wielded power unattainable for many.

  “Lady Millarca…! Ah! She is wonderful indeed! The most beautiful woman in the world!” a guest proclaimed.

  The thin vampire princess of the Crimson Castle had a tiny, barely noticeable smile on her face, her lips nearly drawn into a straight line devoid of emotion. Her complexion was rich and brilliant with features small and beautifully formed. Her dress was similar to the Count’s kingly garments, and she wore a spindly thorned crown atop her head, seemingly crafted from hardened blood. She deigned not to speak yet, and instead pinched both sides of her dress and gave a solemn bow. Her eyes were large and charming, painted a darker shade of red, a red nearest to black.

  “Whew,” Grin whistled. “Thought so.”

  “What?” Sato inquired.

  “Vampires,” he replied simply. “What are you guys up to, bookworm?” he said, eyeing Tien with disdain. “I don’t know about you all, but I have a real bad feeling about this. I’m not exactly lookin’ to become a vampire’s juice box.”

  An inscrutable look came upon Tien’s face. “It isn’t them you should fear,” she uttered.

  Grin gazed at her darkly. “Answer the question.”

  Tien sighed, shifting her feet.

  “Can’t you tell us the Writer’s goal now?” Sato pleaded. “We’re here, aren’t we? Besides, no one can hear us under all this clamor.”

  The brunette pushed back her hair with the back of her hand and gripped her suitcase neurotically. “I’ll be candid, for once.” She looked around, then motioned for them to come nearer so that they could hear her better. “Magic is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? Back at the Lake of Deceit, I wanted to show off, so I fixed up that boat and we went and caught that gargofin, remember?”

  “Yes…? What does that have to do with anything, Tien?” Sato looked upon her friend in confusion, her starry eyes glistening with vibrant constellations.

  Tien practically flushed crimson. “I-It’s just that… magic isn’t always so nice. Sometimes, we mages can be pretty cruel. I wanted to prepare you all for that.”

  Ma’at sneered. “So you didn’t want to seem like the violent one of the group? Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

  Ma’at and Sato laughed, and Grin rolled his eyes with a grim expression.

  “My point is,” she continued, “that I won’t be messing around anymore. This may be our most dangerous job yet. Right, the Writer’s plan…” She composed herself. “Beatrice was correct. The Writer is looking for the Roseblood Heart, but that’s a very simplistic way of looking at it.”

  “What is it, exactly?” Sato asked. “The Roseblood Heart.”

  “It’s the center of everything. It’s literally the heart of the castle.”

  “The heart of the castle?” she repeated.

  “Mhm,” Tien confirmed. “That’s why, when we take it, everything will-”

  “And thus begins the reception!” Count Julius interrupted, his soothing yet commanding voice drawing Tien’s mouth shut. “Shall we go over our most esteemed guests tonight? The ones who have deigned to grace our annual party with their eminence?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Silas procured a common scroll from his pocket and untied it. It unfurled like a mile-long tongue down to the atrium floor and even some feet forward. He cleared his throat, then read aloud from the parchment. “First, Lady Beatrice Blackthorn and her companions, the Wolves of Relkry.”

  Everyone clapped, clearing the way to look upon the honored guests in awe.

  “The Black Blade of Woe! She’s here, in person?”

  “Yes, there she is! Oooh, she is a mysterious one, isn’t she?”

  “Quite. One never knows what she’s thinking.”

  Beatrice and the Wolves carved their way through the crowd and met Julius at the front of the room.

  “You are as lovely as before, Lady Blackthorn.” The Count reached for her hand and kissed it, his crimson eyes glowing.

  “Hehe. As are you, Julius. May it be the best. More entertaining than all of the Scarlet Masquerades of yore.”

  The vampire lord smiled as one smiles when gazing longingly at an old friend. “May it? It shall be, my dear. I can assure you of that.”

  “Next,” Silas read, “Ilzif the Scourge and the Eternal Procession.”

  Just then, a congregation of illum much like the ones the airship passengers had witnessed back at the landing port entered the room from the opposite side. As if they carried a virulent plague, the pompous nobles suddenly split in twine and moved away from the solemn group. Most of them wore the same illusory cloaks, the Timeda Veils, draped across their necks and shoulders like royal mantles. They were ghostly, ephemeral and transparent as if they all had strange phantoms clinging to their backs.

  At the head of the gathering was an illum woman that certainly stood out among the rest. She had messy, braided, pale white hair that hung over her morose face like pallid, wispy tendrils. Her eyes were a lifeless gray color like the clouds of an overcast sky about to burst with rain. Chained across her body were various grimoires with titles written in archontic runes; a language none but scholars could even attempt to comprehend. They emitted a faint violet light.

  “W-What did he say? Ilzif the S-Scourge? Certainly not…?”

  “Gods… it is her. What a bother.”

  “Illum animals… They should all go home and leave us pleasant folk be.”

  “I agree. Yes, I agree. The illum are not welcome to an event as grand as this…!”

  Numerous voices both bold and sheepish eked out from the nobles’ mouths, creating a rumbling clamor that was hard on the ears. At the reproach and glaring red gaze of Count Julius, however, the tumultuous complaints quieted into angered murmurs.

  “Count Julius von Lothaire, I presume?” Ilzif greeted him in a scratchy, hoarse voice filled with verbosity and a traceless malevolence. “Ylyasniya spoke of you with… how do you say… ludranyl?”

  “Great respect? Is that so? I’m honored. She is one of my many, many eternal rivals.” He let out a cheerful laugh. “I hope my castle was trivial to find.”

  Ilzif the Scourge drooped her head as a nod. Her light hair and sunken features were charming in their own right, but nowhere near as beautiful as he nor his daughter Millarca. “There is nothing in this world that I cannot locate. If it exists, in time, such things will always fall into my grasp.”

  Julius laughed again. “Exquisite. You are certainly a polymath of the highest degree, that much is certain.”

  Silas went on for what felt to all like centuries, introducing a great many nobles and interesting folk that will be omitted for the sake of brevity. “Lastly,” he came to the end. “The Writer’s team of investigators from Vroque’s Iteration 7. Ma’at, the Swordstress of Ironside. Sato, the Maiden of the Rain. Tien, a mage of mechanics and magic alike. And, joining them late, Grin, also known as the Reaper.”

  “The Swordstress of Ironside… isn’t she one of those prisoners?”

  “The war criminals?”

  “I hear Ironside is a most terrible prison… perhaps the worst in all of Vastyliad.”

  “She fought in the Relic War, hm?”

  “An interesting band of miscreants, to be sure.”

  “That fellow with the scythe looks practically rabid.”

  “The hell did you say…?” Grin snapped, veins bulging out of his forehead.

  “Calm down,” Ma’at said, patting him on the shoulder. “They don’t know you. You can’t let their idle chatter get to you. They don’t have a clue of what you’ve been through.”

  Grin settled down, his tensed stance relaxing a tad. “In Indigo, you’d get killed for saying something like that.”

  Silence descended upon the atrium once more with a wave of Julius’s hand. “Is that all, Silas? The reception must draw to a close so that we may get on to the festivities.”

  “Yes, my lord. That is all of our guests, most esteemed as they are.”

  “Excellent. Now, let us-”

  Before the Count could finish his sentence, a plume of effervescent fire erupted from the door leading out to the entrance hall. In the wavy conflagration, the silhouette of a shapely woman wearing red came into being. Sparkling flames danced at her feet, sprites whirled around her body, and twirling wisps bloomed above her crooked hat. After a while, the fire dissipated, and her appearance in full was revealed aside from her face, which was of course shrouded by a short, pointed, ruby mask like a sparrow’s beak. She wore an enchanting red and black velvety dress with a golden tassel tied around her waist. The sleeves, as they reached her hands, split and dangled pleasantly beneath her arms. A dark red bow came around her neck and kept the dress in place, and atop her head was a ruby red witch’s hat adorned with crimson flowers and a black belt tied around its base. Her nails, too, were painted a pinkish maroon. Her fluffy, heavy, lengthy scarlet hair came down to her thighs in waves. Her eyes, which could barely be seen beneath the mask, were a captivating sky blue like Tien’s.

  Count Julius’s expression became very serious suddenly. “Who is it that dares interrupt me and enter my abode without permission?” He spoke with a strict imperiousness.

  The fiery witch giggled, her laugh like resonant wind chimes ringing on a quiet spring morning. “Is that how you welcome distant family, Julius? How rude!” she intoned with feigned woundedness.

  “I have no ‘distant family’, intruder. My one and only sister and her family died long ago. You are nothing but an imposter.”