The Masquerade of Judgement

~Alexie Ivanov~

As the trimmer's hum ceased, I gazed into my own reflection. To an outsider, they might perceive the piercing eyes of a handsome man, but all I discerned were the frigid eyes of a beast. Regret eluded me; my heart had long ceased to mourn. Life, to me, had devolved into a ruthless game of seize or be seized, and I had grown weary of being the one who suffered loss. My gaze shifted to the television set in the room beyond, where a flurry of notification pings highlighted news about the calamitous "piggies," the recurring headline echoing in myriad languages, "Millionaire's Yacht Party Gone Wrong."

Running my tongue across my lips, I silenced the accursed machine, my attention drawn to the incongruity of the tuxedo in this dilapidated hotel room. A cruel jest by a malevolent hand, Imperia, my temporary custodian until my return flight to the U.S., orchestrated by a wary council discerning my actions. Despite owning opulent hotels, their retribution was confining me to this Parisian abyss. Unluckily for them, I harbored indifference; I had weathered worse and existed in realms more sordid.

Adorning the meticulously ironed suit, I deftly weave my tie, securing it with a carefully placed tie pin. Once my shoes are impeccably laced, I elegantly part my hair to the side. Opening a finely crafted wooden box accompanying the Tux, I gingerly retrieve the black mask nestled within. Elaborate lace swirls adorn the mask, concealing the entirety of one's visage. Ensuring its safety and integrity, I delicately place it upon my face.

Following this, I unveil a matching black cloak, meticulously confirming its condition before draping it over my shoulders. I draw the hood over, obscuring my countenance. Casting a final gaze at the setting sun, I position myself by the door, signaling my readiness with three composed knocks—a discreet cue to my chaperons that I am prepared to depart.

The drive lasted for about an hour away from the bustling city into the depths of secrecy, I already knew the way by heart due to the countless times I had been an attendee, however this time I was not going to be welcomed as a guest but rather as a guarantee for Handler. If the man succeeded to convince The Head Table then its wont be worrisome, but if he failed then it wont be just his head on the guillotine but also mine. Even if my stunt from yesterday indirectly made his task easier, but I dont know how he was planning to convince those other eleven assholes on the table his reason for "murder" was justified when one of them was helbent to take revenge for the death of his beloved. Even with his own postion as the tweled on the High Table it would be tricky for him to snake out of the grasps of Luong Tan, the Slythera.

As one strides into the grand halls, the opulence of 17th-century French architecture unfolds in a breathtaking display of artistic mastery. Gilded moldings intricately frame the towering walls, embellishing them with delicate motifs and flourishing patterns that seem to dance in the flickering candlelight. Tall, arched windows adorned with richly embroidered draperies allow the moonlight to cascade into the hall, casting an ethereal glow upon the gathered masked figures.

The grandeur of the space is heightened by the presence of majestic chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, each adorned with a cascade of crystal prisms that refract the light into a myriad of dazzling hues. The floors, made of polished marble, mirror the grandeur above, reflecting the masks and their wearers in a kaleidoscope of fleeting images as they move with an air of graceful sophistication.

Elaborate tapestries depicting scenes of historical significance hang between towering columns, their rich colors and intricate details adding to the overall sense of grandiosity. Antique furniture, upholstered in luxurious fabrics, is strategically placed throughout the hall, providing discreet spaces for whispered conversations and clandestine meetings.

The air is infused with the heady scent of incense, creating an atmosphere of mystery and intrigue. Soft strains of classical music, played by a hidden ensemble, fill the air, adding a subtle layer of sophistication to the proceedings. The masked individuals, each a silhouette of mystery and power against the backdrop of this sumptuous setting, navigate the hall with a measured elegance, their movements accompanied by the rustle of silk and the faint echo of hushed conversations.

The hall is teeming with masked individuals, much like myself. The sole differentiator among us lies in the color that each mask gracefully carries. The plain white masks denote members of the council who, though present in these hallowed halls, wield limited influence. In stark contrast, the resplendent golden masks signify individuals of elevated status and formidable authority, their prerogative to occupy the esteemed positions at the high table.

Adorning silver masks are those deemed most trustworthy by the influential few, the pin on their cloaks serving as a symbol of their unwavering loyalty. Then there are the enigmatic figures with black masks – the rogues who command a monopoly of power so potent that neither the council nor its venerable head would dare to affront. In this grand assembly, only a select twelve are adorned with the coveted golden masks, and even fewer don the prestigious silver ones. Currently, within the confines of this resplendent hall, a solitary figure stands out, the sole possessor of a black mask, signifying a level of influence and autonomy that commands both awe and trepidation.

Navigating through the grand halls, I discerned a myriad of glances directed my way – a captivating blend of awe and trepidation. My reputation preceded me; I was both well-known and well-feared. The recent audacious feat I undertook had not only triggered a media frenzy but had also sent ripples of unease among my esteemed council members. As I strolled further, whispers rippling through the air, I couldn't help but observe the conspicuous thinning of the once bustling assembly.

Caught in the cadence of a conversation, I overheard a discreet remark that seized my attention. "Many of them are still suffering in the hospital," a voice intimated, prompting me to turn around. Confronted by a pair of piercing blue irises beneath an ornate golden mask, I found myself face to face with Lady Rose.

With a respectful bow, I acknowledged her presence, "Lady Rose." In a display of sophistication, I raised the flute of my champagne glass, a glint of mischief in my eyes. "Salute," I uttered, and she mirrored the gesture. The clinking of crystal resonated briefly in the opulent hall, sealing a silent pact between two figures draped in mystery and power amid the grandeur of the French-inspired architecture.

As Lady Rose drew close, our proximity reduced to a mere inch, and her words hissed into my ear like a viper's whisper. "Your stunt from before is not appreciated, Cipher Noir. The entire council was already in turmoil, and now..." Her sentence hung unfinished, interrupted by the approach of another interlocutor. I acknowledged the intrusion with a second bow and smoothly withdrew from the crowd. As a rogue, I had little inclination for the superficial pleasantries that unfolded in these grand gatherings; they held no allure for me. Grateful for the respite until the impending judgment hours, I sought solace in the shadows.

Navigating the labyrinthine corridors of the garden maze, I found a secluded corner to contemplate. The serenity of the night offered a stark contrast to the turbulent whispers of the masked elite. Yet, my tranquility was short-lived as small voices emanated from within the maze.

"The girl... she has something... Patel was no fool; he must've left something with his daughter," one woman intimated, her voice tinged with an air of secrecy. The clandestine conversation held the promise of hidden truths and clandestine dealings.

A commanding male voice abruptly interrupted the clandestine conversation, resonating with authority. "We can't take your approach anymore!" he hissed at the girl, his words laced with urgency. An audible whimper escaped her lips in response to his stern admonition. "She has that guard dog around her, and now that he has wiped half of our potential buyers, taking a step might be risky!"

My curiosity heightened, my brows raised as I strained to identify the familiar voice among the conspirators. The male speaker eluded my recognition, a foreign amalgamation of accents, predominantly German, but elusive enough to remain unidentified. The maze walls echoed with hushed conversations from the other side, creating an atmosphere of alert tension.

With instincts finely tuned, I contemplated a silent exit from the unfolding drama. However, a daring impulse spurred me forward, inching closer for a clandestine glimpse. In that moment, time seemed to freeze as my presence was detected. The atmosphere shifted, and an unmistakable sense of bloodthirst surged toward me. Fear, a long-forgotten companion, gripped me in its icy tendrils. Whoever this mysterious figure was, he possessed an aura that evoked an emotion I had long buried.

Retreating swiftly, I executed a series of evasive maneuvers, slipping away from the imminent danger. My heart raced as I wove through the maze, away from the voices that now resonated with both conspiracy and menace. In the face of this unknown adversary, I conceded this round, vanishing into the camouflage of the crowd, a silhouette veiled in the anonymity of the grand halls.

Certain of my masked anonymity, I marveled at the man's uncanny ability to detect my presence based solely on the subtle shift in the atmosphere. Despite his lack of awareness regarding my true identity, I acknowledged his formidable instincts with a hint of admiration. In the intricate game unfolding on this grand chessboard, I maintained the upper hand, holding a pawn under my sleeve – the recognition of Li Mei Zhang's voice, a connection to the mysterious figure.

Amidst these musings, a figure draped in a resplendent turquoise sequined gown approached me. The timing was impeccable, signaling the commencement of the judgment hours. A nod of acknowledgment passed between us as they spoke, "It's time, Cipher Noir." Setting aside my drink, I extended my arm, and with practiced grace, they replied, "Shall we then, Lady Imperia."

Guided by Lady Imperia, I maneuvered through the vibrant crowd, ascending the stairs of glory until we stood before the imposing double doors. Only a select few, distinguished by their colored masks – Gold, Silver, or Black – or those summoned by the High Table, were granted entry. The anticipation in the air crackled as the doors loomed before us, sealing our fate within the inner sanctum of power and intrigue.

The heavy door creaked open at my touch, and Lady Imperia graciously gestured for me to lead the way. Stepping into the dimly lit chamber, I found myself standing alone in the center, the weight of judgment looming. Lady Imperia ascended to the raised platform, taking her designated seat at the end, and the room sank into darkness, leaving only the center illuminated for the forthcoming proceedings.

Adjusting my vision to the shadows, I observed the high seats filled with the elusive figures of the High Table. A rare assembly, even among the elite, signifying the gravity of Handler's crime. The murder of a Silver by a Gold was an unprecedented occurrence in the annals of the Council's history. Lady Larrollete, not only beloved by "Sythera" but also his most trusted confidante, elevated the stakes of this case to unparalleled heights. For Handler, accustomed to the art of lethal precision, a mere murder was akin to squashing a bug. The fact that he was now embroiled in this judicial spectacle hinted at the magnitude of the transgression.

As my gaze traversed the darkened room, eleven gold lines were the only visible features on the masked visages of the High Table. A subtle creek behind me shifted my attention to a lone figure who, once adorned in gold, now walked beside me with an unadorned visage. A nod passed between us, acknowledging the shared understanding of the complex web of intrigue that lay ahead. My mind raced with anticipation, contemplating how this enigmatic figure would navigate his way through the labyrinth of accusations and judgments.

A speaker, masked in silver, began addressing the Heads of the High Table and governors of the Council. However, the discourse abruptly halted when one of the Heads raised his palm, signaling the speaker to cease. The two engaged in a brief exchange, their conversation obscured by the masks that concealed their identities.

In the ensuing silence, the speaker swiftly approached me. With a deferential tone, he conveyed a request, "Sire, please excuse us, but could you hand your tie pin to us? It will be returned after the Judgment."

Arching a brow, I cast a sidelong glance at the Head who had made the request. The identical masks of the Heads rendered them indistinguishable, their unique voices the sole differentiator. Sliding my fingers along the metal, I handed over the tie pin to the waiting palm. A glance at Handler revealed a knowing smirk on his face, but I dismissed it with a nonchalant shrug. Though innocent of any mischief involving the tie pin, I understood the cautious approach of the High Table, given the gravity of the case unfolding before them.

As the tie pin was removed from the room, leaving me to ponder the implications of its absence, the speaker resumed the proceedings. His voice, muffled by the silver mask, announced the gravity of the occasion. "Today, we are gathered to pass judgment onto Handler for the murder of Lady Larorret. The defendant is given twenty minutes to prove himself innocent. Failing to do so, he and his Guarantor, Cipher Noir, will be sent off to the guillotine."

The pronouncement hung in the air, an ominous decree that underscored the severity of the situation. The gaze of the masked Heads bore down on us, their silent judgment palpable. The speaker looked to both Handler and me, ensuring that the unequivocal criteria were crystal clear. With a decisive nod, he declared, "Very well, start!" The countdown had begun, a ticking clock that would shape the destiny of Handler and, by extension, mine.