Masquerade

A cacophony of noise and music echoed in Cypher's ears as he stepped onto the gilded stairs leading to the carriage door.

Halfway up, the thick scent of wine, lavender, and roasted meat hit him. The warm air flowing from inside carried an overwhelming mix of sweetness and spice, almost suffocating in its richness.

On the last step, his body froze. Blood trailed from his mouth, and his muscles burned. For five agonizing seconds, pain tore through him—far beyond what any human should endure. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, his resistance shattered. His body betrayed him. Every motor function vanished in an instant.

Dammit.

His trembling hand pressed against the carriage door. It swung open with little resistance, flooding his vision with golden light.

Squinting, he listened. The muffled noise inside sharpened into something clearer—the overlapping voices of an overcrowded party. Accents, tones, and laughter blended into a chaotic mess, but one thing remained constant: an air of noble amusement, as if every guest was in on some private joke.

As his vision adjusted, Cypher looked ahead. Behind him, Elie stepped inside just as the door slammed shut. A faint clicking sound followed—the unmistakable noise of a lock sliding into place.

Elie raised a hand to block the light, adjusting slowly. Cypher, however, remained still, something gnawing at his thoughts.

The inside of the carriage was far larger than the outside. It shouldn't have been possible, yet the space stretched endlessly before them. The walls rose high, leading to a domed ceiling covered in gold and silver patterns. A massive chandelier hung from the center, its many candles casting flickering light over the room. Beneath it, the cracked white porcelain floor reflected the glow in jagged, broken lines.

They had stepped into a ballroom.

Ahead, a crowd of people moved with eerie coordination. Dressed in Victorian-style gowns and finely tailored coats, they twirled and spun across the floor in perfect rhythm. Their laughter was hollow, their words garbled nonsense spoken as if they held meaning.

But their bodies were wrong.

Their limbs were too long, stretched unnaturally, as if their bones had been pulled apart and forced back together in the wrong shape. Each movement bent their joints at unsettling angles, their grace almost mechanical. Despite the luxury of their clothing, the true horror lay in their faces.

White, cracked masks covered them entirely, their expressions frozen in twisted smiles and silent screams. Around the edges, gold trim traced delicate designs, but the eyes beneath were nothing more than black hollows. When Cypher looked into their eyes he saw nothing, yet, he felt everything he needed to know. They were silently crying out for help or release. They were prisoners and dolls without a full will of their own.

Like puppets bound by invisible strings, they continued their dance, never once acknowledging the two intruders in their midst.

Suddenly, like water had been poured over him, Cypher felt control return to his body. With a swift clench of his hands, he confirmed that he could move again.

Pushing past Elie, sweat coating his face, he attempted to open the carriage door—but it wouldn't budge.

"We're locked in..." Cypher muttered, turning back to the ballroom. In such a short time, he had completely lost control of the situation—a disappointing outcome.

Of course, he hadn't given up. He had never expected things to go smoothly. Life was like this, always throwing roadblocks onto the path toward one's dreams.

With a sigh of resignation, he looked up at Elie, who appeared just as frustrated.

"Why?" Elie whispered. "None of this makes any sense."

"Indeed," Cypher responded.

Then, an idea struck him. Reaching into his robe, he pulled out the dragon core. The crystal was regaining its usual luster, heat searing his palm.

I'm almost out.

He cast a side glance at Elie before discreetly hiding the crystal away. Why would I tell him? Elie was, without a doubt, an unnecessary passenger should he return. His healing ability was tempting, but Cypher had yet to master alchemy—he couldn't extract Elie's Soul Core. It was a reluctant but manageable sacrifice.

"I can't feel my technique," Elie murmured. "It's like it's been put under a heavy weight." A thin trail of blood ran down his arm from a self-inflicted scratch.

"I can't either," Cypher admitted. If neither of them could use their techniques, they were essentially defenseless. The only advantage left was their enhanced physical strength, which, thankfully, remained intact.

The ballroom's music continued as they spoke, a maddeningly cheerful melody.

Deciding to move forward, Cypher stepped toward a long table draped in a white cloth. Steam rose from roasted, oily meat, while stacks of fruit gleamed under the chandelier's glow.

Then, without warning, one of the dancers knocked over a wine glass. It tipped, spilling its contents—only for the crimson liquid and shards of glass to slow midair before reversing course. Within seconds, the wine glass stood upright once more, untouched, as if the spill had never happened.

Cypher's eyes narrowed.

Cautiously, he weaved between the dancers, careful not to touch them. Occasionally, one would glance down at him, only to immediately avert their gaze, as if afraid to acknowledge his presence.

Reaching the table, he inhaled the rich aroma of meat and gravy. His hand moved on its own, picking up a piece of honey-glazed lamb pierced by a small wooden stake.

A strange compulsion took hold.

He didn't even realize the meat had reached his lips before an adult's hand shot out, stopping him.

"Don't eat that." Elie's voice was laced with disgust.

Cypher snapped out of his trance, lowering the food. He scrutinized it. At first glance, the meat appeared perfectly cooked—enticing, even. But as he looked closer, he noticed something.

Small white spots.

They burrowed in and out of the meat, writhing like living tunnels.

"Ugh." He dropped it onto the plate. "I hate maggots."

Now aware, he inspected the rest of the feast. Everything was the same. At first, the food appeared sumptuous, decadent—but beneath the surface lurked rot, decay, and a sickening infestation.

A faint, previously unnoticed stench of death mixed into the ballroom's overwhelming fragrances.

Ignoring the table, Cypher turned his gaze toward a painting hanging on the wall. Its gold-trimmed frame was lavishly decorated, an intricate display of artistry.

The image within depicted this very ballroom.

Yet, something was off.

The dancers were no longer twirling. Instead, they stood in a circle around a man, their masked faces contorted into exaggerated laughter.

The man at the center had an unnaturally pale complexion, the sickly pallor of a malnourished prisoner. His ears were long and pointed, hanging like sharp daggers on the sides of his head. Draped in tattered rags, he knelt on the marble floor, weeping over the lifeless body of a small girl.

She looked just like him.

They shared the same sharp jawline, silver-white hair, and piercing eyes. Blood pooled beneath her as an iron rod jutted from her chest.

Cypher's breath hitched.

A strange, unfamiliar hatred surged within him, a fury so raw it made his hands tremble.

His gaze locked onto the girl's face.

She was smiling. A soft, gentle smile—her hand reaching up to touch the man's cheek in a final, tender gesture.

"Why do I feel such anger?" Cypher muttered. His hands rose to his face, rubbing his eyes. It was as if emotions that were not his own had been forcibly implanted into his mind.

With a few moments passing by, the foreign emotions faded reluctantly.