ucian Blackthorn was no stranger to lavish affairs, but there was something distinctly unsettling about the invitation that arrived at his door. The parchment was black as midnight, the lettering scrawled in silver ink that shimmered under the candlelight. No name, no sender—only an elegantly written decree:

"You are cordially invited to perform at the Masque of Shadows, held within the Grand Palace of Velmoria. A night of revelry, desire, and mystery awaits. Your presence is most anticipated. Come adorned in secrecy, and you shall be rewarded beyond measure. But beware, for not all masks conceal mere faces."

Lucian smirked. Cryptic and seductive—just his style.

A promise of wealth and intrigue? He was already halfway out the door.

The City of Velmoria
Velmoria was unlike any kingdom Lucian had visited. Towering spires of glass and obsidian stretched toward the heavens, reflecting the light of a swollen moon. The streets were alive with masked figures, draped in rich silks and embroidered finery, whispering behind feathered disguises.

The Masque of Shadows was a legendary affair, whispered about in hushed tones across taverns and courts. Once a year, the Grand Palace opened its gilded doors to nobles, mercenaries, and courtesans alike—inviting them into a world of decadence where names were abandoned, faces were hidden, and desires ran rampant beneath the moonlit sky.

But it was more than just a ball.

Rumors spoke of deals struck in the dead of night, of alliances formed and betrayed, of bodies found in the canals come morning. Some whispered that the Masque was not just an event but a game of power—a test to see who could navigate the treacherous waters of deception and still emerge with their life intact.

Lucian adjusted the mask he had acquired—a sleek, onyx creation shaped like a raven’s visage, complete with silver filigree along the edges. He looked every bit the dark rogue, the charming trickster.

Perfect.

The Palace of Secrets
Crossing the threshold of the Grand Palace, Lucian was immediately engulfed by golden light and sinful laughter.

The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and spiced wine. Dancers twirled in shimmering veils, their bodies moving like liquid shadows. Jewel-encrusted chandeliers cast an ethereal glow over lavish banquet tables, overflowing with grapes, roasted pheasants, and goblets of deep crimson wine.

Everywhere, masked figures whispered and touched, their laughter tinged with mischief, their movements slow and deliberate. The atmosphere hummed with unspoken promises, every glance an invitation, every brush of fingers a prelude to something more.

A woman in a mask of crimson lace and black feathers sidled up to him, her lips painted a dangerous shade of red.

“Tell me, stranger, do you sing as sweetly as they say?” Her voice was like silk laced with daggers.

Lucian smirked. “That depends. Do you prefer ballads or something more... intimate?”

She let out a soft laugh, trailing a gloved hand down his chest before disappearing into the crowd.

Yes. He was going to enjoy this.

But beneath the decadence, a sense of unease prickled at his spine.

Somewhere in this grand hall, something was wrong.

And Lucian Blackthorn had never been one to ignore a mystery.

Not when it came wrapped in silk and secrets.


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Published Stories

A Masquerade of Deception