"You will need a mask, but where can you get that?"
I hear Zeino's words echo in my mind as I lie on my bed, staring at the carved ceiling of my room. The candles have burned low, leaving the shadows to gather in the corners like silent spectators. I curl the blanket around me tighter, thinking, thinking, thinking.
"You know, Crimson Masquerade is open for both humans and vampires, but the invitation is only limited to those nobles… they're going to send inclusive invitations to a select few. Do you think they'll send you one?"
I grimace at the memory of his teasing tone, but it wasn't entirely cruel. Zeino always tries to temper my impulses, to keep me from walking into danger head-on. Yet tonight, I feel an unshakable certainty: waiting is no longer an option.
I sit up slowly, the blanket falling to my waist. The room smells faintly of lavender, of old wood, and of the lingering warmth of a fire long extinguished. My thoughts drift again to the conversation. Masks. Invitations. Nobles. A plan begins to form like ink spilling across parchment, messy at first but slowly shaping itself into something definite.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor is cold beneath my feet, grounding me in the real world. I rise carefully, moving toward the tall, arched window overlooking the estate's gardens. The moonlight glances off the marble fountains, and beyond them, the dark line of the forest where, one year ago, everything changed.
The hallway stretches ahead of me, long and quiet, lined with oil paintings of stern ancestors who stare down at me with the weight of expectation. I pause as voices carry faintly from the study below.
"…I don't see why she needs to be involved at all," my father's voice rumbles, deep and commanding.
"…But the council insists, and it would be unwise to disregard them," replies another, careful and polite.
I press myself against the wall, careful not to make a sound. My father... the councilman, the man whose reputation towers over this town like the spires of a cathedral... speaks of politics, of strategy, of things I am never supposed to understand. Even so, the words sting, because I know that if he knew my plan, he would try to stop me. I cannot risk it.
I slip quietly down the staircase, the old wood creaking faintly beneath my weight. Every step feels like a heartbeat in the silent house, and I fight the urge to sprint. I must look calm. I must look human.
Once outside, the cool night air hits me like a whip. The estate gates are locked, but the street beyond is empty, the cobblestones wet from a recent rain. I pull my cloak around me, hiding my movements, and begin walking toward the center of town.
My first stop is the bookstore, a narrow, dim place tucked between two larger buildings. Its windows glow faintly, inviting, as if the rows of books themselves breathe life into the night. I push open the door, and the scent of old paper and leather washes over me.
"Evening, Miss Icel," the shopkeeper nods without looking up. He knows me by face, if not by name.
"Good evening," I reply softly. My eyes scan the shelves for any mention of local events, rare objects, or anything that might help me. I pretend to browse while listening, always listening. I leave empty-handed, but not without taking mental notes about the street layout and the people who might notice me tonight.
I step back into the cold air, and my path takes me past the fortune teller's shop. The curtains are heavy and embroidered with golden symbols. The faint light from inside spills into the street, dancing across the cobblestones.
I pause. Through the glass, I see it... a mask displayed atop a velvet pillow, delicate and intricate. Its colors are deep crimson and black, trimmed with tiny silver beads that catch the candlelight. It is perfect.
I wear my cloak to hide my face as I push open the door cautiously. The shop smells of incense and herbs, heavy and sharp. Behind a counter stands an old woman, hunched slightly, her eyes sharp beneath her thick brows. She notices me immediately.
"Looking for something… special, young lady?" she asks, her voice like sandpaper, rough but commanding.
"Yes," I say, my voice steady, though my heart hammers against my ribs. "I… I need a mask for the Masquerade."
Her eyes narrow. "And who told you you could attend?"
I hesitate. I cannot tell her the truth. I cannot tell anyone the truth... not yet.
"I… I'm supposed to be invited," I say finally. "By… someone important."
The old woman studies me, her gaze sharp enough to slice through my carefully constructed façade. "Important," she says slowly, like tasting the word. "Do you think I do not know when someone lies?"
"I… I really need it," I whisper, stepping closer. "Please."
She shakes her head slowly. "I cannot sell this to you. Only those invited may possess it. The Masquerade does not take kindly to intruders. You would regret it."
Then how come you have one? I want to ask her but stopped.
I bite my lip, frustration curling in my stomach. The mask... so close, so perfect—is just out of reach. But I do not have the luxury of waiting, of obeying rules meant for others. Not tonight. Not ever.
I glance around, calculating. The shop is quiet. The old woman has turned slightly to reach for something behind the counter. Her back is to me.
I step forward. Carefully, silently. My hand brushes the velvet pillow, lifting the mask. It is heavier than it looks, smooth and cool under my fingers. I tuck it into my cloak, heart hammering in my chest.
The woman turns. Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second. "What—"
I am already at the door. The bell jingles faintly as I run out into the night, the streets empty, the scent of incense and magic lingering in my hair. I do not stop running until I reach the edge of the forest.
The mask rests safely against my chest. Its crimson and black swirl like shadow and blood. For the first time tonight, I allow myself a small, almost imperceptible smile. Fuck, I did it.
"Do you think they'll send you one?"
I smile bitterly. No. They will not. But I do not need them to. I will go anyway.
Tomorrow, everything changes.