The new name burned above the dais like a verdict carved into light.
KAI RHEN — 7 DAYS.
For a heartbeat, Lina forgot how to breathe.
Kai went rigid beside her, as if the letters had yanked a hook through his spine. His hand tightened around hers—too hard, pain sharp through her fingers—then eased as if he realized he was gripping her like an anchor and a weapon at the same time.
Seren made a sound that wasn't quite a sob and wasn't quite a gasp.
Reyon's voice came out thin behind his mask. "Okay. That's… not fair. We just got him back."
The Councilor smiled as the ballroom absorbed the news.
A ripple passed through the crowd—shock, fascination, fear.
And the silver stands drank it.
Lina saw it now. The way the stands shimmered faintly when people panicked, like the metal was collecting emotion the way glass collects fingerprints.
The Masquerade wasn't a party.
It was a harvest.
The Councilor lifted their hand. "Do not be alarmed," they said warmly. "The Founders' blessings often manifest… dramatically."
Blessings.
Lina's flame hissed under her skin.
Behind her, Mira—still wearing Lina's cracked porcelain name-mask—trembled like a puppet straining against strings.
The crack near the carved letters had spread slightly, but not enough.
Not free.
Not safe.
Lina started toward her—
And the ballroom shifted.
Music surged, louder, bright enough to cover whispers.
Students began moving again, as if the Council had pressed a button labeled normal.
Kai's voice cut through the noise, low and urgent. "Look."
He didn't point to the dais.
He nodded, almost imperceptibly, toward a mirrored wall panel—the same one that had written his name.
The panel's surface rippled.
The writing changed.
Not erased.
Expanded.
A symbol carved itself next to Mira's name on the runic display hidden in the décor.
MIRA SUN — 7 DAYS — 🕯️
A candle.
A small, simple icon.
And somehow that made it worse.
Seren's face drained of color. "A death symbol."
Reyon blinked. "That's… new."
Kai's eyes narrowed. "They've upgraded the grave."
Then another symbol carved itself beside Kai's name.
KAI RHEN — 7 DAYS — 🧵
A thread.
A tether cut.
Lina's ribs burned instantly—bone-tether flaring like it recognized the threat.
Seren whispered, trembling, "🧵 means bond severed. Tether cut."
Lina swallowed hard. "They're going to cut us."
Kai didn't speak, but his grip on her hand tightened—not possessive.
Protective.
Like he was silently promising: Not if I can stop it.
The Councilor's voice floated again, smooth as silk:
"Tonight, you will honor the Founders through tradition."
A pair of attendants rolled out a gilded board near the ballroom entrance—large enough for everyone to see.
It wasn't an announcement.
It was a warning list.
MASQUERADE DANCE RULES
Lina's stomach clenched as the letters wrote themselves in elegant script:
DON'T DANCE ALONE.
DON'T BREAK HAND CONTACT DURING THE CHORUS.
DON'T REMOVE YOUR MASK BEFORE MIDNIGHT.
IF SOMEONE ASKS YOUR NAME TWICE, LEAVE IMMEDIATELY.
Reyon let out a breath that sounded like laughter strangled by terror. "These are not dance rules. These are survival laws."
Seren stared, voice shaking. "Breaking them will trigger a lock."
Kai's jaw clenched. "Or a replacement."
Lina's eyes went back to Mira.
Two attendants had positioned themselves subtly at Mira's sides, hands not touching her—yet Mira's posture shifted obediently, as if the mask itself was guiding her into the crowd.
Lina took a step—
A sudden sharp heat stabbed through her skull.
Not pain.
Absence.
Like someone had reached into her head and plucked out something small and bright.
Lina blinked hard.
The world tilted.
Kai's voice snapped, urgent. "Lina—say your name."
Lina opened her mouth and for a terrifying second… she couldn't remember the sound of Mira's laugh.
She remembered Mira.
She remembered her face.
But the laugh—the exact warm, chaotic burst that always made Lina feel less alone—was just… missing.
Tears pricked Lina's eyes from sheer panic.
"Lina Veris," she whispered hoarsely.
Kai's thumb brushed the inside of her wrist—anchor touch. "Stay real."
"I'm here," Lina breathed, but her chest hurt like grief.
Seren's eyes widened. "Mirror Tax."
Reyon's voice cracked. "It stole something."
Lina swallowed hard. "I didn't even use my flame."
Kai's gaze sharpened. "You challenged the script. You triggered the room. That's enough."
The Mirror Tax wasn't just punishment for fire.
It was punishment for truth.
Lina's flame trembled under her skin, gold edged black.
The Councilor's smile widened as if sensing the emotional spike.
"Now," the Councilor announced, "the first dance begins."
The music shifted into a waltz.
Couples paired off like they were being arranged by invisible hands.
And Lina realized the cruel genius of Rule #1.
Don't dance alone.
If you refused, you stood out.
If you stood out, you got targeted.
Kai leaned close, voice low. "We dance."
Lina's heart slammed. "Kai—"
"We dance," he repeated, more firmly. "Hand contact during the chorus. We keep you anchored. We keep you real."
Reyon sputtered, "I would like to file an official complaint that romance is now mandatory for survival."
Seren's gaze flicked across the crowd, voice tight. "Someone is watching us."
Lina's eyes found Mira again—
Except now there were two Miras.
One near the mirrored wall, porcelain mask cracked, hands trembling.
And one near the edge of the dance floor, half-hidden behind a curtain, turning her head toward Lina.
That Mira didn't tremble.
That Mira's posture was too smooth.
Too still.
Her mask wasn't cracked.
And her eyes—through the mask's cutouts—looked like polished glass.
Lina's blood went cold.
"Seren," Lina whispered. "Do you see her?"
Seren's gaze snapped.
Her breath hitched. "I… I hear two echoes."
Reyon's voice dropped. "False Mira."
Kai's hand tightened around Lina's. "Don't stare."
False Mira lifted a finger and crooked it, beckoning.
Then she mouthed silently:
help me.
Lina's body moved half a step—
Kai held her back with a firm grip.
"Rule four," he murmured. "If someone asks your name twice, leave immediately."
Lina swallowed. "She didn't ask my name."
Kai's voice was razor-thin. "Not yet."
The music swelled.
The chorus approached—Lina felt it like a pressure building, the ballroom's runes syncing with rhythm.
Kai extended his hand, formal, controlled—mask hiding most of his expression, but not his intent.
"Dance," he said quietly, "or we die standing."
Lina let out a shaky breath and placed her hand in his.
Palm to palm.
Anchor.
The room shuddered—subtle, satisfied—like it approved.
They stepped onto the dance floor.
Kai guided her with precise steps, his movements calm enough to make it look like he wasn't holding his own fate by the throat.
Lina forced a bitter smile. "You're annoyingly good at everything."
Kai's eyes flicked to hers. "Even dying on schedule?"
"Especially that," Lina muttered, then swallowed as the chorus hit.
The ballroom's runes flared underfoot.
Every couple's hands tightened instinctively—as if the room itself demanded contact.
Lina's bone-tether pulsed hard.
Kai's shadow flickered.
For a heartbeat, Lina felt their bond pull taut like a string being tuned.
Then the Councilor's voice cut across the music, sudden and clear:
"By Founder's law…"
Kai stiffened.
Lina's stomach dropped.
The air pressure changed—like a vow was being loaded into the room.
The Councilor continued, voice ringing like a bell designed to command:
"…swear obedience."
Kai's wrist ignited with pain.
The Oathbreaker mark flared under his glove, heat so intense Lina felt it through their joined hands.
Kai's jaw clenched.
His breath turned ragged.
The room seemed to lean in, waiting for his answer.
If he refused, punishment.
If he accepted… control.
Lina squeezed his hand, voice shaking. "Kai—don't."
Kai's eyes—dark, furious—locked on hers.
"I won't," he rasped.
The mark flared brighter.
A sharp pulse hit the ballroom—like a whip crack.
Kai staggered mid-step.
Their hands almost broke contact—
Lina grabbed him tighter, pulling him back into rhythm just before the chorus ended.
Seren's eyes flared from the edge of the floor. She lifted her hands slightly, trembling.
Echo Borrowing.
Lina felt it before she saw it—the air thickening around Seren, as if the room's dead memories were pressing into her lungs.
Seren's voice changed when she spoke.
It wasn't fully her.
It was older.
Colder.
A borrowed last breath.
"They'll cut the tether at midnight," Seren said—voice layered with a dead echo.
Reyon's head snapped toward her. "Seren?"
Seren's eyes widened in horror. "I—I didn't—"
And then another voice slipped out of her mouth—soft, whispering, not hers at all:
"I remember dying here."
Seren froze.
Because the dead voice… spoke back.
Lina's skin prickled.
Kai's grip tightened.
And just as the chorus ended, a curtain near the far side of the ballroom shifted—though no one touched it.
A slit of darkness appeared where there hadn't been a doorway.
Warm amber light spilled out.
Quiet.
Inviting.
Wrong.
A plaque formed on the curtain's edge, letters carving themselves like a new wing unlocking in real time:
THE RED ROOM
False Mira stood beside it now, perfectly still.
And for the first time, she spoke aloud—voice sweet, familiar, horrifying:
"Lina," she said.
Once.
Lina's breath caught.
False Mira smiled under the mask.
And asked again—softly, deliberately:
"Lina… what's your name?"
To be Continued© Kishtika., 2025
All rights reserved.