The war had lasted three long years. The Empire had won. And now, tonight, the Masked Festival—the Night of a Thousand Faces—was upon them. It was the first festival since the war's end. A time to celebrate, to mourn, to heal.
People gathered in the bustling inn in the heart of the city, laughter and chatter filling the room. The air was thick with the smells of spiced stew, mulled wine, and a variety of foods. Roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet pastries filled the tables, the rich aroma adding to the festive atmosphere. Amidst the laughter, conversations bubbled up about the state of the Empire, rumors and whispers about the recent events that had scarred the land.
"Miss, give us some spiced stew and mulled wine," one of the patrons called out, leaning forward from the table.
"Coming," the servant replied, moving quickly to fill their order.
One table of gossipers huddled together, speaking in hushed tones, glancing nervously around as they shared their stories.
"Did you hear? People are saying the Masked Festival wasn't just for fun. Some of those masked dancers—spirit or omen, perhaps?" one man whispered.
"And a woman in gray was seen near the palace portrait hall. Was she a ghost? Or something worse?" another voice added, a tremor of fear in the speaker's tone.
"No, no. I've heard something even more horrific. They say the Crown Prince's aide—what's his name? Everleigh?—they say he walks with shadows following him," a third voice chimed in, lowering his voice further.
"Told you. After the war, the Empire has become something... different. Scarier," another person added nervously.
The gossip continued to flow in whispers, each new rumor more unsettling than the last. Other patrons at different tables joined in, adding their own terrifying tales of betrayal, ghosts, and things they couldn't explain.
"Can you believe it? That bastard Duke from the North—the one who betrayed us. He was shaking hands with the enemy while his people starved!" a man at another table sneered.
"They say he promised the enemy king safe passage into the Empire... and look at him now. Ruined. Serves him right," another man replied, shaking his head with mock sympathy.
"The fool thought he could play both sides," someone else added. "First, he whispered sweet loyalty to the Crown Prince, then he took gold from the enemy. Now? No one even knows where his bones are buried."
"Is that all you know?" one man challenged. "I know more."
"Oh? What do you know?" someone at the table asked, leaning in with interest.
"They say he hoarded wealth. Bought himself silk and gold while his soldiers bled for him," the first man continued, his voice rising with disdain.
"The man wanted everything—power, land, the Emperor's favor. And now? Now, he has nothing. Not even a grave."
"A merchant from the capital swears he saw the Duke trying to flee in disguise. The Silent Wardens found him first, though."
"The North is not just ruined—it's cursed. The fires haven't even died out. It's been a year now."
"After the Duke betrayed us, the North was swallowed whole. No survivors, no hope. Just rubble... and ghosts."
"Even the trees won't grow back there. I heard the land itself rejected him. Now, nothing will grow."
"The first festival after the war is cursed, too," another voice cut in. "You think it's a celebration, but maybe it's just another mask hiding the truth."
"What if the Duke's spirit is waiting for tonight's festival? Maybe he won't rest until he gets what he wanted. Power. Gold. A throne."
"Maybe the killer tonight isn't some stranger—maybe it's the Duke, still lurking, still trying to get what he lost."
Suddenly, a glass was slammed onto the table, causing the gossipers to jump, their chatter dying down. The room fell into an uneasy silence.
"If you're so scared, why don't you stay home instead of gossiping useless things here?" the innkeeper's voice rang out, stern and unamused.
"Why are you serving us?" someone asked with a frown.
"You're too loud. It's giving me a headache. If you talk about such things one more time, I'll ban you from my inn," the innkeeper said, his tone final as he turned and left.
"That old man still has a scary tongue, even at his age," someone muttered under their breath.
Another table of patrons continued their conversation, now focused on something even darker.
"Two days ago, the Silent Wardens got a message—a warning. A challenge."
"'Tonight, under the masks, another truth will bleed.' That's what the killer wrote, right?" one man asked, his voice low.
"And still, the festival is happening? Either the Crown thinks they can stop it, or they want to see who dies next."
"The killer isn't just choosing their targets—they're daring the Empire to stop them!"
"If they're bold enough to announce the murder, maybe they think no one can catch them."
"Or maybe… maybe the killer wants to be caught. Maybe the game is bigger than we think."
"If the killer is going after 'sinners,' then tonight's target must be someone powerful—someone rotten to the core."
"A corrupt noble? A merchant who profited from war? Or… something worse?"
"Last time, it was Baron Alvest, the slave trader. Who's hiding a sin big enough to die for tonight?"
"Oh, God, the world is so scary after the war," one man muttered. "I feel like the war never stopped. It just changed form."
"You won't see me at the festival tonight," another person said, shaking their head. "What if the killer changes their mind and picks at random?"
"They say the killer wears a mask, just like everyone else. What if they've danced with their victim already?"
"What if the killer isn't a person at all, but fate itself? Maybe the war left something behind—something that won't let go."
"No, I heard the knights doubled their patrols, but does it even matter? The killer always finds a way."
"Some say the Veilbreakers already know who it is. Others say the killer walks among us."
"One thing's for sure—tonight, blood will stain the festival grounds. The only question is whose."
At a nearby table, two men sat in silence, dressed in black robes. Their conversation was quieter, more private.
"They do know how to gossip. My ears hurt hearing all of their nonsense," one man said, his voice dripping with disdain. "And they even got my name wrong. But must you chase the killer yourself, Your Highness? You're not well."
The other man shot him a sharp glare, and the first man fell silent.
"My lord, you can send the royal knights to catch the killer. You don't have to come yourself. You lost your memory during the war—it worries me," the second man continued with concern.
"Ahem. I'm sorry. I was just worried about you," he added, hesitating.
"Worried about me?" the first man asked, his tone incredulous.
"No, I worry about having to clean up after all your trouble," the second man muttered, rubbing his temple.
The Crown Prince stood, his expression cold and unreadable. He turned toward the door.
"Where are you going, Your Highness?" his aide asked, hurrying to follow. "My lord?"
"The opera," the Crown Prince replied curtly.
The aide followed, leaving the money on the table, his steps quick as they exited into the night.
The innkeeper watched them silently as they left, his gaze lingering with a mysterious intensity, as though he knew something they didn't.
---
The festival had transformed the city into a world of flickering lanterns and whispered secrets, where the night air carried the scent of spiced wine, roasted almonds, and honeyed pastries.
It began with a solemn procession—figures in flowing black cloaks and masks carried lanterns through the streets, each light a tribute to those lost in the war. The crowd hushed as they passed, heads bowed in quiet remembrance. Then, as the last lantern was placed on the river, floating away like departing souls, the silence shattered into an eruption of life.
Laughter and music filled the streets as masked acrobats leaped between silk-draped platforms, twisting through the air like falling leaves. Fire-dancers spun burning torches, their golden flames reflecting off the gleaming masks of the festival-goers. Musicians played lively tunes on lutes and flutes, their melodies weaving through the crowds, inviting strangers to dance beneath the lantern-lit sky.
Since everyone wore masks, nobility and commoners mingled freely, hidden beneath anonymity. A merchant in a silver mask might whisper secrets to a noble in crimson, a soldier in a black mask might share a drink with the very lord he once served. Love confessions were whispered behind silk fans, alliances were forged with the brush of gloved fingers, and hands lingered too long over shared glasses of wine.
Children ran between the stalls, chasing each other with wooden swords while vendors called out their wares—gold-painted masks, silver charms for luck, tiny glass bottles of 'moonlight wine' said to reveal true love when shared under the stars. Gamblers gathered at shadowed corners, placing bets on mystery boxes, where the prize could be a jewel… or a curse.
In the heart of the festival, a troupe of masked actors performed the Tale of the Ghostly Warrior—a legend of a fallen hero who still watched over the empire. Some swore that, on this night, his spirit truly walked among the masked crowd, searching for those who had betrayed their oaths.
And amid this revelry, two masked figures strode toward the grand opera house, their footsteps silent against the cobbled streets.