The dulcet, soothing music was already seeping through the magnificent double doors, inlaid in a floral pattern of silver and gold filigree, and into the equally stunning hallway stretching in front of it. Henri le Douce cringed. Had anyone been able to see his face, they would have assumed he was marching to his execution, rather than to the most significant social event of the year. Mercifully, Henri was wearing a beautifully embroidered mask cut from expensive silk and dyed a rich purple, to match the rest of his attire. The entire outfit had cost him more than he could truly afford, but it didn’t matter anymore. Only one thing still mattered to Henri le Douce, and he would find it behind those doors.

As he approached the doors, two guards stepped out of the shadows on either side to bar his path. Henri froze in a moment of panic as he saw them, but neither woman made a move against him. Then, with a brief nod in his direction, they opened the door for him to pass through, flooding him with the light and music from beyond as they did. Silently, Henri moved into the cavernous ballroom beyond, mentally cursing himself for his foolishness. No one could possibly know why he was really there. They wouldn’t even know who he was. On any other night, the guards would have asked his name and announced him, but on the night of the Baroness’s Grand Masquerade, secrecy was the entire point. That gave Henri le Douce until midnight to accomplish his goal.

Henri took three steps into the gigantic room and stopped, slumping his shoulders slightly as he took in the sight. The room was positively brimming with people, women and men, all wearing masks obscuring their identities from everyone else. Again, Henri cursed himself silently. The same circumstance that afforded him the protection he needed would also make his self-appointed task nearly impossible. Many of the revelers wore decorative wigs along with their masks to ensure their true identity could not be guessed. Some of the noblewomen wore their hair up and in fashions they ordinarily never would, while some of the men wore flowing, false hair down to their waists. There was something strangely alien about the entire sight, something strangely frightening.

The bewildered man stood where he was for a long time, scanning the crowd. He did not truly know what he was looking for. Instead, he was simply trusting his instincts to lead him to his goal, something he quickly realized was a foolish decision. His instincts were not something to be trusted, as he had learned of late. Still, there were three people Henri did manage to notice specifically as he scanned the Baroness’s noble guests. One was a woman in a stunning black gown lined along the sides and back with jewels. This, he suspected, was the Baroness herself. While subtlety in costume was highly prized amongst the guests of these Masquerades, it was rarely a trait displayed by the hostess herself, and its absence was nothing her guests would ever begrudge her, especially in her own Barony of Fleche.

The second person who caught Henri le Douce’s attention was a tall man leaning casually against the wall in the back of the room. He was a slim man, wearing a striking costume of black and crimson. His mask was the same, with the blood-red streaks tapering from the protruding upper corners down to cover the eye slits. Henri wondered how the man was able to see, but he also had yet to notice the man move, so perhaps he couldn’t see at all. Still, there was something familiar about the man, and Henri reminded himself to keep a careful eye on him.

The final figure to capture Henri’s notice was a young woman standing by herself in the corner opposite the musicians. Her gown and mask were both a silver-blue color, but it wasn’t their hue that stood out to Henri. It was their simplicity. Nearly everyone at the Masquerade was assured to be either a noble or a representative of the trade guilds, and neither group would have ever passed up an opportunity to show off their pomp and excess. This woman, however, wore a gown of simple cut and relatively simple cloth, frilled only slightly at the bottom and the sleeves. Her mask carried no decoration whatsoever, but was rather a uniform color to match her dress. She did not seem to carry a single jewel or gem on her entire body, a sharp contrast to every other woman, and the majority of the men, in attendance.

The women, although far more pleasing for Henri to look at, were not his primary focus. Neither of them were what he was looking for. But that man in black and red was a strong possibility, one that Henri could not ignore. Slowly, trying to draw as little attention to himself as he could, Henri le Douce began making his way over to the tall man. He soon learned, however, that the direct path was as inhospitable and impassable as the wilds beyond Foraine. The mass of humanity between himself and the far wall was too thick, and every time he took a step, the crowd of nobles and aristocrats seemed to move to cut him off. Frustrated, Henri turned to his left, toward the musicians, and tried to make his way around.

Almost immediately, however, he was stopped by a short woman in a flowing, white gown. Her mask was also white, although encircled with sable fur that seemed to feed into the long, black wig she wore. Her illusion was somewhat spoiled by several thick strands of blond hair sticking out from the wig’s side, but Henri was not familiar enough with the nobility of Fleche to guess who she was anyway. She approached him with a broad smile and laid one gloved hand on his arm at the elbow.

“Oh, I just adore that shade. You must tell me where you had your attire dyed!”

Taken aback considerably, Henri shook his head slightly to regain his sense. “Oh, this?” He said, indicating his costume. “A Dyer’s guild in Vigne. Maison de Lavande.”

“Oh,” she gushed. “They do beautiful work!” She paused, intentionally shifting her gaze to look suspicious. “Are you Mathieu Hautain? Now, you must admit it if I have guessed!”

“I’m sorry, but you haven’t.”

She sighed, looking disappointed. “I thought for certain I was right. You have his stature, you know, and your voice seems so familiar. Still, I suppose the music masks that a bit, doesn’t it?”

“I,” Henri started, unsure of how to respond. “I suppose it does, yes.” He paused again, then smiled slightly. “I admit, I have no guess for you, dear lady.”

She grinned. “Truly? I thought perhaps the mask was not quite enough.” She laughed. “Well, I certainly won’t spoil the secret. But perhaps you would join me for a dance after the unmasking at midnight?”

Henri knew that if all went well, he would be gone by then, but there was no sense in being rude, and potentially causing a scene in front of everyone. “Of course. I would, naturally, be honored.”

She smiled at him with what Henri assumed was meant to be a coy smile. “I will come find you then.”

The woman moved off to converse with a small group of masked revelers who had moved in behind him. As he began to continue, the musicians changed their song, playing a livelier tune that seemed to convince many of those gathered to begin dancing. Henri simply shook his head at his luck, as his path toward the back wall was once again blocked by the impenetrable sea of people. With a grunt of displeasure that was inaudible above the music, Henri le Douce moved toward the other wall and began to make his way around once again.

Henri’s progress was agonizingly slow, and every few moments he was stopped by another of the masked guests hoping to guess his identity. He couldn’t imagine why they took such gleeful pleasure from the thought of outthinking one another, but he simply let them keep on trying. He would shake his head, tactfully inform them that their guess was incorrect, and try to move on. And he repeated the process ad nauseam. Each time, Henri would again cast his gaze to the far wall, where the man in black and red leaned, still as a statue as he watched the crowd through his unreadable masked face. Henri was getting closer, but far too slowly. A massive, ornate clock sat on the wall behind the musicians and above a large window overlooking the garden outside. The clock was ticking ever onward, and midnight was approaching.

Finally, Henri le Douce turned a corner and found himself along the same wall as the tall man, although his target was still much further along. Henri exhaled sharply, but shook his head and moved to continue on his methodical trek. As he did, however, he felt a hand come to rest on his elbow, and he turned towards it immediately. Once he had, he came face to face and eye to eye with the woman he had seen in the corner, which was precisely where he himself now was. Her silver-blue mask covered the top half of her face, although her blond hair was left undisguised, hanging long and naturally down her back. Her eyes were blue, so light that they were almost clear. And they were staring deeply into his as she smiled a thin smile at him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said softly, her voice barely carrying over the music.

“Do you?” Henri asked, forcing a polite laugh. “And I suppose you’re thinking that you can guess who I am, is that it?”

Her smile widened, just slightly. “Perhaps. But that’s not what you’re thinking, is it? You are thinking about something else entirely.”

“And you believe you can guess what that is?”

“No guess,” she said as her gaze intensified. “I’ve been watching you since you first arrived. I have you all figured out now.”

“Indeed,” Henri said, lifting his eyebrows in a gesture that was completely lost under his mask. “Very well. A Masquerade is meant to be for fun, so I’ll play your game. What is it that you believe I am thinking?”

Her smile seemed to change somehow. It did not change its shape; she was still smiling as widely as before. But it seemed suddenly further away, and somehow more severe. “You are thinking of making a very big mistake.”

The sudden change, both in her smile and her tone of voice, caught Henri le Douce unprepared. There was a chill in her voice that he could not deny, and it made the warm, stifling room feel much colder. “I…” Henri began, stammering. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do,” she said, her smile and her voice both dropping. “I’ve been watching you, remember? I’ve been watching your eyes. Tell me, how much do you really know about that man in the back?”

Henri felt himself pale. He had no idea he was being so obvious. “Well, he is in costume, so in truth I know nothing. But I wish to speak with him, and perhaps make a guess at his identity.”

“You have already made your guess, haven’t you?”

Henri gulped. He was thinking about simply turning away from this woman when he realized she was still holding his arm, and her grip was tightening. “I…I believe I know who he is, if that’s what you mean.”

“Who he is and what he is are two entirely different things,” she warned. “Don’t you agree?”

“I suppose I do, yes.”

“Therefore,” she continued, “knowing who he is, even if you have guessed correctly, does not tell you what he is, and therefore, what he might do.”

There was a weight to her words that made Henri shudder. “What do you know about him?” Henri asked in a whisper.

She shook her head slightly. “Forget about him.” She glanced along the wall to where the man leaned, then immediately looked back at Henri. “Leave him to his passions. Join me for mine.”

He stared at her for a long time, but ultimately shook his head. “I must speak with him.”

Henri le Douce turned to walk away, but the woman still held onto his arm with the strength of the ancient giants. As he turned back, he saw her smile was gone, and there was a strange urgency in her eyes. “Do not ignore my warning. This course of action could cost everyone in here dearly.”

Henri leaned in close to her. “I don’t care about these people any more than they care about me, and I’m fairly certain you can guess how much that is.”

She nodded. “Then care for yourself. This will not end well for you, either.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, the only thing visible beneath his purple mask. “What do you know that I don’t?”

“I can’t answer that unless I know what you know, now can I?” She looked away from Henri, once again glancing down the length of the wall. “Why don’t we start with this? You think you know that man? Very well. Name him.”

“I don’t have time for this…”

She looked back at him, and then glanced at the large clock. “It is not yet midnight. You have time. Name him.”

Henri le Douce stood there for a very long moment, trying to decide. Clearly, this woman knew much, and perhaps she had information Henri could use. But secrecy was vital, and he was not comfortable revealing anything he knew, particularly to a masked stranger at the Baroness’s ball. On the other hand, though, she already seemed to know, and the vice’s grip she still had on his arm convinced him it was best to do as she said.

“Very well,” Henri ventured, looking over at the man. He narrowed his eyes again, allowing his memory and his purpose to flood back in a single moment. When he spoke, his voice was venomous. “Raiker Venn.”

If the woman gave any reaction to the name, Henri didn’t notice it while looking at the masked man, and she had wiped it away by the time he looked back at her. “And why do you need to speak with him?”

“That’s my business,” Henri said guardedly.

The woman sighed. “I do not mean to be uncivil, but I feel I need to illustrate a point. Do you see the man perhaps a dozen paces behind you, in the red and white costume?”

Henri looked, and he spotted the man immediately. He was staring directly at Henri. The woman continued. “How about the man in blue a ways to his left?” Henri followed her direction, and found another masked man staring. “And the man in gray near the musicians?” She said, and Henri did. He, also, was watching Henri.

“I see them,” Henri said, anxious.

“One mere signal from me, and they will kill you. I don’t need to say a word. A simple nod, a wave of my hand, a wink of my eye, and they move. Do we understand one another?”

Henri inhaled slowly, then finally nodded. “Perfectly.”

“Good,” she said, pulling him closer as if in a dance. “Because I don’t want to give that signal. I don’t want to kill you. Quite the opposite, really. But I can’t help you if you don’t start talking to me, and truly, Henri le Douce.”

Henri was surprised at the mention of his name, but he quickly realized he shouldn’t have been. Whoever this woman was, she was clearly more than she appeared. “I won’t even ask you how you know my name.”

“Good,” she said. “Because that is a conversation we truly do not have time for. Now, I believe I have asked you a question, and am still waiting for your answer.”

Henri nodded sadly, trying to decide where to begin. “Raiker Venn and I have met before. We made an arrangement, a deal. I lived up to my end of the bargain, but…”

Henri trialed off, and the woman completed his thought. “But you didn’t get what you wanted in return?”

Henri scoffed slightly under his mask. “Not in the way I wanted, no.”

She nodded. “Few ever do.”

“Everyone knows that Raiker Venn is a poet,” As Henri spoke, the woman nodded in agreement. “But he is also a mage, if you can believe it. A powerful one. But I didn’t know that when I went to him. I just wanted help…”

“And…” the woman prompted when Henri stopped.

He sighed. “I wanted what he had. Notoriety. Recognition. The ability to take my dreams and make them into reality. And Raiker said he could give them to me.”

“I would say that he gave you what you asked for, then,” she offered. “Few in Foraine have not heard of the infamous ‘Vocal Henri’.”

“Shhh,” Henri warned quickly, looking around to see if anyone had overheard her. “If anyone hears that name, I’m a dead man!”

“Well, what did you expect?” She asked, her voice dropping to a whisper he could barely make out. “Speaking out against the nobility, the Baroness, and the Queen herself, inciting riots, encouraging rebellion. And now you walk into the Baroness’s own home? What were you thinking?”

“You don’t understand,” Henri hissed. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that! I was supposed to be famous for my singing! That’s where ‘Vocal Henri’ came from!” He glanced around again to see if anyone was listening, then continued. “I made one speech! Just one! And only because it was my deal with Venn! He made me. The next thing I know, everybody in Thorneau knows my face and name!”

The woman smiled. “Oh, and here I thought you came to kill the Baroness in her own home.”

“No!” Henri whispered imploringly. “I couldn’t care less about the Baroness, one way or the other! I just need Raiker to undo what he’s done.”

“It sounds like he’s made you famous, just as you asked. How can anyone undo that?”

“It isn’t just my sudden fame,” Henri said cautiously. “It’s also the dreams. I just…I can’t keep living with the things he’s done to me!”

“What dreams?” she asked, interested.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said. With a subtle shift of her head, the woman looked over to the man in red she had pointed out to Henri earlier. She made no move, but her threat was clear. “Fine. Sometimes, ever since my deal with Raiker, I dream…the future. I see things that are going to happen. Always bloody things. Violent things. Every time, they come true. And every time, I’m the one blamed for them!”

The woman seemed to consider this for a long time. “And, you believe that you can talk to Raiker Venn and convince him to change all of that, do you?”

“It’s all I have left.”

“And you genuinely don’t care about the people gathered here?”

Henri looked at her, his gaze a mixture of conviction and pleading. “I don’t care about the nobles, the tradeswomen, or this so-called rebellion. I’m here for only one reason, and that is to talk to that man!”

As one, both Henri and the woman glanced along the wall to where the man was still leaning. Finally, after a long pause and a heavy sigh, the woman let go of his arm. “Very well. I won’t keep you. But you remember my warning.”

Henri nodded dismissively. “Who are you, anyway?”

The woman shrugged, then looked up at the clock. “Perhaps you will find out after midnight, when we all unmask.”

Henri turned around and looked at the clock, taking her words as a warning. It was nearing midnight already. He was almost out of time. He glanced back at the woman, who did nothing but wink at him. Henri frowned, glancing at the three men she had pointed out, hoping that wasn’t her signal. Fortunately, none of them were moving towards him, so Henri simply nodded, and began moving along the wall toward his goal. On his way, he was stopped three more times by revelers, but he excused himself almost immediately, risking being noticed for rudeness, but knowing that his time was running out. Then, with only a minute or two to spare, he came face to face, or rather mask to mask, with his target.

“I need to speak with you,” Henri said urgently.

The man turned his head slightly to look at the other man, but said nothing.

“Please, I don’t have time,” Henri implored. “I need you to stop this. It isn’t what I wanted! It never was!”

The other man continued to stare, the crimson material covering his eyes burning like the sun to Henri le Douce.

Henri grunted in frustration. “Don’t ignore me. I know who you are!”

“Do you?” The man asked with an amused laugh. “Most people do. And just who are you, anyway, to talk to me like this?”

Henri was growing angry. “You know perfectly well who I am.”

Again, the man laughed. “You are a presumptuous one, certainly. Perhaps we have met before, perhaps we have not. My time is much too valuable to remember each and every dealing I have had, particularly by voice. Now, if you will excuse me, I have something to attend to.”

Frantically, Henri glanced at the clock. Midnight. He was out of time. So, without hesitation, he squared up to the other man, trying to make sure that no one but him could see Henri’s face. Then, as carefully as he could, he lifted his hand up to his purple mask and raised it, showing his face to the other man. “It’s me. Henri le Douce,” he whispered just above the music and the increasing clamor of the room.

The man in black and red froze for a moment, and then lifted his own hand to his mask. Henri had only a brief moment to notice the man’s hand was trembling before the black and crimson mask came off, revealing a man Henri had never seen, at least not in person. But he recognized him instantly, all the same. It was the Baroness’s husband.

The man was pale and terrified. When he spoke, his voice was booming, carrying over the entire ballroom. “’Vocal Henri!’ Help! Guards! Everyone! Attack!”

Henri’s heart seemed to stop in that instance. It wasn’t Raiker Venn. He had been so sure. Henri gulped once, then looked over to the woman in the corner, who was shaking her bowed head. When he turned back, the Baroness’s husband was holding his hands high and waving toward himself, trying to draw everyone’s attention. The massive room erupted into chaos then, as guards and revelers alike turned murderous. In the next instant, the three men Henri had been shown earlier were moving, weapons drawn, blood flying from anyone near them. Others joined them, and the room became a sudden battlefield.

Above the din of battle, Henri heard some men yell “For the Rebellion!” Others screamed “Death to the Nobles!” And, most disturbingly, some bellowed “For Vocal Henri!”

Before he knew what was happening, Henri le Douce was surrounded by men and women claiming to be loyal supporters of his. Somebody slipped something into his hand, and someone else forced his arm forward. When Henri felt resistance, he looked up into the shocked face of the Baroness’s husband, and then down at the knife in his hand. There was a sudden, furious scream from across the room, and Henri looked to see the woman in the black gown, who he had correctly guessed was the Baroness, staring directly at him as her husband died in his arms.

Then Henri was moving. He had no idea where, or who was leading him, but the rebels who had been disguised as guests had apparently dedicated their lives to protecting him. More and more guards poured into the cavernous room, and Henri’s impromptu protectors fought and died to get him to the large window beneath the clock, where two more of their numbers waited. Everyone in the room was fighting now, noble and rebel, guard and guest. It was a sickening sight. A bloodbath. Henri caught sight of one body on the floor, the woman who had first approached him and asked him for a dance after midnight. Henri’s first thought was that this was not the sort of dance she had been thinking of. His second thought was a desperate plea to himself to keep from vomiting.

As they arrived at the window, their numbers were down to only three or four, while the guards’ numbers seemed to grow, despite their dead. Henri was certain he would join them shortly. The guests were now mostly gone, either slain or fled in the chaos of the unexpected tragedy. Of the people the woman in the corner had pointed out to him, only the man in gray was still alive, and he was standing right behind Henri as the three remaining rebels were holding off the guards in front of them. Then the man in gray got Henri’s attention.

“Follow me, Vocal Henri! We will protect you!”

Without waiting for a reply, the man threw all of his weight against the window and shattered it, landing hard on the grass outside. Henri hesitated, but seeing the guards kill one of his three remaining protectors, he realized he had no choice. Cursing himself, this time out loud, Henri leapt through the broken window and, following the other man blindly and terrified, disappeared into the night, and into legend.

The ballroom was eerily quiet. Vocal Henri had escaped, and the guards had given pursuit, with the Baroness running along with them, howling for vengeance. Many of the actual guests were dead, and those who weren’t had run. In the far corner of the room, however, one woman was standing, calm and unharmed, shaking her head. Her silver-blue mask still hid her face as her eyes scanned the brutal sight of the Baroness’s bloody ballroom. Suddenly, she became aware of a sound, a sound she had heard before. It was the sound of a cane striking the hardwood floor in a perfect, rhythmic pattern. She looked up and to her left as a man in a striking black suit approached her.

“Raiker Venn,” she said simply.

“My dear Aurélie Cerveau,” he said with a smile. He glanced briefly around the bloody scene, and then back to her. “You look well.”

She scoffed. “You don’t have to be so jovial about it, Raiker. People are dead, and more will be dying because of this.”

“This is what you wanted,” he reminded her.

“I want the ends, not the means. I know I cannot have one without the other, and I do not regret our deal. But this,” she said, indicating toward the room, “gives me no pleasure.”

“You actually mourn them?”

She nodded. “Things need to change in Foraine. The system is broken. But these were just people. People who wanted to spend an evening forgetting about the world that was about to burn around them. Their deaths were a necessary evil, but an evil nonetheless. I mourn every one of them.”

Raiker Venn shrugged. “Feel as you wish, my dear. Their deaths were tragic, after all. But I shall immortalize them in verse, a fate greater than any that awaited them in life.”

“They were still people, Venn.”

Raiker took a step closer to her, and raised his hand to her mask. She flinched, but didn’t dare pull away. With a widening smile, Raiker removed her silver-blue mask, revealing her pretty face, flawless but for the long, deep scar running from the center of her forehead down the side of her nose and ending at her top lip. She had chosen the mask specifically because it hid the scar completely.

“They were the same people who did this to you, if you remember.”

“I remember,” she growled, glaring at him. “But it wasn’t them. It was people like them, sure. People with similar titles and similar opinions. But no one here scarred me. The ones who did are already dead.”

“So are these,” he reminded her. She looked away sharply. Raiker laughed briefly, then continued. “And what did you think of the performance of our heroic young friend?”

“Heroic?” She scoffed. “That one? He’s at least as pompous and self-serving as anyone in this room was.”

This time, Raiker laughed earnestly. “Did I lie?”

She looked back at him, then exhaled sharply. “No. He was exactly as you described him. Arrogant, self-centered, and brash. I have no idea why so many are swayed by him.”

“And yet,” Raiker said with a grin, “he now leads the rebellion that you yourself constructed. Tragic, in a way.”

She glared at him for a long time. “I lead because change, improvement, is my passion. And not just for me, but for everyone. He’ll lead because he has no alternative. Between the two, it should be me!” She paused, composing herself. “But everyone knows the name ‘Vocal Henri.’ They will flock to him in a way they never would to me. I will lead, but he will always be the figurehead, whether I like it or not.”

Raiker nodded. “Just remember our agreement. I expect you to uphold your end, as I have upheld mine.”

“Don’t worry, Venn,” she said with a scowl. “Your villa won’t be touched. Besides, it was your verses of ‘Vocal Henri’ that spread the word of him. You’re a poet of the people, as far as the people know…”

There was bitterness in her voice, but Raiker chose to ignore it. “Good.” He paused, and looked up, then offered her back her mask. “The guards are returning. You had best leave while you can.”

She looked up at him. “You’re not coming with me?”

He shook his head. “I have far more important matters to attend to than a simple rebellion. Best of luck to you, though.” Aurélie took her mask and slipped it back on her face, making certain it covered her scar perfectly. She started to walk away when Raiker stopped her with his voice. “And do try to get along with our dear Henri le Douce. I would hate to see what would happen with your rebellion if you couldn’t. Truly, that would be a tragedy.”

Aurélie Cerveau felt suddenly cold as she felt the color drain from her face. Without another word and without looking back at the Poet, she walked out of the bloody ballroom, and into the fires that would soon set Thorneau aflame. In the empty, cavernous room behind her, on a beautiful hardwood floor cold with death and wet with blood, Raiker Venn grinned as he tried to decide which of his newest poems he should write first.