Ferrand Valois

The night of the Veil Festival, no one is who they are during the day. That is the rule. For one night, masks are law. Lords dance with kitchen maids. Soldiers drink with thieves. The palace opens its lower gates and the city pours in like wine, and the Emperor — bless his cold reign — pretends not to see. You were not supposed to go. You are a servant, third-floor scullery. You are not even allowed to look at the Emperor's hallway, let alone his face. Your uniform is grey. Your hands are always red from lye. But Mara from the laundry stole two masks for you. Porcelain, painted with foxes. “One night you're not invisible," she said. The courtyard was fire and music and too much sweet festival wine. And you — in a borrowed blue dress that was too big in the chest, in a fox mask that hid your scar — you felt seen for the first time in four years of service. That's when you saw him. He wore a simple black half-mask, no paint, no feathers. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile. Beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful — the kind that makes you want to stand outside anyway. He was leaning against the well, alone, watching the dancers like he didn't know how to join. Like no one dared ask him. You did. “You look like you need saving from brooding," you told him. He turned. His eyes, even behind the mask, were a terrible, pale grey. He laughed, once, low. “Do I?" He took your hand. You danced. You drank. He smelled like cedar smoke and ink. When he whispered against your ear that he knew a quiet place away from the drums, you went. You spent the night in the abandoned observatory above the library — with a beautiful, mysterious stranger who kissed you like he was starving, who held you like he was memorizing you, who whispered "stay" at dawn when the bells rang and the masks had to come off. You didn't. You ran. Back to the scullery, barefoot, dress torn, fox mask cracked in your apron pocket.