The grand hall of the Vermilion Palace glittered like the heart of a star. Silk banners floated from the ceiling, delicate music from guzhengs and flutes filling the air like the soft breath of the gods. Courtiers dressed in robes of crimson and gold moved like restless spirits, their faces hidden behind intricate masks dragons, phoenixes, and tigers, crafted with feathers and precious stones.
It was the Masquerade of the Hundred Blessings, an ancient tradition, resurrected by Queen Lian herself after years of neglect. Tonight, it was said, the Queen would personally bestow favor upon those she deemed most loyal a blessing that could elevate a man's fortune or save a family from disgrace.
Yet beneath the grandeur, an unease simmered.
Jian stood among the servants near the pillars, his simple mask of a white fox marking him as an observer, a shadow among the brilliant. Every fiber of his being screamed that he did not belong here, but Wei's warnings echoed in his mind:
"Watch carefully at the masquerade. Some blessings are curses in disguise."
At the head of the hall, elevated on a dais of black lacquer, Queen Lian sat resplendent in robes that shimmered like a living flame. Her mask, unlike the others, was of pure silver an unblinking face that reflected back a distorted world.
She raised a slender hand. The music halted, the dancers froze, and a stillness heavier than death fell upon the crowd.
"My beloved children," she said, her voice warm, almost maternal. "Tonight, we celebrate survival. In these trying times, loyalty is the only true virtue."
A murmur of approval, tinged with fear, rippled through the guests.
Jian's eyes darted around the hall. Nobles whispered behind their masks. Servants flitted at the edges of vision, careful not to draw attention. In the shadows near the throne, he caught a glimpse of a figure broad-shouldered, robed in black watching the room with a predator's patience.
He knew instinctively: this must be the Queen's enforcer, though he did not yet know his name.
The Queen's hand drifted to a small golden bell beside her throne. With a single chime, a new group of performers entered but they were no ordinary dancers.
Their costumes were strange tattered robes, faces painted a ghastly grey, mouths smeared with red. Their movements were jerky, unnatural, as though puppeteered by invisible strings.
A whisper rose among the guests.
"Mockery of the afflicted."
"Blasphemy!"
But no one dared to speak louder.
The dancers twitched and stumbled across the polished floor, reaching out as if pleading for help. Then, with a sudden, synchronized snap, they collapsed, their bodies writhing and convulsing.
For a heartbeat, Jian thought it was all part of the act.
Until one of them a girl no older than sixteen let out a raw, animalistic scream that shattered the air.
Gasps erupted. Masks turned toward the throne, seeking guidance. Queen Lian merely watched, her silver face blank, her posture serene.
Servants moved swiftly. The "performers" were dragged away behind crimson curtains, their cries muffled but not silenced. The musicians struck up a livelier tune, as if to drown out the horror.
Jian's fists clenched. He had seen this sickness before or something like it in the village of Chengyuan, where the dead rose with empty, devouring eyes.
But here, in the heart of power, it was being paraded as entertainment.
"They know," he thought, a cold realization spreading through him. "They know, and they do not care."
Across the hall, he spotted Wei, his mask shaped like a coiled serpent, giving him a subtle nod. Jian moved toward him, weaving through the sea of silken monsters.
"How long has this been happening?" Jian whispered when he reached him.
Wei's lips barely moved under his mask. "Longer than you imagine. Tonight is merely the most public display."
"Why? What purpose does it serve?"
Wei hesitated. His hand brushed Jian's sleeve lightly a warning.
"Not here," he said. "Meet me at the Garden of Drowned Lanterns. Midnight."
Before Jian could respond, a trumpet blared, and the Queen rose from her throne.
One by one, the courtiers knelt as she descended the stairs, moving among them like a goddess bestowing miracles. From beneath her sleeve, she produced silk tokens crimson for favor, black for disfavor.
A courtier wept openly as she pressed a crimson token into his trembling hands. Another paled as she dropped a black scrap onto his shoulder, his fate sealed with a touch.
When she reached Jian's section, her silver gaze fell upon him or so it seemed.
For a moment, time stretched into something unbearable. Jian's heart slammed against his ribs. Did she know? Could she see through the fox mask to the rebellious thoughts swirling beneath?
Then she smiled a slow, enigmatic thing and passed by.
Jian exhaled shakily, realizing he had been holding his breath.
The masquerade whirled on, more frenzied now, as if the guests sought to erase the memory of the grotesque performance with wine and laughter. But Jian saw the cracks the darting glances, the tremors in their hands, the hollow note in their voices.
They were trapped in a beautiful nightmare, and Queen Lian was both their dream and their doom.
At the stroke of midnight, Jian slipped away, unnoticed.
The corridors of the palace were vast and labyrinthine, lit by oil lamps that threw monstrous shadows against the walls. As he moved deeper into the private gardens, the music faded into a distant, ghostly wail.
The Garden of Drowned Lanterns was a forgotten place once a lover's retreat, now overgrown and half-swallowed by fog. Lanterns, their lights long extinguished, floated eerily on stagnant pools of water.
Wei waited by the crooked remains of a willow tree, his mask now hanging from his fingers.
"You saw it," Wei said, his voice low and brittle. "Now you understand."
"I understand that this sickness... it's being used," Jian said, anger burning through his veins. "But by whom?"
Wei hesitated. His eyes darted toward the palace.
"Not all masks are made of silk and paint," he said cryptically. "Some are made of blood and bones. Beware, Jian. Truth is a dangerous thing here."
Before Jian could press further, a sound shattered the mist footsteps, swift and numerous.
Wei paled.
"They've found us."
Without another word, they scattered, disappearing into the maze of dying lanterns, the palace looming behind them like a monstrous, sleeping beast.
And from a high tower balcony, unseen, Queen Lian watched the garden with her silver mask gleaming in the moonlight a silent queen presiding over a kingdom built on rot.