"Khyronia master point of view"
Morning broke over Khyronia like a hush before an orchestra's first breath. Pale light bled through layers of alabaster fog, brushing soft illumination across the marbled halls of the ancient stronghold. Within the heart of the palace, behind tall double doors inlaid with arcane scripts, the Master of Khyronia sat before an open window, the view framed by trailing curtains and faint incense smoke.
The letter had already gone. Carefully penned in a cipher only a handful could read, it had been cloaked in the form of an elegant invitation: a masquerade ball. Beneath its silken words was the weight of something deeper—a plea for attention, a signal of veiled allegiance.
"It has been delivered?" the Master asked, not raising his head.
"Yes, my lord," came the voice of the trusted one—the one who rarely appeared and never without cause. "It is already halfway to Blackwood."
Silence lingered like a breath held in fear or reverence.
"Then let us turn our minds to what must follow."
The Master stood slowly, gathering his robes like the tide gathering around a distant shore. No sign of age marred his movement, yet there was an unmistakable gravity to it—as if time had long since bent to his will. He crossed to the polished table at the room's center, where plans lay in neat stacks. Documents. Names. Threads of knowledge woven into a web that only he knew how to navigate.
"We must be precise," he said, touching a parchment with his index finger. "Every mask, every whisper, every candlelit corridor must tell a story. Not the one they expect. The one we need."
"Yes, my lord."
"There will be dancers, of course," the Master mused aloud. "Music that echoes the tempo of forgotten tongues. But beneath the rhythm and lace, I want symbols placed—quiet symbols. One above the west colonnade, one in the garden. A third near the stone well. Only those who have seen will understand."
"The ones who remember?" asked the servant.
The Master's lips curved just slightly.
"No. The ones who survived."
Another pause. This time, it was the servant who stepped forward, his shadow stretching like a second figure.
"And if the letter is intercepted?"
"It will be mistaken for nothing but what it seems: the whim of an old noble who still toys with grandeur. Let them underestimate it. The worst weapons are often wrapped in silk."
There was a subtle shift in the air, like the room itself had exhaled.
"The boy may come," the Master continued, voice quieter now. "Or he may not. But if he steps inside this city again, the walls will remember his name. The masquerade is not merely for show. It is the only way left for truth to breathe."
"And the Eclipse Elite?"
"Are watching, as they always are. Let them watch."
For a moment, nothing moved. The wind outside tapped gently against the carved glass panes. Somewhere deeper in the palace, bells chimed in a language only the stone could recall.
The Master turned back to the window.
"Go. Begin the preparations. There must be no flaw, no accident. Even a single misstep would shift the game's board."
The servant bowed, low and wordless, before slipping into the corridor like a shadow that belonged to no man.
Alone now, the Master of Khyronia stared into the growing light.
And far, far below the city, something unseen stirred awake.
The morning light filtered through veiled arches of stained glass, casting refracted golds and violets across the stone floor of the inner sanctum. Within the ancient chamber—silent but for the whisper of banners shifting in the wind—the master of Khyronia stood facing the circular table where plans had been laid for generations.
His servant, ever silent until summoned, stepped forward without so much as the echo of his footfalls. The man moved like a rumor, felt more than heard, known by few and seen by fewer still.
"They've received the invitations," the master said softly, fingertips pressed to the lacquered wood. "Now comes the true labor. It must not feel orchestrated. Let the night arrive as if it were born of its own volition."
"Yes, master." The servant's voice was sand and silk, neutral as the wind before a storm. "The tailors await further instruction. Would you like them to coordinate color distinctions based on class, faction, or—?"
"No. Let chaos dress itself in harmony," the master replied. "Assign no roles. The masquerade must reflect the very illusion it's built upon. Masks over masks, identities layered like parchment in forgotten histories. Let them wonder who they are even after the music ends."
The servant bowed slightly, absorbing every word. "The musicians have been chosen. The string ensemble from the Aratosian hills... you asked for them specifically."
"Yes. Their sound draws memory from bone," the master murmured, his eyes scanning the hall's stonework. "Let the music recall what the mind may have forgotten. There is more to reveal than names and faces."
Outside the chamber, a small troupe of artisans and scribes were already at work—sketching ceiling plans, unrolling floor-length velvet swaths for the drapery, and sealing letters of final confirmation for the evening's performers. The scent of beeswax and ink clung to the air, alongside delicate spices carried in from the port. Everything was in motion, yet nothing felt hurried.
The servant glanced toward a series of sealed chests laid neatly beside the far wall. "And the gifts?"
"They'll be distributed at midnight, when the second bell tolls," the master said, almost absently. "Place them within the central gallery beneath the false moon. They are not gifts—" his tone sharpened slightly, "—they are keys. And each one will open something they didn't know was locked."
The servant nodded, though his brow furrowed. "And the guests from Blackwood? Will they arrive alone?"
A pause.
The master tilted his head, listening to the creak of the stone walls, as if they, too, breathed with held breath.
"No one arrives at a masquerade truly alone," he said finally. "They come with shadows. With ghosts. Let them. We will not interfere unless the old emblems rise again."
At that, the servant's expression darkened, but he said nothing. He bowed and turned to leave, orders already taking shape like glass in a flame.
As the grand doors of the planning hall whispered closed behind him, the master remained still. His hand hovered over a sealed scroll bearing a wax emblem none in the city dared to speak aloud. He didn't open it—not yet. Not until he was certain August would be ready.
For even a masquerade, with all its laughter and spectacle, could be a battlefield. And in Khyronia, battles were rarely won with blades.
The chamber had changed with the hour. What had been a golden-hued dawn sanctum now shimmered beneath the cooler blaze of late morning. Sunlight struck the stained glass at a steeper angle, scattering crimson and blue across the floor like spilled pigments. The air was warm, but anticipation had chilled it with quiet urgency.
Servants moved like clockwork figures through the vaulted corridors. Silks were unrolled across long tables, each fabric imported from a different corner of the continent. Jewels were examined beneath magnifying glass. Golden-threaded gloves were being measured against wax casts of hands never seen.
The master of Khyronia paced the gallery alone now, hands folded behind his back, gaze lingering on the rows of mannequins clothed in half-finished splendor. Every garment was a puzzle piece; every hue and fold part of a code only he knew.
From a high shadowed alcove, the servant returned.
"The ballroom's floral arrangements will arrive before twilight," he said, his voice not interrupting so much as threading into the quiet. "Rare orchids, as you requested. White, crimson, and midnight."
The master gave a faint nod. "Good. They will remind them of blood, bone, and absence."
He stopped before a towering mirror framed in obsidian. It reflected nothing but the silhouettes of the two men, distorted slightly by age and heat.
"And the stage?"
"Built."
"Candlelight?"
"With sapphire-tinted glass lenses to dull the firelight. It will glow blue."
"Like the dream of a city long dead," the master murmured.
The servant hesitated, then spoke carefully. "And what of the vault?"
There was a long pause.
"Keep it sealed," the master said at last. "If the masquerade turns, if the masks slip too far... then, and only then, unlock the gate. Not before."
Another nod. Orders recorded, obeyed in advance.
The walls of Khyronia had seen centuries of secrets. They would hold a few more.
Outside, preparations pulsed on. Carts filled with trays of crystal goblets were wheeled toward the Great Hall. Musicians tested strings in the courtyard beneath ivy-covered balconies. A soft chorus of notes drifted upward like a question waiting for the evening to answer.
The masquerade was not merely an event. It was the fulcrum.
And beneath its silk and shadow, the truth waited.
Down in the Hall of Stone Arches, the workers bustled in tireless rhythm. Two young florists were stringing garlands of white lilies and thistle along the golden banisters, occasionally pausing to wipe their brows with the backs of their wrists. A trio of footmen debated the best arrangement for the golden candelabras while lifting heavy bases with practiced ease.
"Careful there," one muttered as wax dripped onto the marble, quickly cleaned by an attendant with a crisp handkerchief.
Near the eastern columns, a painter knelt with a fine brush, touching up the final curve of a heraldic crest onto the tiled floor—each color gleamed, wet and precise. Apprentices rushed back and forth with trays of polished silverware and crystal flutes. There was laughter here and there, whispers of who might wear what, or which noble might recognize whom despite the masks.
In the air was a palpable hum—not only of movement, but of expectancy. Something larger than all of them was taking form, stitched into every seam and polished into every goblet.
Above it all, the chandeliers swayed gently, casting fractured rainbows across the walls like secret blessings.