The Masque of Crimson and Gold

A scent drifts on the breeze—languid and indulgent, carrying only the faintest undercurrent of pungency. The chime of bells rattles in harmony with the distant calls of sailors, their voices caught upon the wind, like a song with no words. Not far from the docks, the market stirs to life, a symphony of bartering voices haggling over the price of spices and wine.

Amid the grandeur of the city's architecture and the ceaseless motion of its streets, a silhouette appears at a window, high above the throng. A fleeting glimpse, yet it lingers—an unsettling certainty that you have been seen. Behind a velvet mask, a pair of unmistakable eyes meet yours before vanishing into shadow.

An Excerpt from the Life of Adonai Bronscuitto, the Sculptor of Dewberry

The family of this renowned sculptor once sought to rise to power in the spice quarter of the city. But ambition, unchecked, is a dangerous thing, and their story is one of both aspiration and tragedy.

Adonai’s father, a man of insatiable hunger for influence, longed to win the favor of the Duchessa and elevate his name to the highest echelons of society. At the time, the Duchessa Fiore di Bianco—known as the White Flower of Caprice—was ailing, age beginning to weigh upon her. It was well known that her daughter, Fiore di Rosso, the Red Rose, would soon take her place.

A grand masque was to be held in her honor on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, marking both a celebration and an announcement—Fiore di Rosso’s ascension as the new Duchessa of Caprice. And so, on that fateful night, the city gathered at the grand palazzo, unaware that the wheels of fate had already begun to turn.

The grand palazzo shimmered beneath the glow of a hundred lanterns, their golden light casting restless shadows across the marble colonnades. Silk banners of crimson and ivory swayed with the evening breeze, perfumed with the heady scent of myrrh and blooming citrus.

Masked revelers spilled onto the terraces, their laughter a lilting melody beneath the strains of violins. Nobles draped in brocade and velvet whispered behind feathered masks, their words a dance of courtly intrigue and quiet ambition. Tonight, alliances would be made and broken, fortunes promised and stolen, all beneath the guise of merriment.

Among them, Adonai’s father moved with careful precision, his dark eyes ever watchful. He had spent years maneuvering, positioning himself within the Duchessa’s court, waiting for this very moment. A word in the right ear, a gift placed in the right hands—such was the currency of power in Caprice. And tonight, he would see his family rise.

But the Red Rose had already caught the scent of deception.

Fiore di Rosso stood at the heart of the masquerade, poised in a gown of deep garnet, the color of crushed pomegranates. Beneath the delicate filigree of her mask, her gaze was sharp, measuring each guest with the quiet knowledge of one who had long been trained in the art of shadows.

Somewhere beyond the revelry, a hush fell upon a quiet corridor, where whispers curled like smoke against gilded walls. A secret was being exchanged, a warning given too late.

For in Caprice, the price of ambition was often paid in blood.

Adonai moved with practiced ease, slipping through the crowd like a shadow. He had to reach her—to warn her. But something in her gaze, something unspoken, held him spellbound.

He quickened his pace.

Across the room, Fiore di Rosso met his eyes.

For a moment, the world around them dulled—the music, the laughter, the murmurs of scheming nobles all fading into a distant hum. In the flickering candlelight, her crimson gown billowed as she turned ever so slightly, as if anticipating his approach. But hesitation rooted Adonai’s feet to the marble floor. Did she already know? Had the truth reached her before he could speak it?

Then, from the shadows beyond the grand hall, movement—a shift in the air too deliberate to be mere coincidence.

A figure, cloaked and masked, slipping behind the velvet-draped columns.

Adonai's pulse quickened. He had no time left for doubt.

He surged forward.

And at that moment, the first scream rang out.

As the scream echoed through the grand hall, the sounds of the masquerade faltered and stilled. Guests, momentarily frozen in shock, began to scramble, their laughter and murmurs transforming into frantic whispers. The blood from the fallen nobleman pooled slowly across the marble floor, reflecting the flickering light of the lanterns. Masks, once symbols of anonymity, now seemed to suffocate the faces beneath them, each person wondering who among them was responsible for the act.

Adonai’s pulse quickened. He should have reached Fiore sooner. Her presence, even from a distance, had held a certain clarity amidst the chaos—until now.

He scanned the room, searching for her. The crowd had erupted into frenzied movement, nobles clutching at each other in panic, some retreating into the shadows, others standing frozen in their fear.

But then, his gaze fixed on her.

Fiore di Rosso stood at the far side of the hall, her crimson gown undisturbed, her expression unreadable behind the delicate filigree of her mask. For a moment, she did not move, as if waiting for the world to settle into its new, inevitable rhythm.

Then, as if sensing his gaze, she turned and started toward the hallway that led deeper into the palace, beyond the reach of the screaming, unsettled guests. Adonai’s heart clenched. She was leaving.

Without another thought, he began to push through the crowd, each step feeling heavier, the weight of his mission—and his uncertainty—growing with every moment. He had to reach her. But why? Why did he feel compelled to follow her into the unknown?

He finally emerged into the quieter corridors of the palazzo, the noise of the revelry muffled behind the ornate doors. Fiore had disappeared around the corner, and Adonai’s footsteps quickened.

As he rounded the corner, his breath catching in his throat, he saw her standing still, just before the grand staircase leading to the upper floors. She had not looked back, but he knew she had heard him approach. The tension in the air was thick—too thick. This moment felt like an ending. Or perhaps a beginning.

"Why?" he breathed, finally catching up to her. His voice was barely more than a whisper, as though speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile tension hanging between them. "Why leave now, Fiore?"

Fiore di Rosso turned to face him, her eyes flickering behind the mask. "You wanted to warn me," she said softly, her voice cool, but not unkind. "Did you think I didn’t know?"

Adonai frowned. "Know? Know what?"

The corners of her lips twitched. "That betrayal is already here. That tonight was always meant to be the turning point. That power... is never given willingly. It is always taken."

His mind raced. "Who?" he demanded, his voice rising. "Who is behind this? Who killed him?"

Fiore stepped closer, her gaze never wavering. "The better question is... who hasn’t? Everyone in that room has a stake in the game, Adonai. Some prefer to play their hands in the open, others behind a mask. The one who struck tonight... is just the first."

A shiver ran down his spine as the implications settled into place. "And you...?"

"I am neither a pawn nor a queen in this game," she said, her voice now firm with a sense of purpose. "I am the game itself. And you, Adonai, you’ve walked into it without realizing."

Before he could respond, a low, familiar voice echoed from behind them. "She’s right, you know."

Adonai spun around, his heart pounding, only to face the shadowy figure of his father standing in the doorway.

"You should have never come," his father said, his eyes cold and calculating. "But it’s too late now."

Fiore’s lips curved into a slight smile, as if the truth was finally out in the open. "Now the real game begins," she whispered.

The doors to the grand hall crashed open behind them, the sound of new footsteps approaching. It was clear—this was no longer a simple masquerade.

The masks were off.

And Adonai was no longer sure who his enemies were—or if he was among them.

She gave him a red rose. "I hope its you who wins"