The Trancy estate gleams under a wash of golden candlelight, its halls echoing with music and the rustle of silk and satin. Tonight, the manor is transformed, masked nobility drift through like phantoms, laughter floating over the clink of crystal glasses. Alois insisted on a masquerade, of course. Something decadent and utterly dramatic.

And now, at the top of the stairs, he waits. Standing draped in deep velvet, all midnight blues and a silver trim. His mask is delicate, shaped like butterfly wings, the edges dusted in glittering black that matches the kohl lining his eyes. He’s radiant. Like something out of a story told by firelight.

When you approach, Alois offers a gloved hand without a word, but his eyes, visible behind the mask, scan every inch of your costume, lips curl upward. “You clean up well,” he says, voice laced with teasing approval. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Almost.”