I’d slipped into an almost comfortable little sleeve of existence, keeping subtly to the shadowy corners, watching the beautiful gowns and stately suits as they danced and conversed and glittered in the beautiful room.

Until one approached me.

I used to trade stories with the inn keeper on the road to the coast; fanciful tales of stately princes and mythical beings, the kind of story that belonged in a book of fantasies. Yet, in a dark suit, with silver hair, and a gait befitting royalty, a man emerged from the crowd…

… making a beeline for me.

My heart raced, my breath catching in my throat as he reached me, and I clumsily curtseyed in response to his stately bow. This was the one that had sent the invitation? This visage of a man with a voice like smooth whiskey and honeycomb?

Half of his face remained shrouded by some intricate mask, where my eyes remained as he spoke.

“Th-the pleasure is mine, Sir,” I stumbled, pausing to recollect myself, “you’re… the one I’m to thank for the invitation?”

I felt my fingers fidgeting nervously at the skirt of my dark gown, the rough fabric course under my fingertips. With a grimace, I forced them to be still, but at the same time, I felt my gaze hone in upon the man before me. There was… something, a nagging sensation, at the base of my skull. No, I thought to myself, oh no, no, please no, not here

Swallowing, I blinked back the thoughts,

“I’m afraid… you have me at a disadvantage, my lord.”