Andros Du Vogare’s estate had been a hive of activity the entire evening, servants scurried from stone storerooms to high vaunted halls with all manner of twinkling cutlery and porcelain plates. The most expensive of linens had been placed over sturdy polished tables, the most ostentatious of crystal wine glasses had been brought forth from locked cabinets, the eldest of wines from the southron Commonwealth - renowned for the quality of their vineyards - had been retrieved from the dusty cellar cages they had languished within for decades, finally to be used for their intended purpose and accompanied by all manner of spiced ales, amber meads and exotic spirits.

Sweating, hunched over cooks had languished to prepare the most lavish of meals; roasted duck, freshly cut venison, veal and the meat of specially grown capons to name just a few. Pork and bacon dishes were accompanied by potatoes, peppers, and all manner of exotic spices imported from oh so mysterious Vaelanaire or from the markets of the sand blasted city states of Muzdahir.

Every room had a table filled with exquisite desserts. Apple, orange and strawberry tarts, cheesecakes, trifles, custard and marzipan cakes. More food and alcohol furnished the halls than a legion of high spirited soldiers would be able to devour even after the most legendary of victories.

The Elector had gone so far as to commission a set of sugar sculptures depicting three of Belerian’s - the founder of the Empire and prophet of Undine - miracles. Andros had chosen to depict the prophets victory over the warlord Ostrius the Cruel, his reigniting of the mystical southern flame of Triana, and how he had returned water to the cursed desert of Narbonne, now the Empires heartland. None of the prophets' more popular miracles had been portrayed, and certainly none of his acts which involved and had opposed the Fae.

At the centre of the manor, the spacious Great Hall had been prepared for a night of dancing and its walls had been lined with velvet aquamarine banners, the colour of the Du Vogare house. Gilded candelabras and hanging chandeliers cast a soft light throughout the estate, a troupe of minstrels had been hired to sing and juggle and dance, to strum and twang and caress at lutes, harps, cellos and violins for entertainment.

All these preparations served not just as a way to entertain his guests, but to demonstrate the wealth and power of the Elector's House and his province.

That evening coach after coach had arrived before the marbled walls of the manor, disgorging swarms of stately dignitaries with puffed up collars and stern countenances, pretty young maidens in dresses of the finest silk each competing to outshine the other, fat merchants with wobbling gaits who eyed the dessert tables almost as lustfully as they eyed the maidens, and finally the heir to the Emperor himself.

Heliot Phyrian was a handsome young man, just nearing the end of his teens with flowing blond hair, deep blue eyes and a surety to his gait that had been instilled in him since the day he was born. He wore a mask of silver and gold with edges moulded into drying flowers, as if the artisan who had crafted it had intended to evoke a feeling of autumn leaves. At his side there was a short, slim man with features so plain and grey cloth garments so simplistic one might have mistaken him for one of the estates servants. In truth, the man was Alain Calvert, the ‘Empire’s Rapier’, and one of the deadliest duelists on the continent. He wore no mask, a pistol hung beside the practical hilt of a rapier upon his belt and his eyes shone like a hawks in the candlelight.

A host of other notables followed them; the Archbishopess of the Cathedral of Undine in a habit as blue as a pond on a summer eve, the recently vindicated Merov Tyran, who was indulged with a great many ‘I never believed you could possibly be guilty’ comments from a great many liars, and the renowned actress Tabitha Sotheim wearing a scandalous dress that showed off more skin that it covered, but not a one who could outshine Heliot in importance.

An army of sycophantic admirers and hanger ons already caroused through the manor, lit pipes smothering the halls in a smoky mist that threatened to overwhelm the smell of perfumes and spices with that of burnt tobacco. All of this was occurring under the watchful eyes of the Knights of the Tattered Banner.

But what should have been a warm, cheerful affair which would generate life long bonds, humorous tales of drinking and whispered rumours of secret, illicit meetings felt entirely off. Entirely wrong. Torrents of rain clattered onto flagstones outside the manor and what were meant to be well domesticated cherry trees and bushes scratched wildly against window panes like clawed fingers trying to scrape their way inside so their owners could terrorize the festivities. Flashes of lightning sent queer shadows dancing through the manor and the growling gong of thunder sounded like a wild beast roaring in the night.

The evening had taken on an air that was far more malicious than any might have expected at a simple masquerade ball, so much so that even the dashing young military officers amongst the party goers, who generally wouldn’t hesitate to face down a charging band of Josuun raiders with only a sabre, couldn’t help but flinch and start at things they thought they could see just outside the darkened glass windows. All the while the young ladies swore that when their peripheral vision caught a look at themselves reflected within any of the mirrors around the estate that their visage was withered and old, but returned to the full bloom of youth the moment they paid full attention. And the avaricious merchants shared with no one how each crash of thunder sounded like the many business partners they had stepped over to gain their position in life crying out their sins and trying to claw themselves out of shallow graves.

Above the Great Hall surveying it all with his gauntleted hand resting upon a thick stone balcony was Andros Du Vogare.

He wore the same outfit as earlier in the evening, when he had observed Leorik von Leyn’s final act; a set of mastercrafted, silver lined plate armour adorned with painstakingly carved engravings of mounted lancers slaying vicious dragons, muscled warriors throwing javelins and all manner of heroes performing feats of ancient legend. The armours chestpiece depicted his house’s emblem, a golden chalice that was studded around the rim with sparkling blue lapis lazuli gems, and around his waist he had tightened an aquamarine sash of silk, matched with the bejewelled hilt of the broadsword at his hip.

“Something about all of this doesn’t feel right, I think people are starting to feel off about the party. What if the Tattered Knights start to suspect something?”

Standing beside him, arms crossed and entirely unimpressed by the great expense that had been paid to bring so many of the Empire’s finest together was the Thin Man. The Fae was adorned in an outfit that was greater than mastercrafted. Robes made of white spider silk threaded together by an ancient Chandthiran Emperors virgin daughters a thousand years ago bedecked the Thin Man’s form, and he wore a masquerade mask that was as black as obsidian and threaded with pure gold which highlighted pupils that were all starlight. It certainly wasn’t the greatest or the grandest of the Fae’s outfits, but it was more than enough for a paltry affair like this.

“Of course it doesn’t feel right, Andros. I’d say they could smell the stench of your betrayal in the air, but it couldn’t be fouler than all these servants and lackeys clumping up in the halls.” The Thin Man draped his arm over the noble’s wide shoulders, “But what matters is that they’re here. Once you’ve presented our gift to the Heir, then all of your troubles will be over, and you shall be free of me. As for the Knights? They are sworn to you, are they not? Some Humans are so fond of their honour, despite the fact not a thing truly compels them to act in accordance with it, they shall follow you.”

Andros shivered, shuffling his shoulders this way and that at the Fae’s uncomfortable touch. He thought of what he would be unleashing on the Empire for a moment, but then he thought of his son. The Empire could be damned for all he cared, as long as the boy was kept safe - he had promised her that. “Free of you, forever. And you will not harm my son?”

“I shall not, Andros. We agreed that he would live in exchange for your service in this matter. In fact, I can assure you that he will live a long, plentiful life.” The Fae kept that arm around Andros, enjoying the man’s discomfort. Enjoyment swiftly turned to agitation, and the Thin Man’s nose scrunched up in irritation. Andros was used to the moodswings by now. “Why are you still here? Put things in motion, you halfwit!” The sound of the Thin Man’s backhand slapping against Andros’ face was like thunder, and bowled the Elector onto his back.

Shame burned in Andros’ heart, shame mixed with humiliation at the treatment he was forced to endure. He stumbled to his feet, back into his study where the mask lay wrapped in purple silk. The Thin Man followed, visibly seething at Andros and smacking an ornamental lion off of the desk in a childish act of rage. The closer he was to the mask, the more he could interact with the real world. “Do not touch it. And make sure no one else touches it. Whatever happens, it must be the heir and the heir alone that wears this mask Andros. Do not fail me in this.”

“I won’t.” Andros took the silk covered mask carefully into his gauntleted hands, steeling himself for what he would have to do next. He took a deep, deep breath and made his way out of the study, ignoring the growing bruise on his cheek. A stone faced servant stood outside the study - Andros couldn’t remember his name, he had been chosen to replace Phylos just a day ago - and inclined his head.

“Sir. The ball seems to be going well. Do you plan on joining the party?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” He stood straight backed and as tall as he could, “Where is the heir? I should go to see him first.”

“Of course sir. In the Great Hall, pride of place.” The servant arched a brow at the growing mark on the Elector’s cheek. “Do you need a repowdering, sir?”

Andros waved him off, already striding off down the stairs and into the thronging hoard of guests. A man like the Elector - clad in armour as he was - didn’t have much trouble forcing himself through the crowd, and none were likely to claim he was rude within his own home, though they might have muttered about it in the gambling parlours and cafes of the city afterward.

Heliot had taken up a corner of the Great Hall, close to a ready supply of mead and sweetbreads. A semicircle of fan fluttering debutantes, worldly admirals, poets and merchants had formed around him in what looked like some form of ad-hoc court. Tabitha Sotheim stood beside him, punctuating any comment that so much as hinted at a witticism with a high pitched, squealing giggle. With the way she had pulled her dress down even further than when she had arrived, no one could doubt her intentions - the heir was the second greatest patron any actor could entice after all. Lurking about beside him still was that grey cloaked figure with the sheathed rapier.

“Ah! Prince Phyrian, I hope you’re enjoying the party so far.” Andros had a voice that could be heard on the far side of a battlefield, and it came in handy for being heard over the din of the heir’s admirers.

Heliot’s gaze turned toward him, and a grin lit up those youthful features. “Ah! Elector Du Vogare, we were just talking about you, about your campaign in the south last year. As for the party?” He glanced toward Tabitha and cleared his throat, “It’s delightful.”

Knives stabbed at Andros’ heart as he heard Heliot speak. The boy admired him. “That was nothing. Warding off barbaric bands of mountain folk is easy enough. I wanted to show you something, though.” The Elector brought his hand up, peeling back the silk and revealing that horned mask with its golden frills and immaculate design. It looked like the envy of Kings, Emperors, and Gods. “A gift for you, my prince.”

Gasps erupted from the crowd, and the heir’s eyes went wide at the mask. It was, all of them would agree, the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. The final masterpiece of the greatest artist the Empire had ever seen, or would ever see hence. Even the usually stone faced Calvert was taken aback by its finery.

“My lord, this is too fine to be given as simply a gift…” Heliot managed to force himself to resist, but he hoped and knew the Elector would press the point.

And press the point he did, holding the mask out further “I simply must insist. This was made especially for you, your grace.”

“If you’re insisting my Lord, I can't say no.” Heliot brought his hand up to remove his own mask, passing it over to Calvert and moving to take the horned gift. The Thin Man’s ambitions began to take shape, the doom of the Empire became clearer.

That was when it started.

Wails and screams echoed throughout the hall. The clang of steel meeting steel punctuated the distress, and the cry of warriors filled the estate. Andros’ heart sank and his throat clenched at what he heard next.

“Unsheathe your steel, fools! The Empire is under attack! The dead walk! The tombs have opened! Fight for your lives!”