Beneath the Mask

The ballroom shimmered under the golden glow of chandeliers, each crystal prism catching the light like a whisper of a secret. Guests danced in swirling gowns and crisp suits, every face hidden behind ornate masks of feather, velvet, and gold. It was the annual Masquerade of Delaire, where identities were illusions and truths were left behind at the grand oak doors.

Amid the laughter and music, Elira moved like a shadow. Her mask, plain black with silver filigree, stood in sharp contrast to the opulence around her. Unlike the others, she wasn't there to drink, dance, or flirt. She was there for answers.

Ten years ago, her brother disappeared on the night of the Masquerade. His name had been whispered, then forgotten, buried under layers of gossip and denial. She had searched every year since, and each time, she returned with nothing but heavier questions. But this year, there was something different in the air—a letter, unsigned, inviting her to return.

"If you want the truth, come to the dance. Look not at the mask, but beneath it."

The clock struck ten.

Elira’s eyes swept the crowd. She had memorized faces from old photographs, studied the movements of Delaire’s elite. But the masks made them strangers. A tall man in a lion-shaped mask offered his hand. She declined. A woman with red plumes trailing from her mask laughed too loudly nearby. Still, nothing.

Then, she saw him.

He stood alone by the grand staircase, his mask silver and simple, but his stance familiar—left hand loosely clenched, right thumb brushing the cuff of his coat. It was the habit of her brother, Lucan. The one thing he’d never broken.

Elira moved toward him, heart pounding, mind screaming to slow down. But she didn’t stop until they stood face to face.

"Lucan?"

The man tilted his head. "That name hasn’t touched my ears in years."

Her breath caught. “It’s you.”

“I am who you think I am,” he said slowly, "but I’m also not."

She stepped back. “What does that mean? You disappeared. We searched for you. I searched. Why—why didn’t you come back?”

He turned, his eyes dark beneath the mask. “Because Lucan died that night. I watched him fall.”

“You’re standing here.”

He hesitated. Then, in a hushed voice, “Not as him. Not anymore.”

Elira stared at him, trying to read the face she couldn’t see. “Then who are you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he extended his hand. “Walk with me.”

They moved through the ballroom’s fringes, into one of the side corridors lit by sconces and fading oil portraits. The sounds of the ball grew distant.

“Ten years ago,” he said, “I uncovered something—something dangerous. The Council, the ones who host this masquerade, are more than just noblemen with wine and secrets. They control everything: trade, justice, even life and death in Delaire.”

Elira swallowed hard. “You think I haven’t suspected that? But that doesn’t explain—”

“They knew I was getting close. So they made me disappear. Burned the house, erased the name. But one of them spared me—on the condition I become one of them.”

“You joined them?” Elira’s voice rose, filled with disbelief. “You let them hide you while we mourned?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” he snapped. “It was that or death. And if I died, there’d be no one left to stop them.”

She stared at him, torn between anger and relief. “Then why now? Why reach out to me after all these years?”

Lucan pulled a small book from his coat—leather-bound, edges scorched. “Because I found it. Their ledger. Proof of their dealings—names, payments, even murders. But I can’t expose them alone. One voice won't be heard. Two might.”

He handed her the book. It was heavier than it looked. Inside, page after page in tight, slanted handwriting—contracts, initials, blackmail.

“This is why they wear masks,” he said. “So when they do terrible things, no one sees their face. But we know. We see what’s beneath.”

Elira looked up. “Then let’s take off ours.”

A sudden sound—the snap of a shoe against marble. They weren’t alone.

A figure emerged from the shadows. The red-plumed woman from earlier, mask still in place. “Touching reunion,” she said, voice like silk. “But foolish. We warned you, Lucan. Stay hidden, stay silent.”

Elira stepped forward. “You don’t get to control people anymore.”

The woman laughed. “And you’ll stop us with what? A book and sentiment?”

“No,” Lucan said, pulling a small recorder from his pocket. “With your confession.”

Silence. Then her mask tilted. “You think this ends with me? There are dozens more. Hundreds.”

“Then we’ll find them,” Elira said, lifting her chin. “And one by one, we’ll show the world what lies beneath their masks.”

The woman’s smile faded.

In the hours that followed, the masquerade fell into chaos. Guards arrested. Names released. Masks ripped off.

When the sun rose over Delaire, the ballroom was silent. Elira stood at the balcony with her brother, the wind tugging gently at their clothes.

“You really came back,” she said.

Lucan looked at the horizon. “No. We came back.”

And for the first time in a decade, Elira let herself believe that truth could be more powerful than disguise—that beneath every mask, there’s still a face waiting to be seen.