"Behind the Mask"

The grand ballroom shimmered under the glow of a thousand candles, their light reflecting off gilded mirrors and the jeweled masks of Venezia’s elite. Among them moved Lady Seraphina, her porcelain mask adorned with sapphires and silver filigree, her laughter like chimes in the wind. She was the most desired woman in the city—flawless, untouchable.

But beneath the mask, her skin burned.

The Cracks Begin

It started as a faint itch, a discomfort she dismissed as the heat of the ballroom. But by midnight, the pain sharpened, like needles pressing into her cheeks. Excusing herself, Seraphina fled to the privacy of her chambers, locking the door before tearing the mask from her face.

The mirror showed the truth.

A network of thin, black veins crept from her hairline, spreading like cracks in glass. Her breath hitched. Not again.

The Bargain

Five years ago, Seraphina had been ordinary—a merchant’s daughter with a plain face and a sharper wit. Then he came: the masked stranger who promised beauty beyond compare.

"A drop of blood, a whispered name, and the world will adore you," he had said.

She had agreed.

The next morning, her skin was luminous, her features refined. Men fought for her favor; women envied her. But the stranger had warned her: "The mask is your true face now. Remove it for too long, and the illusion breaks."

She hadn’t understood—until the first time she woke to her reflection reverting, her true face struggling beneath the glamour like a prisoner.

The Unraveling

Now, the curse was accelerating. Each night, she had to wear the mask longer. Each morning, the veins spread further.

Her maid, Liora, was the only one who knew. "You must find him," she urged. "Undo the bargain."

But the stranger had vanished—until tonight.

A note slipped into Seraphina’s gloved hand:

"Midnight. The abandoned chapel. Come alone, or rot as you are."

The Revelation

The chapel loomed, its broken stained glass casting jagged shadows. The stranger stood at the altar, his own mask—a hollow-eyed thing of bone—glistening in the moonlight.

"You’re dying," he said simply. "The mask is eating you."

Seraphina’s hands trembled. "You never told me the price!"

"You never asked." His voice was a whisper. "Beauty is a hunger. It consumes."

She ripped off her mask, the veins now black as ink. "Take it back!"

He tilted his head. "There is no ‘back.’ Only forward. The mask can become you—forever. But you must give it something real."

"What?"

"Your name. Your voice. Your memories. Choose."

The Choice

Seraphina thought of her father, who’d loved her plain face. Of Liora, who’d stayed despite the lies. Of the hollowness of admiration that never touched her soul.

"No." She let the mask clatter to the floor. "I’d rather be ugly and real."

The stranger sighed—almost disappointed. "Then look in the mirror."

She turned. The veins receded. Her reflection was her own again—ordinary, tired, hers.

When she turned back, the stranger was gone.

Only her mask remained, hollow and brittle.

She crushed it underfoot.

The Aftermath

The city whispered when Lady Seraphina stopped wearing masks. Some called her brave. Others, a fool. But for the first time in years, she breathed freely.

Beauty, she realized, was not a mask to wear.

It was the courage to stand without one.

The End.

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