Enveloped by the lulling strains of waltz, we dance, my beloved and I. The other couples twist and turn around us, never pausing, like well-oiled pieces of clockwork. Copious amounts of rustling chiffon and mirror-smooth silk clad the ladies in the latest fashions, the gentlemen have donned extravagant suits for the occasion. Their chosen colours denote allegations, some fake, some true, some intentional, but none ever accidentally picked.

A swish of scarlet, pretentious and in abundance, on the side alerts me to the presence of the youngling who has recently joined the Masquarade. My lady catches my side glance and curls her lips into half a smirk, half a condescending smile. The youngling lacks subtlety required to survive the early years of service, her low-cut bodice and rosy cheeks will not protect her for long.

Lace-cut paper lanterns shielding the gas lamps illuminating the ballroom cast intricate shadows upon the dancers but my eye picks out the d’Lardick green with ease as a couple twirls by, carried upon the stately notes of the violin. Ouroborians, I think in disgust as their sigils catch the light, nobody expected any different from them but I am still irritated, we have spent months recruiting them into the Crimson Priesthood only for them to cling to the Legion the second they could.

My dame barely contains a sneer at their passing, it was her task to recruit them. There is no worry in her eyes though, only annoyance. I look at her fondly, time seems to slow and we become the centre of the universe. The frown suits her little and I worry she shall soon have to wear a mask to cover up the wrinkles and other devastation undeath shall wreck upon her if she continues to allow emotion to manifest on her beauteous face. But this is quite fine, I shall purchase for her a most extravagant and luxurious mask there is, I can afford to. Silk dyed crimson with the blood of the lessers, studded with shimmering ambers, gilt, framed by black lace. Yes, it shall fit her golden brown eyes magnificently.

Suddenly, I feel my throat close up as if I gigantic fist was crushing it and I know burn lines manifest on my neck despite there being no hand. I pause and my beloved looks directly into my eyes, detached curiosity on her face, and the calm one has when they are in control. She need not fret, I make a wonderful scapegoat. Crimson luminescence spills from my eyes as the Lord of Lords looks through me, and it is then that she knows fear, for He is looking straight ahead.

Crimson lightning tears through the room and strikes her down, her body convulsing upon the ground. I look from above upon my darling, my foolish darling, my darling who has lost sight of that which is below, much as the youngling fears not that which is above her. The d’Lardick, the impoverished d’Lardick, were quite easily bought, infiltrating His Adjutant with maddened glee so typical for their House.

I crouch next to her convulsing body and gently pluck the medallion of the High Priest from her chest. The foolish darling in scarlet chippers above me and locks it in around my neck, pushing into my body much closer than necessary, and then smiles impishly at me. Ah, why not play? I send her a most charming smile and twirl her around with grace, and then pull into an embrace and we dance. The waltz never stopped playing.