CUPID

THE CRIMSON MASQUERADE

Chapter 3: The Crimson Masquerade

The week leading up to the masquerade felt like a slow descent into something otherworldly. Dreame High had begun to shift in subtle ways—hallways seemed longer, shadows stretched farther, and whispers no longer waited for silence. They crept into Lucretia’s thoughts even during daylight, curling around her mind like smoke.

She hadn’t planned to attend the Crimson Masquerade. After the incident with the locket and the shattered mirror, she’d promised herself to stay away from anything remotely strange. But when the invitation arrived—slipped into her locker without a trace of who had placed it—her resolve began to unravel.

The envelope was velvet, deep red, sealed with wax that bore the school’s emblem: a rose entwined with a serpent. Inside, the card shimmered faintly, as if inked in moonlight. It spoke of tradition, elegance, and mystery. Masks were required. Secrets were welcomed.

Lucretia stared at it for a long time, her fingers tracing the embossed lettering. She felt something stir inside her—not fear, not excitement, but a pull. Like gravity, but older.

Tessa was furious when she found out.

“You’re not seriously going,” she said, arms crossed as they sat beneath the old oak near the science block. “After everything that’s happened?”

Lucretia hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s like… I have to.”

“That’s exactly how it starts,” Tessa muttered. “That’s how it started for me.”

Lucretia looked at her friend, the worry etched into her face. “You think it’s dangerous?”

“I think it’s worse than dangerous. I think it’s a trap.”

But Lucretia couldn’t shake the feeling that the masquerade was more than a party. It was a threshold. And something on the other side was waiting.

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The Night of the Masquerade

Saturday arrived cloaked in mist. The school grounds were transformed—lanterns floated above the walkways, casting golden light on the marble paths. Music drifted from the Grand Ballroom, soft and haunting, like a lullaby for ghosts.

Lucretia stood before her mirror, dressed in a gown the color of dried roses. It had appeared in her wardrobe that morning, wrapped in silk. She hadn’t told anyone. Her mask was black lace, delicate and intricate, with tiny rubies at the corners. It felt familiar, though she couldn’t recall ever seeing it before.

She stepped into the night, her heart pounding. The ballroom loomed ahead, its doors open wide, revealing a world bathed in candlelight and velvet.

Inside, the air shimmered with perfume and anticipation. Students danced in swirling colors, their laughter echoing like distant bells. The chandeliers above sparkled like constellations, and golden statues lined the walls, their eyes watching.

Lucretia moved through the crowd, her senses heightened. Every glance, every whisper, every flicker of light felt charged. She didn’t recognize anyone. Even familiar voices sounded foreign behind their masks.

Then she saw him.

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The Dancer

He stood near the orchestra, still as stone. His mask was bone-white, smooth and featureless, except for the eyes—two glowing orbs of gold that seemed to pierce through the room. His suit was midnight black, tailored to perfection, and he wore no gloves. His hands were pale, almost translucent.

Lucretia felt her breath catch.

He turned toward her slowly, as if he’d been waiting. Without a word, he extended his hand.

She hesitated, then placed her fingers in his. His touch was cold, but not unpleasant. Like moonlight on skin.

They moved to the center of the ballroom, and the crowd parted as if by instinct. The music shifted—slower, deeper. A waltz that felt older than the school itself.

As they danced, he leaned in, his voice low and melodic.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

Lucretia’s eyes searched his mask. “Why?”

“Because you’ve already been chosen.”

She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened—gently, insistently.

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he whispered something in Latin, the words curling around her like smoke. She didn’t understand them, but they stirred something in her. A memory, maybe. Or a warning.

The music swelled. Her vision blurred. The ballroom shimmered, the chandeliers flickering like stars about to collapse.

Then he stopped.

He released her hand and stepped back. The crowd resumed dancing as if nothing had happened. He vanished into the throng, leaving only the echo of his voice in her ears.

---

The Morning After

Lucretia didn’t sleep that night. She lay awake, replaying the dance, the words, the glowing eyes. Her journal sat open beside her, filled with scribbles and half-translated Latin. She felt like she was unraveling a tapestry woven in riddles.

The next morning, the school was silent.

Too silent.

Whispers spread like wildfire. A student had been found in the rose garden behind the west library.

Lucretia ran there, heart pounding.

The garden was cordoned off with velvet rope. Teachers stood grim-faced, speaking in hushed tones. She caught a glimpse through the hedges.

A boy. Mask still on. His body posed like a statue—kneeling, one hand outstretched, as if offering something.

Except his chest was hollow.

His heart was gone.

Removed cleanly. No blood. Just an empty cavity, and a rose placed inside.

Lucretia turned away, bile rising in her throat.

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The Investigation

By noon, the masquerade was suspended indefinitely. Students were questioned. Rumors swirled.

Some said the boy had danced with a masked figure just before midnight. Others claimed he’d been seen near the old wing earlier that week.

Lucretia kept silent.

She knew the truth was deeper. Older.

She returned to her room and opened her journal. The Latin phrases stared back at her. She flipped to the back and found something new.

A note.

Folded neatly. Tucked between the pages.

It wasn’t written in riddles. It was direct. And it was personal.

Lucretia’s breath caught as she read it. Whoever had written it knew what she’d seen. What she’d felt. And they were warning her—this was just the beginning. Something was watching. Something was waking.

She looked out her window toward the west library.

The old wing.

And somewhere in the shadows, Cupid smiled.

Not with love.

But with blood.