Chapter 8 : Masquerade of Ash and Silk
1634 Words
That night, the Masquerade invitation arrived.
Heavy parchment. Gold seal. Impeccable calligraphy.
In honor of peace between empires, His Imperial Majesty Atum of Andrax will announce his formal betrothal…
Tara didn’t finish reading.
Her hands shook as she crushed the parchment.
So this was it.
Marriage.
War averted.
History snapping back into place.
She found him on the training grounds just before dusk, blade in hand, striking the post again and again as if it had personally betrayed him.
“So it’s true,” she said.
He didn’t stop. “It has to be.”
“You’re choosing her.”
“I’m choosing Andrax.”
She circled him slowly. “And me?”
His blade faltered for half a heartbeat.
“You were never meant to be chosen,” he said quietly.
She stopped walking.
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
He turned sharply. “Like what?”
“Like you’re already mourning me.”
The air between them pulsed, heavy with everything they refused to say.
“I can’t make you Empress,” he said. “But I won’t cast you aside.”
Her voice dropped. “You mean you’ll keep me.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“As what?” she challenged.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “As mine.”
The word curled around her spine like a caress and a threat.
“You’re asking me to stand beside a man who burns witches while sharing his bed,” she whispered.
“I’m asking you to survive long enough to change me.”
She searched his face, looking for the boy who’d lost everything, for the tyrant history remembered.
Instead, she found a man standing on the edge of a choice he was terrified to make.
The first public arrest happened three days later.
Tara heard the bells.
She felt them—deep in her bones, vibrating with the same frequency as every execution she had studied, every scream history had swallowed.
She didn’t go to the square.
She couldn’t.
Instead, she stood in Atum’s chambers that night, fury shaking her entire body.
“You promised to slow it,” she said.
“I promised to protect you,” he replied.
She slapped him.
He didn’t flinch.
“You don’t get to love me while doing this.”
His voice broke. “You don’t get to ask me to dismantle an empire overnight.”
“You built it on ashes.”
“And I am trying to stop it from becoming worse.”
They stood inches apart, breathing the same air, anger and desire twisting together until neither could tell which one would win.
“You will marry her,” Tara said hollowly.
“Yes.”
“And I will watch my people die.”
“No,” he said fiercely. “You will help me stop it—from the shadows.”
She laughed bitterly. “You’re asking me to become complicit.”
“I’m asking you to become powerful.”
Silence.
Then she stepped into him, pressing her forehead to his chest.
“This will destroy us.”
His arms closed around her anyway.
“Everything worth keeping does.”
That night, neither of them slept.
History bent quietly.
And far below the palace, the first pyres were being prepared.
The palace transformed itself for the Masquerade.
Silk banners spilled from balconies like bloodied waterfalls, gold-threaded masks lining the corridors as if the walls themselves were watching. Music drifted through the open halls—soft, intoxicating, carefully chosen to make nobles forget the cost of peace.
Tara hated it.
She stood before the mirror in her chambers, staring at the woman reflected there. The gown clung to her like a second skin, emerald silk slit high along her thigh, bare shoulders dusted with faint gold shimmer. Court magic, woven subtly into the fabric. Protection disguised as luxury.
Atum’s doing.
She lifted the mask from the vanity—obsidian black, veined with faint silver lines that pulsed when her fingers brushed them.
A witch’s mask, she thought bitterly.
A knock came.
“Lady Tara,” a servant murmured. “His Majesty awaits.”
Her stomach twisted.
The ballroom was already alive when she entered.
Hundreds of masks. Laughter. Wine. Power.
Atum stood at the center of it all, dressed in black and gold, crown absent but authority unmistakable. His mask was minimal—half his face bare, as if daring anyone to forget who he was.
His gaze found her instantly.
The look he gave her burned.
Possessive. Furious. Wanting.
She hated herself for feeling it too.
As she moved through the crowd, whispers followed.
That’s her.
The Emperor’s favourite.
They say she survived the assassination attempt.
A witch.
She stopped when a woman stepped into her path.
Princess Elyndor of Belinium.
Her gown was ivory and silver, her mask delicate, her smile sharpened to a blade.
“So,” the princess said softly, eyes raking over Tara without shame, “you’re real.”
Tara inclined her head. “As are you.”
Elyndor’s smile widened. “I imagined you taller.”
“I imagined you quieter.”
A pause. Then laughter—polite, controlled.
“You must understand,” Elyndor said, circling her slowly, “men like Atum collect dangerous things. Exotic things. It doesn’t mean they keep them.”
Tara leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Careful, Princess. Some dangerous things bite back.”
Elyndor’s eyes flickered—just for a moment.
Then the music stilled.
Atum stepped forward.
“People of Andrax,” he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly. “Tonight marks the end of uncertainty.”
Tara’s chest tightened.
“To preserve peace between empires,” he continued, “I will formally bind Andrax and Belinium in union.”
Applause erupted.
Elyndor slipped her arm through his.
Tara didn’t look away.
Atum didn’t either.
“For the good of the empire,” he finished.
The words tasted like ash.
She left before the applause ended.
No one stopped her.
No one dared.
Outside, the night air was sharp, cutting through silk and illusion alike. Tara moved fast, slipping past guards, past revelry, toward the lower city.
Toward the bells.
They rang once.
Twice.
Arrest signal.
She reached the alley just as soldiers dragged a young woman from her home, wrists bound in iron etched with runes Tara recognized instantly.
Containment.
The witch looked terrified. Young. Untrained.
Tara didn’t hesitate.
Magic flooded her veins, cold and precise. She whispered a word that hadn’t been spoken aloud in centuries.
The runes flickered.
Cracked.
The chains fell apart like rusted paper.
“What—” one soldier started.
Smoke exploded between them.
When it cleared, Tara was gone.
And so was the witch.
Atum found the records at dawn.
Not the official ones.
The forbidden ones.
He stood alone in the sealed archive, staring at a parchment that should not exist—dated centuries ahead, written in a hand eerily similar to Tara’s.
The Purges escalate after the Masquerade. Casualties triple. The Emperor hardens.
His blood ran cold.
More pages followed.
Revisions. Corrections. Notes in the margins.
This is not how it happened before.
She changes things.
He changes because of her.
His hands shook.
“You’re rewriting me,” he whispered.
Footsteps echoed.
Tara stood in the doorway, cloak torn, eyes blazing.
“You read it,” she said.
“You came from the future.”
“Yes.”
“You knew what I would become.”
“Yes.”
“And you still stayed.”
She stepped closer. “Because you don’t have to.”
His voice broke. “I already have.”
“No,” she snapped. “You are.”
Silence stretched, heavy and electric.
“I saved three tonight,” she said quietly.
His jaw tightened. “You risked everything.”
“I risked nothing compared to them.”
He reached for her, stopping just short. “If they find out—”
“They already suspect.”
His hand closed around her wrist. “You’re forcing my hand.”
She met his gaze without fear. “Good.”
The space between them snapped.
Their kiss was brutal this time—teeth, breath, anger, need. He backed her against the archive wall, one hand fisted in her hair, the other braced beside her head.
“You will destroy me,” he growled.
She smiled against his mouth. “You’re already corrupt.”
He laughed—a dark, broken sound—and kissed her again.
Later, when the world had narrowed to heat and breath and the promise of ruin, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I will marry her,” he said hoarsely.
“I know.”
“But you will stay.”
“As what?” she asked.
His voice was low, deadly sincere. “As mine.”
“As your mistress.”
“As my official consort,” he snapped. “Protected by law. Above nobles. Untouchable.”
“And hunted in secret.”
He cupped her face, forehead resting against hers. “I will slow the hunts. End them quietly.”
“How many more die while you decide?”
His grip tightened. “Don’t make me choose between you and the empire.”
“You already did,” she whispered. “Two hundred years ago.”
Silence swallowed them.
Then he kissed her like a man standing at the edge of execution.
They didn’t speak when it happened.
Words would have ruined it.
This wasn’t tenderness. It was collision. Rage and grief and hunger tearing at each other until nothing remained but heat and breath and the knowledge that tomorrow would destroy them.
Outside, the empire celebrated peace.
Inside the palace, history bled quietly into something new.
And neither of them was innocent anymore.
- Writer
