Moonberry
Bitter and Sweet, do not eat.
- One on One
- Group
- Off-site
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ Clockwork Masquerade *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊
The Coldiron Estate stood grand and imposing against the mist-kissed skyline of Clockhaven, its towering spires and gilded archways bathed in the soft glow of enchanted lanterns. The long, winding drive was lined with carriages and steam-mobiles, their brass fittings gleaming under the damp drizzle that clung to the crisp early spring air. Beyond the estate’s high iron gates, masked figures stepped onto the polished stone steps, drawn into the evening’s splendor like moths to an open flame.
At the entrance, massive double doors—each carved with intricate depictions of ravens and roses entwined in thorned vines—stood open, framing the warm glow of the grand ballroom within. The gentle strains of a string quartet floated through the air, interwoven with the hum of conversation and laughter. Wealth and power cloaked the gathering like a second skin, gilded masks hiding the faces of Widersia’s elite as they wove through the lavish spectacle that was the Coldiron masquerade.
And woven into that spectacle—subtle but unmistakable—was the imitation of fae beauty.
Silken wings, shimmering like dragonfly filaments, adorned the backs of dancers twirling beneath the chandeliers. Crafted horns, polished to a marble sheen, curled above the brows of noblewomen who draped themselves in sheer, flowing fabrics, meant to mimic an otherworldly grace. Even the men partook, their coats adorned with iridescent trims that fluttered with subtle enchantments, illusions designed to mimic the ethereal allure of a people they claimed to admire.
It was meant to be an homage. A fashion statement. A trend.
And yet, for those who knew the truth, it was a mockery wrapped in silk and gold.
The steam-mobile slowed to a halt at the base of the steps, the hiss of cooling metal and the quiet thwump of an unfurled umbrella breaking the murmur of the rain. Gerard stepped out first, his movements swift and practiced as he shielded the evening’s guests from the drizzle.
Inside the carriage, Pella took a moment to adjust the intricate green-and-gold filigree mask that framed her sharp features. With a glance toward Victorique, she reached into the lacquered case resting in her lap and withdrew a second mask—one designed specifically for her smaller companion.
She held it up briefly, allowing the candlelight to flicker against the bronze and silver inlays woven seamlessly into its structure.
“This will do more than suit the occasion,” she murmured, placing it in Victorique’s hands. “It’s laced with an enchantment—strong enough to deflect lower-tiered appraisals, subtle enough not to raise suspicion. The Coldirons have no patience for frauds and con artists, but their kind rarely question what they assume to be beneath them.”
Her lips quirked slightly.
“Wear it well.”
Pella’s gaze flickered briefly toward Victorique’s coat, her expression unreadable. There, concealed within the folds of fabric, was Illya—silent, unseen, yet ever watchful.
The pixie had not stirred since they left the manor, but now, as they neared the heart of the masquerade, the faintest flicker of mana crackled against the air, so subtle that only those attuned to such things would notice. Illya was charging the recording device. A precaution, no doubt. Whatever lay beyond those gilded doors, they needed proof—undeniable, irrefutable proof that would expose the Coldirons for what they were.
Pella turned back toward Victorique, inclining her head slightly.
“It should be fully charged now,” she murmured, her voice low, as though merely remarking on the quality of the rain. “Best to keep it close. Once we’re inside, subtlety will be everything.”
The doors of the steam-mobile swung open, the cold drizzle of early spring air curling inward, sharp against the warmth of the cabin. Gerard extended his hand, shielding them beneath the curve of his umbrella as they stepped out onto the polished stone.
The scent of wet earth, distant cigar smoke, and spiced wine carried through the mist-laden air.
Pella ascended the steps first, each movement poised yet effortless, her emerald-green gown sweeping behind her like the trailing wings of a bird in flight.
The towering double doors of the Coldiron Estate stood open in welcome, spilling golden light into the mist-draped night. The hush of falling rain faded as they stepped inside, the estate’s opulence pressing down like a second skin.
Immediately, the grand foyer unfolded before them—a vast marble expanse, polished to a mirror sheen, where guests in their gilded masks and elegant silks drifted in clusters of murmured conversation. A massive ornamental fountain stood at the room’s center, carved from white alabaster into the shape of intertwined ravens, their outstretched wings forming the basin. The water, infused with faint luminescence, shimmered as it flowed, casting flickering reflections across the vaulted ceiling.
From here, the estate branched in many directions:
—To the left, the towering archway of the grand ballroom revealed a spectacle of music, dance, and excess. Masked figures twirled beneath a ceiling of crystal chandeliers, the glow of candlelight bouncing off gowns embroidered with shimmering filigree. A quartet played a slow, luxurious waltz, its melody weaving through the air like something spun from gold.
—To the right, a pair of colonnaded hallways stretched deeper into the estate, disappearing into the warm glow of gaslit sconces. Servants and guards moved purposefully here, their masks simpler, their presence unobtrusive but ever watchful. This led to the private wings of the estate—places not meant for the casual guest.
—Directly ahead, a sweeping grand staircase ascended to the second floor, where balconies and mezzanine walkways overlooked the festivities below. Figures stood at the railing, engaged in hushed conversation, observing the scene with a different kind of interest—the kind that didn’t dance, but watched.
The air was thick with the scents of spiced wine, aged wood, and the faintest trace of burning wick oil, a warmth that settled over the cool stone walls like a carefully curated embrace.
Among the guests, trays of crystal goblets floated past, carried by attendants in deep-green livery, their own faces concealed behind simple porcelain masks. They moved like clockwork, offering drinks and whispered welcomes, their presence a seamless part of the masquerade’s design.
And yet, beneath the grandeur—beneath the wealth and beauty—there was something else.
A feeling. A quiet, unseen weight that hung in the air.
The way some guests spoke in low, knowing tones, their laughter too smooth, too rehearsed. The way the silken wings and horned ornaments of the nobility were designed too perfectly, too reverently, as if their wearers wanted to believe they belonged to something greater than themselves.
Elvario
