Moonlight filtered in through the stained glass windows. Despite the deceptively warm glow, the black stone hallways of the palace were cold. The torches were distinguished this time of night, leaving only ashes behind.

  A boy, maybe 8 at the oldest, sprinted down the hallway. A tattered old leather book was falling apart at the seams and larger than half the size of the arms that held it. The light from the windows strobed across the boy's white robe and chestnut hair.

  He soon wasn’t alone, the clattering of metal and footsteps followed closely behind him. It grew louder and louder. The once-quiet hallway was filled with the clamor of metal and shouts.

  “Stop!”

  “Stop in his Majesty’s name!”

  The boy felt a harsh grip around his arm as he was yanked back. The back of his head hit the guard’s cold metal armor as he fell backward.

  “You cannot be here,” the guard scolded him. “Your father’s orders.”

  The boy’s eyes burned with defiance at the guard.

  “Mix the echinacea and garlic in the honey,” the boy shouted down the hallway. “Quickly!”

  “There’s someone else down there,” the guard’s eyes widened. “You didn’t…”

  He motioned at the remaining guards and urged them down the hallway.

  “Get her out of there,” he ordered.

  Studying the guard’s armor, the young prince tried to find a weakness. If he could reach the dagger he had hidden on his side, maybe he could get the blade between the guard’s plates. It wouldn’t harm the guard given the amount of padding under the armor, but maybe it could shock him enough to break free.

  He managed to grab the dagger, but the guard was quick enough to slap it out of his hand. The ornate silver dagger clamored to the floor along with any hope of escape. He was dragged back down that hallway. The light from the windows sent slow waves of red over him.

  He soon found himself in a chair that swallowed him. His legs dangled over the ebony floor as if it were an abyss. His father loomed over him and dropped to book on his desk.

  “Another obsession I presume,” the emperor said.

  “You need to call the physician,” the boy pleaded. “I can save, mother!”

  The emperor turned away and opened a door on the shelf behind him. A single bottle of red wine awaited him.

  “Whatever you’re thinking will not work better than what tens of physicians have tried.”

  “But if we just-“ the boy began.

  “ENOUGH!”

  Brian flinched.

  “Courtesan Lyra’s time is… fading,” the emperor’s voice shook. “And in your recklessness, you put yourself and Clarissa in danger. You’re too quick to-”

  The boy motioned to the book, but the emperor simply poured himself a glass of wine and did not change his gaze.

  “You can’t fix it, Brian,” he whispered. “Not this.”

  Seven years later the palace liked to ignore the final night. The ballroom was ablaze with light- a basin of revelries. The emperor sat in the center of the ballroom- his blood replaced with red wine and his skin with decadence.

  His heir played his part. Brian smiled politely in every conversation. Every step on the ballroom floor was memorized and every path was second nature. The same stories were told to the tune of the same type of laughter every night.

  Perfume and wine burned into Brian’s nostrils and mind. The same music continued.

  Two steps, then three more,

  The sound of violins and cellos,

  The flash of gold and silver,

  The burn of perfume and wine,

  Forever, over and over.

  Nothing changed and surely nothing ever would.

  It was another night just like the nights before, and it surely wouldn’t be the last of nights like these.

  He was dancing with a woman whose name he could recall, but he did not know. The skirt of her dress twirled like rose petals, livelier than his eyes. It was bright against his black ensemble and the white masks that concealed their faces. Gold decorated her dress as it decorated his neck.

  “So, who do you suspect it might be?”

  Brian was pulled out of his daze for a second at her voice.

  “Who?”

  “Who’s playing death tonight?” she asked. “Are you not good at these games?”

  “Ah, yes,” Brian answered. “It’s Lord Von Quintonburrow’s son. The second oldest. He has no poker face and always gets smug about these things.”

  “He always looks smug,” she laughed halfheartedly.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Death has so far marked four other people, two of whom are his best friends, one his father, one his ex,” Brian continued. “He has also marked me, and I am currently dancing with the woman he is courting. Am I right, Lady Marian?”

  “And you’ve figured out who I am,” she smiled slightly.

  “You already solved who I was before,” he said vacantly.

  “You never wear anything with color to these things.”

  The song concluded.

  The emperor tapped his chalice three times to get everyone’s attention. Each tap rang out like a bell.

  “Attention my beloved guests,” his voice bellowed through the room. “Death has claimed his final victim of the evening. Whoever has been marked with red wine, please come to the center and reveal who you were and what you will be donating to the social fund.”

  The crowd whispered, searching for signs of red wine and making their final bets on who death was this evening. Brian walked to the front and he removed his mask.

  “Before my death, I was Crowned Prince Brian Van Halbert,” he declared. “To the fund, I donate this.”

  He removed the gold broach from his collar and placed it on the table in front of his father. It hit the desk with a loud thud. Its center rubies sparkled from the candles around it as the two men met each other's eyes.

  “Generous, my boy!”

  “Yes,” Brian lowered his voice. “I am sure the southern wineries will love it.”

  The emperor turned his attention to the guests. The guests remaining on the dance floor chattered. They exchanged theories and accusations on who death may be tonight. One noble took it upon himself to dramatically collapse onto the floor, almost spilling his own wine. His friend's drunken laughter filled the room as they made an uncoordinated effort to help him back up.

  As Brian made his way towards the doors to the courtyard, he recognized the dramatic noble to be his suspect. He was surprised no one had voted the guy out yet, because he was so painfully suspicious. Then again, that was the nature of these games, and everyone was too drunk to pay attention anyway.

  Others were on the back patio, the ones removed from the dance game and others who stepped outside for a bit of air. Brian turned to the right and made his way up to the balcony on the second floor. He took off his black overcoat, now soiled with wine, and set it over the iron railing. Leaning on the railing he took a breath of the calm cool air and appreciated the silence away from the chaotic celebrations inside.

  This peace was short-lived.

  “You-Your, highness,” a voice drawled behind him. “No hard feelings right.”

  “Of course not,” Brian sighed and turned around to see the second oldest of Lord Von Quintonburrow.

  The sire was a boy two years older than himself and taller by a few inches. His blond hair, once perfectly parted and combed, had become a mess along with his emerald overcoat. He was not currently able to stand without the support of his two friends. Where was Lord Von Quintonburrow to keep his son out of trouble? He was in the ballroom having the time of his life- so were the ways of these nights and these people.

  “Leave Marian be, capiche,” Von Quintonburrow smiled thinly.

  “Yes, I will” Brian said. “I have no more interest in her than she has in you.”

  “Great…” Von Quintonburrow’s mind buffered, trapped in a haze.

  Brian picked up his coat; he turned on his heel; he walked away. Their conversation was merely meant to be a continuation of the game- a little jab to pass the time, but not from a sword. The longer the night went on, no one would remember what he said.

  However, Von Quintonburrow was not as slowed down by the alcohol as Brian had predicted and eventually caught on.

  “Wait, what did you say?” Von Quintonburrow’s tone shifted as he held his head.

  Brian debated whether he should keep walking or edge him on.

  “Go dance with your betrothed,” he said as he turned around. “It’s where you should have been.”

  “You cocky-“

  Brian quickly stepped aside to avoid the swing. Von Quintonburrow stumbled forward, and lurched over the balcony boards.

  “Lucian!” his friends called. “You can’t fight the prince!”

  “You’re drunk and out of it,” one cautioned.

  Lucian swung again. His uneven footing made him clumsy. Brian ducked before quickly kicking him in the stomach. He got up again, not noticing the pain, then went in for another swing.

  His wrist was grabbed by the prince and he was pushed to the ground.

  Brian returned to walking away and headed to the staircase to go back inside. He heard his friends trying to hold Lucian back. They did not succeed, and soon footsteps were rapidly approaching.

  Brian whipped around and threw his coat over Lucian’s face, but Lucian didn’t stop. As Brian stepped out of the way, the young noble fell over the railing. Lucian hit the ground with a thud- a moment of silence followed.

  A scream rang out from below, but it was not Lucian’s. The guests inside had not noticed, but horror filled those on the balcony and patio.

  “Lucian!”

  His two friends bolted down the stairs. Horror-filled murmurs rose from the patio.

  “Lucian!”

  Brian stepped back from the railing.

  “Lucian?”

  The voices of Lucian’s friends melded into a chorus. Suddenly the violins from inside sounded louder, even up on the balcony. The cries, the music, the laughter, his mind, became a hurricane. If he went through the balcony doors, he could cut through the throne room, and avoid the ball. He opened the door, and walked away from the crime.

  The throne room was empty and quiet. Banners of several noble families decorated the pillars and swayed softly with innocence. He sat down on the steps below the throne and exhaled slowly.

  This would upset the house of Von Quintonburrow severely. They would take it to his father no doubt. Surely he would not be tried for murder, he was the prince. And he wasn’t a murderer, no. He had not intended for Lucian to die. It was an accident, yes, an accident. Lucian’s fault really, who drunkenly and recklessly assaulted the heir to the throne. His mind spun.

  Years of acting, years of playing his part, years of court favor, gone.

  Wait, was that where his mind was? Was that what he was focused on?

  He would focus on the lack of guilt later, perhaps he was still in shock. He needed to get out of this situation. He needed a defense or alibi of some sort. However, there were witnesses and his coat had clearly blinded Lucian.

  He paused. He heard guards outside. He heard the music stop. He heard the gasps of the court. He heard the cries of Lord Von Quintonburrow and his wife. It was one of grief. It was a cry he had heard before, from his sister the night their mother passed.

  Then the music started playing and laughter returned. The dancing continued. The celebrations continued.

  Brian stepped outside of the throne room and walked downstairs. Light from red stained glass windows stretched over him.

  He slowly cracked the door to the ballroom open to see wine and revelry.