Let’s see… who shall step forward from the veils of time to whisper their legend today for you? Ah, I know just the one.
Let’s have a cup of tea, shall we? After all, stories are best told over a fine brew.
The Mad Masquerade of Hollowvale
There are parties, and then there are parties. And if you’ve never attended the Hollowvale Masquerade, well… then you’ve never truly danced with destiny.
Hollowvale is a place of twilight and trickery, nestled at the edge of 4EverMore, where the mist rolls thick and the laughter always sounds a little too knowing. It is said that only the foolish enter without an invitation—and only the truly mad ever find their way out.
One night, long ago (or perhaps just last week, time is terribly unreliable here), an invitation arrived at the doorstep of a certain young noblewoman named Evangeline.
The envelope was black silk, the seal a wax stamp in the shape of a Cheshire grin. No sender. No instructions. Just a single line written in curling golden script:
"Come if you dare. Stay if you must. But leave? That depends entirely on us."
Now, Evangeline was not the sort to refuse a mystery. She had spent her days waltzing through the courts of Eclipsora, dodging arranged marriages and outwitting suitors who thought her too delicate to be dangerous. But she was also clever enough to know that some invitations are traps in disguise.
And so, naturally, she went.
The masquerade was held in a grand ballroom that should not have existed—an opulent cathedral of mirrored walls and golden chandeliers suspended from nothing at all. The guests? A whirlwind of masked figures, some draped in shimmering veils of light, others wrapped in living shadows. The music? It had no source, yet it played on, as if the very air itself was conducting the orchestra.
Evangeline danced, twirled, laughed—until she noticed something peculiar.
The guests never removed their masks.
Not once.
And when she tried to leave, she found that every gilded door led her not outside, but back to the center of the ballroom.
"Ah, you're trying to leave already?"
The voice purred from behind her, laced with amusement and something far more dangerous.
She turned to see him—a gentleman in a top hat, his mask half porcelain, half shadow, as if he himself could not decide what he was meant to be.
"And you are?" she asked, arching a brow.
He grinned. "Oh, darling, I am many things. A host. A trickster. A connoisseur of chaos. But for tonight, let’s just say… I am the one who decides whether you get to keep your face."
Evangeline did not flinch. "Charming."
"That I am." He twirled a cane between gloved fingers. "Now tell me, lovely one, did you read the fine print on your invitation?"
She frowned. "There was no fine print."
His grin widened. "Exactly."
And with that, he snapped his fingers. The music stopped. The dancers froze. And in the mirrored walls surrounding them, Evangeline did not see her own reflection—only a thousand different versions of herself, each wearing a different mask.
"Pick one," he said, suddenly serious. "Or stay forever. Your choice."
Evangeline inhaled sharply. A game. A gamble. A trick wrapped in silk and silver.
She did what she always did in moments like these.
She smiled.
And then, with a flourish, she plucked the half-shadow mask from his face and placed it over her own.
The ballroom shattered.
The masquerade vanished.
And when Evangeline opened her eyes, she was standing outside her own manor, the invitation gone, the scent of Hollowvale’s enchanted air lingering in her hair.
She touched her face.
She was still herself.
Or was she?
No one truly knows what happened that night, but one thing is certain:
The Hollowvale Masquerade is held only once a century, and those who attend never leave quite the same as they arrived.
But if you listen closely, on the eve of the next ball, you might hear the laughter of a man in a top hat, echoing through the mist—
And if you see an invitation on your doorstep?
Well… I do hope you enjoy the dance.
🩸☕
