Chapter Text
His servants, faceless as ever, moved around him in a show of submission. The butler gently traced the lines of his Lordship's exotic animal mask makeup with a delicate brush, the strokes faint but deliberate, as though he were painting the essence of the Lord's power.
Meanwhile, the valet draped a bejeweled coat over the Lord’s broad shoulders, the fabric heavy with opulence, whispering promises of status. The Lord smirked at his reflection in the hand mirror the Footman held aloft, inspecting his appearance with an air of superiority, his mask looking more and more like the expression of a king unchallenged.
"Poof poof..." Another butler dusted his powdered wig with a puff, the delicate clouds of powder settling into the air as if trying to mask something deeper, something darker.
The Majordomo, ever vigilant, held the pocket watch up to the Lord, ticking loud in the growing silence between them.
“My Lord, it’s time.”
The Lord waved dismissively. A footman scurried to his side and, with a low bow, presented a candelabra, its flames flickering in the dimness. Each man, woman, and servant is trapped in the rhythms of their master’s whims.
As the Lord stepped forward to make his entrance, the music rose in a burst of sound, drowning out the soft murmurs of the guests. The Divo sang loudly, his voice sharp as a needle, filling the room with his theatrical, powerful aria. He cradled his tiny cat in his arms as if it, too, were part of the spectacle. The Lord looked at him briefly, his eyes cold and calculating. The roundelay began, the young people bowing and giggling, hoping for his attention, hoping to be chosen.
The ballroom hummed with opulence, the light gold and cerulean tones of the decor reflecting the dim light of many chandeliers. Music filled the air, the harpsichord’s rapid trills accompanying the swirl of dancers, their faces radiant with that same practiced beauty that had long ceased to feel genuine. The Lord stood in the center, his hands raised in grand gestures, his face a perfect mask of entitlement.
But there was a flicker—a brief moment when his eyes caught something, or rather, someone—something more captivating than the gilded image he had created. A man as radiant as the jewels adorning his throne, a beauty whose light seemed to surpass the grandeur of the room. For a moment, his heart stirred.
A knock and a gust of wind. The room held its breath as the windows burst open, the candlelight wavering. Guests murmured in confusion and all turned toward the dark figure now silhouetted against the storm. A hunched shape, stepping with difficulty, his shadow elongated and eerie. The Lord’s lips curled in annoyance. He grabbed the lit candelabra from the footman, its flame now casting more shadows than light.
He swept through the crowd, pushing and shoving, anger flaring at the disruption to his carefully crafted night. He reached the open windows, glaring out at the storm, his hand outstretched in a dismissive gesture.
"Leave," he commanded, his voice cold and cruel, his arrogance shining brighter than the candelabra’s flame.
But the man did not leave.
He hobbled forward, his voice a faint whisper as he offered the Lord a single red rose, a symbol of some forgotten tenderness. Hope flickered in his eyes, though his face was weathered by age and hardship.
The Lord sneered, his gaze lingering on the withered petals of the rose. He did not need such things. His world was one of beauty, power, and control, and this old man’s intrusion was beneath him. He waved him off, disgust curling his lip.
The man sank to his knees, the rose trembling in his gnarled hands. The guests watched silently, the tension thick enough to cut through with a knife. The wind howled through the open window, carrying with it a chill.
Once more dismissing her, the room seemed to shift, and the shadows that danced upon the walls grew darker, stretching unnaturally. The man’s figure shimmered, transforming before their very eyes. The rose in his hand radiated with an otherworldly light, his once hunched form straightening, his skin glowing as if it had never known the burden of time.
The Lord stumbled back, falling to his knees as a gust of wind tore through the room. The candelabra flickered and then went out. The man—no, the Enchanter—was now radiant, his presence overpowering, his beauty an unnatural thing, a force of magic that eclipsed all the luxury and elegance in the room.
The Lord tried to speak, tried to beg for mercy, but his words faltered. The Enchanter’s eyes, cold as the storm outside, met his. He saw the emptiness in the Lord’s soul, the pride and vanity that consumed him, and he knew that no amount of gold or beauty could hide the truth of who he was.
At that moment, the magic took hold. The Lord’s body began to twist and contort, his fine clothes shredding, the jewels falling from his skin like drops of rain. He grew larger, monstrous, the transformation so sudden and violent that the guests screamed, fleeing the ballroom in terror.
The Enchanter stood at the center of it all, his eyes filled with sorrow as the Lord’s form became something unrecognizable, his once handsome face now a grotesque mask of fury.
And as the last of the guests fled, a shadow—the shadow of the Beast—twisted across the floor, darkening the space once filled with light and laughter.