Chapter 15: Festival of Masks and Unwanted Proposals

The first public festival in Evernight began with a disaster involving fireworks, a six-armed baker, and a goat wearing the face of the former Demon Lord.

Owen Mercer stood on the half-repaired balcony of the keep, one hand wrapped around a mug of mushroom coffee that tasted like a lawsuit, and watched the goat sprint across the plaza while three demon maids pursued it with the grim, coordinated precision of assassins.

The goat’s mask was too large for its head. It bounced with every panicked leap, lacquered horns clacking against the beast’s real ones, while children—human, goblin, kobold, and one very round slime with ribbons floating inside it—shrieked in delight.

“Lord Mercer,” said Sable, the tallest of the demon maids, her silver hair tied into a military braid sharp enough to cut cheese. “Permission to eliminate the compromised livestock.”

“Denied,” Owen said automatically.

“It is impersonating the old sovereign.”

“It’s a goat.”

“A goat committing treason.”

“A goat contributing to the festive atmosphere.”

Sable’s red eyes narrowed as the goat kicked over a barrel of candied beetles. A pack of goblin children descended on the spill like tiny green vultures.

“Very well,” Sable said. “Permission to arrest the goat.”

“You may politely retrieve the goat.”

She bowed with the solemnity of a knight accepting a holy quest. “Your mercy remains terrifying.”

Owen took a long drink of mushroom coffee and tried to pretend that sentence made sense.

Below him, Evernight looked almost like a city.

That was still strange.

When he had first arrived, the place had been less a city and more a gothic inconvenience—a collapsed demon fortress surrounded by monster-haunted wilderness, cracked roads, abandoned towers, cursed drainage, and enough haunted real estate to make a priest spontaneously file for retirement. Now, banners snapped from repaired battlements. Lanterns shaped like moons and grinning jackals hung from ropes crossing the plaza. Stalls filled the streets: sizzling skewers, glowing potion sweets, woven charms, carved masks, cheap daggers, expensive daggers, suspiciously alive daggers, and a booth where an old orc woman was charging five copper to insult people’s ancestors with professional accuracy.

Visitors flowed through the newly opened eastern gate in cautious waves. Human merchants in stiff collars walked beside wolf-eared caravan guards. Dwarven prospectors sniffed at stonework and made noises of grudging approval. Centaur couriers kept to the broad avenue Owen had insisted be built after learning, with deep personal horror, that most fantasy cities had stairs everywhere and absolutely no concern for hooves. A delegation of riverfolk drifted in glass water palanquins pulled by floating pearls. Even a few church pilgrims had come, though they kept touching their holy symbols whenever a gargoyle sneezed.

It was working.

Somehow, unbelievably, Owen’s “please stop assuming we’re the apocalypse and consider buying real estate” festival was working.

“You look as if you expect the plaza to explode,” Seraphine said beside him.

Owen did not jump. He was proud of that. Seraphine had a way of appearing wherever political anxiety gathered, like a beautiful omen wearing perfume.

She leaned on the balcony rail, smiling down at the festival. Her mask rested atop her dark blue hair rather than over her face—a delicate silver fox with emerald chips for eyes. Her gown was black silk trimmed in gold, cut elegantly enough that several visiting merchants below had already walked into each other trying not to stare. Everything about her looked effortless, which Owen had learned meant she had probably spent six hours arranging it and three more arranging everyone else’s reactions to it.

“I don’t expect the plaza to explode,” Owen said.

A fountain near the north arcade coughed, flashed purple, and began spraying tiny illusory bats.

“I expect sections of the plaza to explode,” he amended.

Seraphine’s smile deepened. “You worry too much.”

“Last week a barrel of pickled ghosts unionized.”

“And you negotiated admirably.”

“They demanded paid haunting hours.”

“A fair concern for an exploited workforce.”

Owen stared at her.

Seraphine fluttered her lashes. “What? I support labor when labor can phase through walls and uncover blackmail.”

Before Owen could answer, something heavy landed behind them with a crack that made the balcony stones complain.

Veyra rose from a crouch, grinning like violence had just told her a joke.

The eldest—at least in attitude—of the Demon Lord’s supposed daughters wore a crimson half-mask shaped like a snarling dragon. Her white hair spilled down her back in a wild mane, and her festival dress had been modified so extensively for combat that Owen suspected it legally counted as armor. A great black sword rested across her shoulder, humming faintly as if disappointed no one had been cut recently.

“Owen,” she said, eyes bright. “Good news.”

He closed his eyes. “Define good.”

“The northern mercenary company sent a champion to challenge Evernight’s authority.”

“Veyra.”

“I defeated him.”

“Veyra.”

“Non-lethally.”

Owen opened one eye.

Veyra looked proud. “Mostly.”

Seraphine sighed. “Did you break anything important?”

“Only his confidence and three ribs.”

“Those ribs may have been important to him,” Owen said.

“Then he should have guarded them better.” Veyra stepped beside him and looked down over the plaza with obvious satisfaction. “Your festival draws strong people. This is good. A city needs warriors.”

“It also needs merchants, farmers, masons, teachers, people who understand sewage gradients, and at least one accountant who doesn’t scream when shown compound interest.”

“The screaming accountant was weak.”

“He was introduced to our tax code.”

“Weak,” Veyra repeated.

A soft yawn floated from the shadow of the balcony doorway.

Liora emerged wrapped in a cloak patterned with sleepy stars. Her violet hair was a nest of loose waves, and her mask—a pale moon with closed eyes—hung crookedly over one ear. She carried a pillow under one arm and a staff in the other, though Owen had never seen her use the staff for anything except pointing at things she wanted moved by magic while she remained comfortable.

“The tax code screamed back,” Liora murmured. “I heard it from my nap.”

Owen gave her a wounded look. “You said the self-updating ledger was safe.”

“I said it was awake.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No,” Liora agreed, blinking slowly. “But it was very cute when it learned fear.”

Owen rubbed the bridge of his nose. The Shared Destiny mark on the back of his hand warmed faintly, as if amused by his suffering. Three interlocked sigils glimmered beneath his skin—Veyra’s jagged flame, Seraphine’s elegant crescent, Liora’s drifting star—along with a dozen lesser marks from his growing household. Every new bond had made him stronger, quicker, sharper, weirder. He could now smell lies if they were badly seasoned, sharpen a blade by glaring at it, and understand the emotional state of bread dough.

None of those abilities helped him run a festival.

“Status,” Seraphine said lightly.

A translucent blue pane shimmered into being before Owen’s eyes.

Evernight Festival of Masks — Public Sentiment Survey

Visitor Mood: Cautiously Delighted

Merchant Confidence: Rising

Religious Panic: Manageable

Incidents: 17 Minor, 3 Moderate, 1 Goat-Related Treason

Marriage Proposals Detected: 0

Owen squinted. “Why is marriage proposals a tracked category?”

Seraphine looked away too quickly.

“Seraphine.”

“Public sentiment is complex.”

“Seraphine.”

“Alliance offers often arrive disguised as compliments, gifts, or hostage exchanges.”

“Hostage exchanges?”

“Romance varies by culture.”

Veyra nodded. “In the Ashfang tribes, offering one’s worthy enemy a captive sibling is considered very sincere.”

Liora leaned against the doorway and closed one eye. “In the old moon courts, marriage negotiations began by sharing dreams and ended with both families cursing each other’s bloodlines for seven generations.”

Owen lowered his mug. “I need everyone to understand that my goal today is tourism.”

Below, the goat with the Demon Lord mask reappeared on top of a candy stall while Sable and two maids attempted to flank it with nets. The crowd cheered.

“Tourism,” Owen repeated weakly.

A trumpet sounded from the eastern gate.

Not one of Evernight’s trumpets. This one was bright, polished, and obnoxiously heroic, the sort of trumpet that announced tax collectors, cavalry charges, or people who thought arriving late made them important.

The crowd parted.

A procession entered the plaza beneath banners of white and gold. Knights in ceremonial armor rode tall horses braided with ribbons. Pages scattered flower petals. At their center moved a carriage shaped like a seashell, all mother-of-pearl curves and gilded wheels. The door opened before the carriage fully stopped.

A young woman descended.

She was radiant in the deliberate way of royal portraits: golden hair arranged in a crown of loops, a white mask shaped like a swan, a gown layered in pale blue silk. Around her throat glittered a sapphire large enough to pay for Evernight’s drainage system twice. She smiled at the crowd as if blessing them by existing.

Seraphine’s smile became sharpened glass.

“Princess Aurelia of Valdren,” she said. “Third daughter, second in beauty according to her court poets, first in ambition if my sources are not drunk.”

“Why is she here?” Owen asked.

“For trade,” Seraphine said.

Owen relaxed slightly.

“And influence,” Seraphine continued.

He tensed.

“And perhaps your body.”

“There it is.”

Princess Aurelia lifted her gaze to the balcony. Their eyes met across the plaza. Her smile brightened.

Owen felt a cold trickle of survival instinct crawl down his spine.

She did not look like someone seeing a man.

She looked like someone seeing a treaty with cheekbones.

“Lord Owen Mercer of Evernight,” Aurelia called, her voice carrying with trained clarity. “I bring greetings from the Kingdom of Valdren and congratulations on the rebirth of this noble city.”

Every face turned toward Owen.

He had planned for this. Sort of. Seraphine had drilled him for public greetings. He stepped forward, set down his mug where no one could see it, and spread his hands.

“Princess Aurelia,” he said, letting Veyra’s battle-born confidence and Seraphine’s court polish slide through the Shared Destiny bond like borrowed clothing. “Evernight welcomes all who come in peace, good faith, and reasonable footwear.”

The crowd laughed. Good. Controlled laughter. Not mob laughter. There was a difference. Owen had learned that in Chapter Whatever of his life when goblins discovered knock-knock jokes and nearly caused a riot.

Aurelia dipped into a perfect curtsy.

“Then I come gladly,” she said, “and bring a humble gift.”

Two knights carried forward a long chest. They opened it with synchronized drama.

Inside lay a sword.

It was absurdly beautiful. A blade of pale steel etched with sunbursts, a hilt wrapped in white leather, a gemstone pommel burning with contained light. The crowd gasped. The church pilgrims looked personally offended by how holy it appeared.

Owen’s system pane flickered.

Item Detected: Dawnbinder, Ceremonial Hero-King Blade

Historical Use: Coronations, Public Oaths, Three Extremely Dramatic Duels

Hidden Enchantment: Bloodline Recognition

Social Meaning: Proposal Adjacent

Owen’s smile froze.

Proposal adjacent.

Those were two words no man wanted hovering in blue text above a sword.

“In Valdren,” Aurelia said, “such a blade is offered only to those whom the crown recognizes as worthy to stand beside royal blood.”

The crowd’s murmur changed pitch.

Veyra’s fingers tightened on her sword hilt.

Seraphine rested a hand on Owen’s arm, delicately enough to look affectionate and firmly enough to warn him not to improvise himself into an international incident.

Liora opened both eyes. That was worse than a battle stance.

Owen laughed.

It was either that or jump off the balcony, and with Veyra’s durability boost he might survive, which meant he would still have to deal with the conversation.

“That is an extraordinary gift,” he said. “Evernight is honored by Valdren’s respect. We will display it in the public hall as a symbol of friendship between our peoples.”

Aurelia’s smile did not falter, but the knight holding the chest blinked.

Somewhere below, a merchant whispered, “Did he just put a royal courtship blade in a museum?”

“Power move,” whispered someone else.

It was not a power move. It was panic with posture.

Seraphine’s nails pressed once against his sleeve. Approval, possibly. Or a reminder that she could poison him if he embarrassed her too badly.

Aurelia bowed her head. “A gracious interpretation.”

“I am full of those,” Owen said.

“Then perhaps,” the princess continued, “we may speak later in private.”

Veyra smiled with too many teeth. “All private meetings with Owen are attended by his household.”

“How intimate,” Aurelia said sweetly.

“Yes,” Seraphine replied, sweeter. “We find it discourages stabbing.”

The air between the two women sparkled with invisible knives.

Owen cleared his throat. “Please enjoy the festival. Try the moon cakes. Avoid the blue ones unless you want to remember someone else’s childhood.”

Aurelia laughed as if that were charming rather than a serious health advisory and allowed her procession to move into the plaza.

Owen exhaled.

The trumpet sounded again.

“No,” he said.

At the western road, drums answered.

A second delegation entered through the gate.

This one brought no petals. It brought thunder.

Massive lizards plated in bronze scales pulled wagons draped with red hides. Warriors with curved horns and tattooed arms marched beside them, boots striking the stones in perfect rhythm. At their head strode a woman nearly as tall as Veyra, with copper skin, black braids threaded with bone beads, and a tiger mask pushed up on her forehead. She wore furs over polished lamellar armor and carried a spear tipped with volcanic glass.

Veyra’s grin returned. “Oh. I like this one.”

“Please don’t,” Owen said.

“Warchief’s daughter,” Seraphine murmured. “Kharza of the Red Steppe Confederacy. Their people respect strength, directness, and livestock wealth.”

“That sounds manageable.”

“She once broke a duke’s jaw for using a salad fork incorrectly.”

“Less manageable.”

Kharza stopped beneath the balcony and planted the butt of her spear into the stone hard enough to crack a repair Owen had personally approved and emotionally bonded with.

“Owen Mercer!” she shouted. “Builder of roads! Binder of monsters! Soft-faced lord with dangerous wives!”

The plaza went silent.

Owen heard Liora murmur, “Accurate.”

“I am Kharza, daughter of Warchief Tholm, rider of the ember plains, breaker of the Seven Boars, undefeated in wrestling since my twelfth winter.” She thumped her chest. “I have come to test if your hips are worthy of alliance.”

Somewhere, a child dropped a candy apple.

Owen stared down at her.

His brain made the noise of an unplugged modem.

Veyra burst out laughing.

Seraphine’s expression went so still it became a diplomatic weapon.

Liora tilted her head. “Hips?”

“For riding,” Kharza clarified loudly.

Owen almost relaxed.

“And heirs,” Kharza added.

He did not relax.

The system pane appeared with the mercilessness of divine bureaucracy.

Marriage Proposal Detected: 1

Proposal Type: Martial-Fertility Alliance

Recommended Response: Survive Ceremony Without Accidentally Accepting

Thanks.

Owen gripped the balcony rail. “Lady Kharza, Evernight welcomes the Red Steppe Confederacy. We admire your strength and your, ah, commitment to clear communication.”

“Good,” Kharza said. “Then descend. We wrestle before witnesses. If you last three breaths beneath me, I will consider you husband material.”

The crowd erupted.

Not in fear. In excitement.

Because of course they did. Evernight had been starved of entertainment for decades, and apparently “local lord gets folded in half by foreign warrior princess” was premium content.

“Three breaths?” Veyra said, delighted. “Generous.”

Owen turned to her. “Not helping.”

“I can train you quickly.”

“Even less helping.”

Seraphine leaned close, her lips barely moving. “Refusing outright insults the Steppe. Accepting risks accidental betrothal. Offer a substitute contest.”

“What kind?”

“Something public, symbolic, and impossible to construe as sexual.”

Owen looked down at Kharza, then at the crowd, then at the festival stalls.

His gaze landed on the six-armed baker whose earlier fireworks accident had left his beard smoking and his pride undamaged. The baker was currently flipping twelve moon cakes at once on a broad iron griddle.

Inspiration struck.

It was stupid inspiration, but that had never stopped him before.

“Lady Kharza!” Owen called. “Evernight honors strength in many forms. Today is a festival, not a battlefield. If you wish to test my worth before witnesses, I propose a contest more suited to this day.”

Kharza narrowed her eyes. “Name it.”

Owen pointed dramatically.

“Pancakes.”

The silence was profound.

“Pancakes,” Kharza repeated.

“Speed, control, endurance, heat tolerance, wrist strength, crowd approval. All the virtues of rulership.”

Liora made a tiny choking sound. Seraphine covered her mouth with her fan. Veyra stared at Owen as if seeing him truly for the first time and perhaps deciding he was insane enough to respect.

Kharza looked toward the baker.

The baker, a beetle-eyed demon with flour on all six elbows, puffed up in professional indignation. “My griddles are ready for war.”

Kharza’s grin came slowly. “Good. I accept your pancake duel, soft-faced lord.”

The crowd went mad.

Fifteen minutes later, Owen stood behind a griddle in the center of the plaza wearing an apron that read KISS THE CITY PLANNER in Goblin script because he had learned not to ask questions about donated merchandise. Across from him, Kharza rolled her shoulders while her warriors chanted. Veyra acted as referee, which everyone agreed was a terrible idea but no one was brave enough to challenge. Seraphine supervised the betting pools with predatory elegance. Liora sat on a floating pillow above the crowd, occasionally nudging stray sparks away from children with lazy flicks of her finger.