PART 1: THE MASKMAKER'S NEEDLE
The Royal Maskmaker's workshop was buried deep in the servant's quarter of the Eastern Hall—a forgotten corner of the palace where dust collected thicker than titles and the wind carried a scent of beeswax, old lacquer, and pine smoke.
Seorin had never stepped foot here in her first life.
Masks had always come to her—delivered in polished boxes, cushioned in silk, accompanied by flattery and subtle reminders of how they matched her "radiant temperament." She had worn them to balls and rituals, never wondering who carved them, never caring.
Now, she stood in the belly of that silence.
The workshop was narrow and low-ceilinged. Its walls were covered in hanging face-forms—foxes, serpents, cranes, demons with twisted mouths and saints with empty eyes. Wooden heads with half-carved expressions. Blank, unfinished things. All watching her.
The Maskmaker stood at the far table, bent over a pale oblong of wood.
He did not look up when she entered.
Only spoke: "Lady Seorin of House Daeyang?"
"Yes."
He turned.
He was an older man, but not old in the way courtiers grew brittle and soft. His skin was weathered like sanded bark. His hair tied back in a simple cord. His eyes, however—black, sharp, and wet with clarity.
"Sit."
She did.
He gestured for her to hold still.
Then moved around her with slow, deliberate grace, holding a slender iron rod with a chalky tip.
It smelled faintly of scorched silver.
"I thought I would be masked as a flower," she said, voice light. "Something proper."
"You will be masked as you are," he replied.
"Which is what, exactly?"
He didn't smile.
Instead, he traced the chalk across her brow, marking invisible lines.
"A shadow pretending to be light," he said. "But your face is not so easily tricked."
Seorin stiffened. Only slightly.
But he noticed.
He dipped his brush into a shallow pot of lacquer. The scent rose—bitter, old, almost sweet.
"You've made many masks," she said carefully. "Do you remember all the faces?"
He paused.
Then answered: "Only the ones I've carved more than once."
Seorin's heart gave a small, traitorous thud.
She met his gaze in the flickering lamplight.
"I've never ordered one before."
"I never said you did."
His brush tapped the side of her cheekbone. "But I've carved this face before. Years ago. For someone who no longer walks the palace."
"Perhaps you mistake me for someone else."
"Perhaps."
His voice was calm, but not indifferent. Measured.
Like a man reciting the stages of a ritual he no longer believed in—but dared not stop performing.
The silence stretched.
Then he picked up a strip of crimson paper.
Wrote a single character on it: 火
"Fire."
He folded it and slid it into a hollow behind the mask's base, as though sealing it inside.
Seorin watched him work.
"You know," he said quietly, almost like a man speaking to the air, "most people wear masks to become someone else."
"And me?"
"You wear yours to keep who you are from leaking out."
He tied the last cord.
Pressed the wooden face into her hands.
Painted in soft gold and crimson, the mask resembled the mythical horyeong-yeo—a fox spirit said to steal memories and wear the faces of queens.
Its eyes were narrow.
Too narrow.
Seorin looked at it. Looked into it.
She said, "It's beautiful."
The Maskmaker only nodded.
Then, as she turned to go, he said one last thing:
"Be careful who sees your real eyes, Lady Seorin."
She paused.
Turned.
But he was already back at the table.
Carving another face.
For someone else.
PART 2: THE NIGHT OF MIRRORS AND SILK
The palace glowed.
From the highest spire of the Moonlight Pagoda to the shallowest step of the Swan Garden, every beam, lantern, and lotus pool flickered with gold and crimson fire. The Night of Masks was no ordinary celebration—it was a performance of power, legacy, and seduction. A court dressed in silk and lies.
And tonight, Seorin walked among them not as a queen, not as a girl—but as a ghost wrapped in velvet and vengeance.
Her mask sat low across her face, carved in the image of the nine-tailed fox—delicate, curved at the edges, painted with a touch of wicked smirk. Her hanbok was crimson silk overlaid with translucent gold, fluttering like flame when she moved. Even her footsteps were silent.
Not one noble recognized her.
Perfect.
They bowed politely, whispered assumptions behind fluttering fans.
"Who is she?"
"A cousin of Lord Baek's?"
"No, she came with the Daeyang retinue. One of the lesser daughters."
"Too bold to be a lesser anything…"
She passed them like smoke.
The masquerade was divided into three wings: the Garden of Reeds for dancers and open flirtations, the Moon Court for the elder nobles and policy games, and the Hall of Reflections—her target.
Seorin moved there with practiced grace, weaving through silk-draped corridors hung with mirrors. These mirrors were not for vanity. They were for confession.
It was said that on the Night of Masks, if you looked long enough into your reflection, your true face would show.
She glanced at herself.
The fox stared back.
Then moved on.
The hall was filling fast—courtiers sipping plum wine through their masks, nobles laughing behind veils of gauze. No one wore their names tonight. Only their reputations.
She found Lady Eun beside a bronze incense basin shaped like a swan in flight.
She wore white and silver—her mask painted like a porcelain doll, cracked just beneath the eye. Deliberate, no doubt. A single red line ran down the center, like a tear.
It suited her too well.
Seorin approached in silence.
"You wear it well," Lady Eun said without turning.
"My mask?"
"Your silence."
A slow beat.
Then Seorin answered, voice smooth: "Silence is harder to trace than speech."
Lady Eun smiled behind her fan.
"You dance like you know the steps already," she said softly. "As though you've done this before."
Seorin tilted her head. "Maybe I've simply been paying better attention than the others."
"No," Lady Eun said. "You've survived better than the others."
That… was too close.
Too sharp.
Seorin turned fully to face her.
But Lady Eun simply sipped her wine and gestured to the mirrors lining the wall.
"Most people wear masks to deceive others," she said. "But the best ones wear them to remember who they were before."
Seorin said nothing.
Then Lady Eun leaned in just slightly—just enough for her breath to warm the air between them.
"Some masks," she whispered, "fit better than the face beneath."
Then she walked away.
Leaving Seorin alone with the mirror,
the fox mask smiling too wide.
And her own heart pounding beneath the silk.
---
PART 3: THE DANCE WITH DEATH
The ballroom had been transformed.
Long banners of black silk fell from the ceiling, lit from beneath so they shimmered red. Paper lanterns floated from invisible wires, drifting like fire spirits above the crowd. Courtiers moved like silk shadows, hands brushing fingers, masks brushing masks, scent trailing scent.
The Night Waltz had begun.
This was no ordinary dance.
Partners were chosen not by name, but by fate: each guest received a colored silk ribbon. When the hour struck, they must find their match—someone who held the same color. Only then could they enter the circle.
Seorin's ribbon was silver.
She waited near the eastern pillar, scanning masks and fabrics as couples paired off. Gold met gold. Blue met blue. A man in a lion mask stumbled past, already drunk. A noblewoman in butterfly silk matched with a laughing boy in a swallowtail cape.
But no one bore silver.
Until he appeared.
He stepped from between two curtains near the outer balcony, tall and still, clad in black and grey robes so dark they swallowed the lanternlight. His mask was bone-white—carved with a stylized falcon, eyes cut sharply beneath the brow.
He held a silver ribbon between two fingers.
Seorin did not move.
The music began. Slow. Methodical. Ancient.
He walked toward her.
His bow was shallow, his gloved hand outstretched.
She hesitated—
Then placed her fingers in his.
They stepped into the circle.
They danced.
His hand on her back was steady. His movements exact. He led without hesitation, never misstepping, never drifting out of rhythm. Every turn, every pivot, every rise and glide—perfect.
Too perfect.
He moved like someone who had danced in this hall before.
With her.
Seorin didn't speak.
Neither did he.
Not at first.
Then, as they brushed past the central pillar and the light hit his hand—she saw it.
A scar. Thin, pale, nearly faded. Running from the base of the thumb up toward the wrist.
She knew that scar.
Because she had given the order that caused it.
Seven years ago.
"Arrest Kang Jae-hwan. Strip him of title. Burn his name. And let the record show treason."
He was executed. Or so she had believed.
Her voice caught.
"You shouldn't be alive."
The man smiled behind his mask.
"You should be more careful with what you kill, Your Majesty."
Her breath stilled.
The waltz continued—his hand tightening ever so slightly at her waist.
"I didn't recognize you," she said. "Not at first."
"Good," he said. "That means the mask is working."
"What do you want?"
"To see if your fire still lives," he said softly. "You burned me once. I came back to see if you could do it again."
The music swelled.
She tried to stop—but he turned her again, flawlessly, spinning her out and back into his arms.
Close.
"I could expose you," she whispered.
"You could try."
She searched his eyes—dark behind the falcon mask. But something glittered there.
Not hatred.
Worse.
Curiosity.
The music slowed. The circle drew to its final pass.
He bowed.
And before she could speak again, he vanished between two veiled drapes—into the shadow of the colonnade.
Gone.
Seorin stood there, the last note of the waltz still trembling in the air,
her heart pounding.
Not just from the dance.
From the knowledge that the dead were no longer staying dead.
---
PART 4: THE FALL OF THE FALCON PIN
It began with a scream.
Short. Sharp. Female.
Then the music stopped.
A ripple spread across the Hall of Reflections like ink spilled in a pond. Fans snapped shut. Masks turned. Footsteps shuffled backward in soft silks.
"Something's missing!"
"The Queen's crest—her pin—"
"The falcon…"
Seorin emerged from the veiled edge of the dance floor, her mask still tight against her face, breath still tingling from the encounter on the marble.
Across the hall, a court lady knelt beside a shattered lacquer box. Silk spilled around her like spilled wine. Her hands shook. "It was locked—I swear—I checked it twice—"
Whispers thickened.
"The falcon pin? That's sacred—"
"It belonged to the founder's consort—"
"I heard it was carved from divine bone—"
"It was cursed," someone whispered. "It only rests on the rightful queen."
That last one stuck in Seorin's mind like a thorn.
The Queen had worn the pin only once, during her first midsummer court. Then locked it away.
Even Seorin had hesitated to touch it.
And now, it had vanished.
The Queen arrived seconds later, flanked by attendants, her mask still in place—a sleek ivory half-face with black embroidery curling like vines around the eyes. Her voice rang cold and unshaken.
"Seal the wing. No one leaves until it is found."
It was not a request.
Seorin watched as guards moved in, stepping between draped curtains, securing exits. The court thickened with heat and fear. The music was dead. The party, over.
But the Queen's composure held.
Almost too well.
She's afraid, Seorin thought. Not of the loss. Of what it means.
No item was more symbolic.
To lose it—to have it taken—was more than insult. It was an omen.
Someone is saying: you are not queen.
---
That night, Seorin returned to her chambers with her mask still in hand, her hair loose, her slippers streaked with ash.
She dismissed Yeonhwa early.
Locked the doors.
Lit no candles.
But someone already had.
A single candle sat burning on the ledge beside her writing desk.
And beneath it, wrapped in white silk—
Was the falcon pin.
Its eye glinted red in the candlelight. Not ruby. Not bloodstone. Just reflection.
But the message was clear.
You hold what was once yours.
Or what never should've been hers at all.
Seorin stared at it for a long ti
me.
Then picked it up.
It was heavier than she remembered.
Or maybe she was.
---
PART 5: THE QUEEN WITHOUT A MASK
Dawn came late over the palace.
The snow from the western mountains had finally begun to fall, pale and silent, dusting the tiled roofs with soft indifference. But inside the Great Moon Hall, all was still lit by candlelight—hundreds of them, flickering against mirrored columns and polished lacquer.
The unmasking ceremony had begun.
It was tradition.
Every solstice, as the final night hour faded, all who had danced behind false faces were summoned to remove them—publicly. A gesture of trust. Of renewal. And above all, of loyalty to the Queen.
She would be the last.
Always the last.
Seorin stood near the back of the circle, mask still fixed, the fox's smile curved like a blade under her eyes. Around her, faces were emerging one by one. Laughter. Shame. Relief. Whispers of recognition.
A few gasps.
Some masks were more honest than the skin beneath.
But none dared look directly at the throne.
Not yet.
The Queen remained seated in her high chair, robes draped over the steps like smoke, mask untouched.
Waiting.
Watching.
Seorin couldn't see her eyes, but she felt them.
The Master of Ceremonies stepped forward, voice echoing through the chamber.
"Your Majesty. The time has come."
The Queen didn't move.
Not for five long seconds.
Then: her hand lifted.
Slowly.
Delicately.
She reached for the mask.
Fingers curled over the edge.
And then she stopped.
Just short.
The room held its breath.
Seorin's heart began to pound.
Too long.
The delay was too long.
Even in her most dramatic performances, the Queen had never hesitated like this.
She's stalling, Seorin thought.
Or…
She's trying to remember what's underneath.
Finally, the Queen removed the mask.
Revealing—
Stillness.
Her face was calm.
Too calm.
Eyes wide. Mouth relaxed. Not a single flicker of tension in her brow. Not fear. Not pride. Not weariness.
Nothing.
Just the blank serenity of a statue.
The court applauded—uncertain, scattered claps.
She did not smile.
She did not acknowledge.
She simply stood.
And walked away.
Not toward the antechamber.
Not toward her guards.
She walked toward the wrong door.
One that hadn't been opened in years.
A servant scurried after her, hesitating to speak. She didn't turn.
Only when she reached the heavy iron-banded frame did she pause.
Her hand hovered over the wood.
And she whispered—barely loud enough to hear—
"Where am I?"
Seorin stepped forward.
That's when the Queen turned around.
And for the first time since the ceremony began, their eyes met.
No panic. No recognition.
Only… distance.
As if the body standing there did not quite remember how to be her.
Then a handmaid appeared.
Touched her shoulder.
The Queen blinked.
And said, "Take me back to my chambers. I'm tired."
She left.
And no one else spoke.
Not until the candles burned out on their own.
---