Invitation Only

The Infernal Court hated three things above all else: Unregistered power. Unpaid tribute. And demons who threw better parties than they did. Maiden Masquerade was guilty of all three. The Court chamber buzzed with irritation — chandeliers flickering, sigils crackling, half a dozen high-ranking demons talking over one another in a way that suggested violence was being postponed, not avoided.“She’s doing it again,” sneered Marquis Belphegor, scrolling through a floating sigil like it was a cursed smartphone. “Another Masquerade. Another spike in influence. and still no tribute,” growled Duke Amon. “No contracts filed. No souls declared.” At the head of the chamber, King Paimon sighed like a man watching toddlers fight with knives. “She’s a host demon,” Paimon said calmly. “Hosts gain power through presence. Through attention. Through return.”“Yes,” snapped Vox Lux — the Rave Demon — lounging sideways across a throne he did not technically own. Neon glyphs pulsed behind him like a nightclub wall. “And she’s stealing my demographic.” That got everyone’s attention. “Oh?” Paimon raised a brow. “Is she?” Vox grinned, all sharp teeth and LED glow. “People don’t want noise anymore. They want mystique. Candles. Masks. Ballroom bullshit.” He scoffed. “I run sound. Lights. Chaos. I pull souls through bass drops and bad decisions.” “And yet,” Paimon said lightly, “they keep leaving your raves.” Vox’s smile twitched. “They don’t leave hers.”Somewhere very far from the Court, Maiden Masquerade adjusted the cuff of her glove and surveyed her ballroom. Music drifted low and elegant. Guests moved in careful spirals, masks catching candlelight. No one screamed. No one moshed. No one begged. They stayed. She felt the familiar pull — admiration, curiosity, that warm ache of wanting to be seen. Power flowed like champagne. “Oh, this one’s going to hate me,” she murmured pleasantly. Right on cue, the air rippled.The bass hit before Vox Lux did. Lights strobed violently as he crashed into the Masquerade, music bleeding from his very skin. Guests startled, clutching their masks as neon clashed horribly with candlelight. “MAIDEN!” Vox shouted, arms wide. “You gotta loosen up, babe! This place needs a drop.” Maiden smiled like a guillotine. “This is a masquerade,” she said calmly. “Not a seizure.” Guests snickered. Vox bristled. “You think you’re better than me?”“No,” Maiden said, stepping closer. “I think I’m quieter. People mistake that for safety.” “And they give you power for it,” Vox snarled. “Yes,” she agreed. “Isn’t it lovely?” The two demons circled each other — silk versus static, candle versus strobe. “You’re siphoning influence without spectacle,” Vox said. “That’s cheating.” Maiden tilted her head. “You exhaust them. I keep them.” That hurt.
Vox’s lights flared brighter. “Careful. The Court won’t like this.” Maiden leaned in, voice soft. “they cant do anything without an invitation," she smiled.Then Vox laughed — sharp, ugly, real. “Fine. You wanna play host politics?” He snapped his fingers. The music surged. The walls trembled. Guests froze, uncertain. Maiden raised one gloved hand. The Masquerade answered. The music cut. The lights dimmed. Vox Lux found himself standing very alone in a ballroom full of people who were no longer looking at him. Power drained from noise when no one listened. Maiden smiled sweetly. “Invitation only,” she said. “You don't have a mask, so be gone.”Vox vanished in a burst of static and wounded pride. The guests exhaled. The dance resumed. Back in the Infernal Court, Paimon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well,” he sighed. “That settles it.” “What?” asked Belphegor. Paimon smiled thinly. “We’re going to have to take more drastic measures.” Groans echoed. Far away, Maiden Masquerade raised a glass to an unseen audience. “Good luck,” she said pleasantly.

Nala Nanahoshi

What she called me

I arrived with a name that never quite fit.It hung from me like borrowed silk,
polite, ill-cut, easily forgotten.At her doors, they took it. No protest. No explanation.Only masks and the quiet understanding
of what I was called before would not survive the night.She did not ask who I had been.She circled me once,
candlelight soft against her gloves,
as though listening to something beneath my pulse.“You’ve carried the wrong one long enough,” she said,
and then she named me.It was no louder than a whisper, but it settled in my bones.
like it had always lived there, waiting to be remembered.I have not answered to anything else since.

Ed3nspring

Hilly Poppy

Razmagaz

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