Page 19 of Dance of Deception

There’s also something even more dangerous swirling in my core.

Fascination.

I try to force myself to keep dancing, to not call attention to the fact that I can see the insanity around me, but then my gazeshifts, and suddenly, the feast is not the craziest thing in the room.

Holy fuck.

At the far end of the cathedral space is a raised dais with five black thrones in a row. And sitting on those five thrones are five men all in black…

…Each wearing a matte black mask with animal features.

A bull, a wolf, a dog, a bird, and a stag.

The moment I see them, something inside me locks up.

It goes beyond fear. Beyond the sharp, instinctive panic that pricks at my skin, sending every nerve in my body onto high alert. It’s deeper than that—more visceral, more primal.

The masks are simple and unadorned, eerily blank, and somehow, that only makes them more terrifying. There’s no expression, no personality, no hint of the men underneath. Just sleek black surfaces sculpted into animal forms, each distinct, yet thematically linked. A bull. A wolf. A dog. A bird. A stag.

The men don’t move. But it’s like the sheer weight of their presence is suffocating, a silent command of power that doesn’t require words.

I should look away. I should drop my gaze, try to forget I saw them.

But I don’t.

Ican’t.

A slow, electric pulse unfurls in my stomach, winding through my limbs like a tightly drawn wire.

These aren’t just men.

They feel ancient. Elemental. Gods watching from above, waiting to pass judgment.

Predators, waiting for their prey to make a mistake.

I breathe faster as I instinctively twist my body in time with the music. Then my gaze drops to where the five masked men are looking. On the floor, right in front of the dais, a man is kneeling, flanked by guards, bound by chains to the stone floor.

My pulse quickens, chest rising and falling as I try to keep myself positioned so that I can see what the fuck is happening through the tiny gap in my blindfold.

The prisoner wears no mask. He looks in his late forties, maybe a little older, with thinning hair, a belly straining the suit that it looks like he just ran a marathon in, and a stricken, horrified look on his face. He’s shaking, pleading with the five of them.

I can’t hear him through the music in my ears, but I can see read his body language, see the way the masked figures remain completely, unflinchingly still.

Iknowit’s reckless.

IknowI shouldn’t.

There will be consequences.

But I have to know what the fuck this is.

When I turn, I brush my hand past my hair, flicking my ear ever so slightly and dislodging one of my earbuds just a little.

Sound rushes in, and I hear the man in the bird mask speak.

“Andrei Mushkin.”

The entire place goes silent. Every guest freezes in the middle of what they’re doing.

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