Arcane Masks Novels & Stories

Lucian summarizes while adjusting the formal clothes that feel foreign after weeks of wearing simple travel gear. "Not everyone," Lior corrects. "Some of the younger nobles are genuinely curious about hybrid nature without the centuries of prejudice the elders carry. And the shadow-born descendants recognize you as kin even if they won't admit it publicly." The masquerade element adds another layer of complexity, with elaborate masks required for all attendees to maintain the pretense of anonymity despite everyone knowing exactly who stands behind each disguise. Lucian's mask is crafted from silver and gold, the colors deliberately chosen to reference the incomplete form's dual nature.

The citizens and tourists wore the splashes of kaleidoscopic masks crafted by talented artisans in the Blood Claws Pack with stretched grins. “Masks for the Welcoming Ceremony, everyone! One bronze for three pieces of masks!” A merchant with a protruding belly held out his hands to the crowd passing by his stand as he showed them a couple of masks. Masks were carved into a black wolf, a brunette wolf, a red wolf, and the white wolf with a crescent tattoo on its forehead. “Mom! Mom!” One kid tugged his mother’s dress before he pointed to the white mask. “I want a white mask, please!”

It was as if she stepped into a different role entirely, one she had been rehearsing her entire life. Sara returned carrying an ornate wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She placed it reverently before the king, who opened it with practised hands. Inside, nestled in midnight blue velvet, lay two distinct masks. "This was mine," Alexander said, lifting a half-mask that would cover from the nose down, crafted of hammered silver with intricate etchings of wolves running beneath a crescent moon. Small sapphires marked the eyes of each wolf, catching the light as he turned it.

He hadn’t fully understood what that meant until now. Everywhere he looked, the ultra-elite were shedding their daytime restraint. In a shadowed corner near the main salon bar, a statuesque redhead in a feathered gold mask had her back pressed against the wall while a man in a black-on-black suit—Ken recognized him as a prominent hedge fund manager—kissed her throat with open-mouthed hunger. His hand moved under her long dress, fingers working skillfully as she bit her lip to stifle a moan. No one around them batted an eye. This was the Hamptons after dark. At this hidden mask party, the rules dissolved with the champagne.

Marcus asked, holding out a tray. Tonight’s mask was different. It wasn't the clinical filigree I wore in the office. This one was crafted from white gold and encrusted with tiny, raw diamonds that shimmered like frozen tears. It covered the upper half of my face, leaving my lips—painted a defiant, lethal crimson—exposed. "Tonight, we don't hide, Marcus," I whispered, watching my reflection. "Tonight, we remind them that the shadows always return to claim what is theirs."

The silver masks clung to their faces like second skin - not just to hide their identities, but to shield them from the creeping madness that hung over the ruins like a curse. Forged from moon-drenched metal and etched with protective runes Evangeline had carved herself, the masks pulsed faintly with enchantments designed to repel the Veil’s influence. Even so, with every step they took deeper into the desecrated remnants of the lycan sanctuary, the weight of the air grew heavier, denser — like they were walking through a memory that refused to die.

I wanted to rip the mask off, to let him see the monster and the woman, and to lose myself in the heat of his embrace. But as his fingers moved toward the silk ribbons at the back of my head, a cold splash of reality hit me. I am a murderer, I reminded myself. I am an impostor in a dead girl's palace. He is a man of the South, a man of secrets. If I let him see me—truly see me—I would lose the only armor I had left. The power of my eyes was my greatest weapon, but my mask was my greatest shield. Just as his fingers brushed the knot of the ribbon, I grabbed his wrist. My grip was unnaturally strong, fueled by the desperation of a cornered animal.

“Yes, Alpha.” He sauntered off toward the bathroom for a quick change while she seized the opportunity to gather the masks. The occasion was a masquerade-themed extravaganza, Raymond’s chosen concept. Her fingers danced across the masks’ surfaces, each telling a tale of elegance and charisma. The first mask, resplendent in gold and adorned with rubies, caught her eye. A fleeting glance at her attire reassured her that it harmonized seamlessly with her crimson dress. Next in line was a sleek black mask, its glossy velvet covering exuding an air of mystery.

(Derek's POV) The silver-enhanced ceremonial mask felt heavy in my hands, its weight symbolic of the burden I now carried. I traced my fingers over the gold-trimmed edges, feeling each intricate pack symbol etched into its surface. This mask represented more than just my alter ego—it was freedom from the constraints of being Derek Silverstone, heir to a corrupted pack legacy. Tonight, I would become justice itself. I slipped the mask over my face, feeling the familiar sensation of wolfsbane-infused material against my skin. The ancient symbols I had painted on my neck burned slightly, activating the power-masking enchantment that would prevent other wolves from sensing my true alpha presence

I said, turning and stopping in awe. Lucy's mask was a sterling silver with workings of tiny glass beads and lace hanging from it, so that it covered her eyes and her mouth. "Both masks are beautiful!"