A Mask to Bury
MatureYou've stolen a dead man's face to survive the king's court — but tonight, the poison that killed him burns in your cup.
Condemned to die for a crime you didn't commit, you were given one chance: take the place of the king's poisoned taster, a courtier whose death was never mourned. Now you wear his face, taste every dish for venom, and pray the tremor in your hands goes unnoticed. But tonight, at the Feast of Trials, the king serves the very vintage that killed your predecessor — and the true heir watches you with eyes that know exactly what you are. One wrong breath, one flicker of recognition, and every lord who'd feed you to the hounds will have their sport. Can you keep the mask in place long enough to uncover the traitor — or will the poison claim you too?
The story begins
The golden goblet trembled in your grip, the wine inside a dark, fragrant mirror of your own mortality. You could feel every eye in the grand hall on you—the weight of the king’s expectation, the Spymaster’s cold, appraising gaze, and the Heir’s sly, knowing smirk. The vintage was the same deep ruby that had stopped your predecessor’s heart three nights ago. Your tongue still remembered the phantom bitterness of it, a ghost of copper and almonds.
The king’s voice boomed, a jovial command that silenced the court. “Drink, my loyal taster. Prove the wine is sweet.”
Your pulse hammered against your ribs. Every instinct screamed to refuse, to shatter the glass and run. But a condemned criminal had no legs to run on. A fraud had no room for hesitation.
You raised the goblet, the cool rim pressing against your lower lip. The Heir’s eyes narrowed, waiting for the flinch that would expose you. The Spymaster’s hand drifted to the dagger at her hip.
The wine touched your tongue—bitter, metallic, and unmistakably laced with something your body already knew.
What happens next is up to you.
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