It was masquerade season, which meant the only lights on tonight were from the Hangmen. They whirled wildly, lanterns on poles, said to be full of captured souls. Well, tonight was the night the Hangmen would capture more, bringing them to the castle for the Court.

Jorwyn's heart plugged his throat as he ducked into an alleyway. The clock tower struck midnight and the Hangmen howled. Horse hooves clattered on cobbles, turning it to thunder as the pack of hunters came his way. Jorwyn shrank down, hands scrambling, as he looked for the small door in the brick. Come on, come on.

It wasn't there. Someone had boarded it up, poorly hammered nails poking at his fingers. He hissed and pressed his back to the wall as the shadow of a horse filled the alley. It pawed the ground and snorted, steam shooting from flared nostrils. The thing on its back wore shadows as a cloak, had burning coal eyes, and a thick tar rope strung around its neck, the head cocked sickeningly—permanently—to the side.

The horse screamed and the rider dismounted, lantern pole fishing out into the dark.

"Get back!" Jorwyn shouted, the sound a whimper in the overwhelming night. He fumbled a coin from his pocket, pure gold, and threw it to the ground.

The Hangman hissed, lurching back. They hated gold. It reminded them they were dead. Of their crimes and their tombs, marked with nothing more than a small gold X. But it wasn't enough. The man in the shop had told Jorwyn it was a sure thing. It damn sure wasn't.

Enraged, the Hangman advanced, pinning Jorwyn into the corner of the alley. He used his lantern pole to hook Jorwyn around the neck and drag him forward. The horse glared at him with a rolling eye and stamped its hooves, sparks striking from the ground.

"Why so frightened, boy?" the Hangman said, voice like crumbling grave dirt. "You're about to become king." Then he threw a black bag over Jorwyn's head and that was all he knew.

This was how the city lived: busy streets with markets year round and gates flung open to the world. On the night of the summer solstice, the gates swung shut with no one's say, the city's encircling wall keeping all out and all in. That night—this night—the Hangmen would ride and choose from the helpless citizens those who would join the Court at the impenetrable castle. Many had looked for a way in. There was none.

So it was that Jorwyn rode in the dark, clueless and frightened, breathing through burlap, wondering how he would be taken inside a castle that couldn't be entered. Not that it mattered. It stank of magic, as did these dead men on horses, surrounding him with their cold dead flesh, tri-cornered hats perched on their crooked heads.

When they removed the bag, Jorwyn was in splendor. A room filled with ornate carvings and moldings on the walls, a bed hung with feathery curtains and an enormous wardrobe flung wide, spilling velvet robes and steamed shirts in grotesque display. The only good thing about this too-big, too-cold room was that it made the Hangmen leave.

They were replaced by three silent maids with porcelain faces and unblinking eyes who undressed him and reclothed him with a silk tunic, soft leather boots, and a coat of scarlet. They powdered his face and put on a wig, the strands scratching at his face. But all the while, Jorwyn's eyes had locked across the room, catching gazes with the thing he feared the most.

The mask.

The King's mask. A thing that would vacate his soul for the Hangmen's lanterns. A thing that played out its sordid masquerade every year. A thing that would not rest. It was red and beaked and would fit whichever face was chosen to wear it. This year it was Jorwyn's. He backed toward the door, hoping to run, but how could he run from a castle with no doors?

Unperturbed, the maids retrieved the mask and clapped their porcelain hands. Jorwyn froze in place, though still struggling, he could not move, could barely breathe, his chest so tight with anticipatory fear. The maid in front settled the mask upon his face. It sat just over his nose, the beak hooking out. There were no straps, nothing to attach it, but it hugged his skin and stayed.

Jorwyn felt...nothing. Not yet. The mask was uncomfortable, a heavy weight on the front of his face, but just that for now. The maids led him by the arm out through arched hallways spotted with candles and into the ballroom. A vast space filled with gold cloth and slowly spinning chandeliers, musicians in a high gallery playing something soft as summer rain. People filled the floor, spinning in gowns, in capes, in masks, but when Jorwyn entered they stopped.

Silence struck like a blade.

Suddenly his spine snapped straight and his hand shot out, extending to a woman across the room. She too was dressed in red, with a white silk collar, ribbons in her hair, which was wound into a silver crown upon her head. She held a rose in her hand, which she extended to him in turn.

"Tonight," said Jorwyn's voice, "is the summer solstice. Tonight we dance."

The musicians started a discordant tune, a whirl of sound and menace, and the Court moved into step. Jorwyn felt the king in his head, felt his voice hiss in his ear. This is my night, boy. My crime, my curse, our death.

Not so fast, Jorwyn wanted to say, but he couldn't, his words, his very mouth had been wrested from his control. But he had one last trick up his sleeve. One last gold coin. And he still had a little feeling left in his fingers. He moved slowly as the king strode across the ballroom floor, inch by inch bringing his hand into his pocket where he'd stowed it.

If he could just swallow that coin, just touch it to his tongue, even. Maybe it would be enough to expel the spirit. Maybe Jorwyn could keep his soul.

The queen was approaching. She had midnight in her eyes and blood in her hands. The rose thorns had cut her but she seemed not to notice. She only noticed him and that gaze was a needle, a knife, so sharp that the king and Jorwyn gasped as one.

He had the coin now. He just had to—

The queen caught his hand. She smiled, folded his fingers in her own, and when she allowed him to open them again, liquid gold spilled along the lines in his palm and to the floor.

Jorwyn wanted to scream, wanted to fight, but he couldn't, because Jorwyn wasn't there. There was only the king.