Nico got little sleep that night. He stayed up well past midnight, a candle by his side, poring over Principles of Illusion Magic — one of the few items he had brought to Velbruk. It was a heavy and ponderous tome, penned over a century ago by an ancient mage with dense, self-indulgent prose. But it was considered the definitive text for aspiring Illusionists, and Nico had yet to finish reading it in its entirety, let alone practice some of its precepts. Thanks to his eidetic memory, the pages that he had read he could recall with perfect precision. He could remember even the position of the words on the page, which pages were dog-eared or had errant ink marks.

He spent most of the night flipping through those pages, trying to drill down core concepts. Eventually, at the insistence of both Leo and Gianna, he had yielded to their pleas to rest. He’d settled onto his straw mattress and lain awake for many hours, staring at the bat-infested rafters above, before finally drifting into a brief and fitful sleep.

The next day dawned chilly and cloudy, the feeble sun barely peeking through dense gray clouds.

After a short breakfast he decamped for the Spire. Despite how vast it loomed, the tower was approximately a half mile’s distance from the village of Velbruk.

A frosty gale swirled around him, nipping exposed skin. He felt truly naked, not due to the cold, but because he was unequipped and unarmed. He had no spell scrolls or melee weapons on him, nor even his trusty throwing stars. Unlike some attunement spires, such as the Destruction Spire, the Illusion Spire forbade the use of spell scrolls, and any scrolls that one brought with him would be instantly annihilated upon crossing the threshold of the Spire. So Nico would be entering the Spire armed only with his mind and knowledge.

He prayed it would be enough.

When he neared the tower’s entrance he came to a halt, gazing up at what had been the object of his ambitions for so many months now: a monolithic stone spire, its gray face etched with a spiraling ribbon of ancient runes. Broad and wide, it rose into the sky, piercing the slate gray clouds above. Standing before it sent chills down Nico’s spine.

Ahead, the Spire’s yawning aperture was pitch black. With one last look around him, Nico fixed his gaze forward and strode purposefully into the Spire…

Crossing the threshold he moved slowly, not quite sure what to expect. It was forbidden for a mage to write about what he experienced in a Spire, and those who gained an attunement were loath to incur the wrath of their patron gods.

There were more runes etched on the walls, quite unlike any other he had ever seen. He could almost feel the energy pulsing from them in waves, tickling him, turning his skin to gooseflesh. There were no lights on the walls, so he invoked the Illumination cantrip to dispel some of the darkness. But the darkness swallowed it. A rill of sweat ran down his back.

Perhaps the attunement is not available to me. Perhaps Il-ibn denies my attempt. Il-ibn was the god of Illusion magic.

He was ready to give up and turn back the way he came when another light came on. He was no longer in the Spire’s cavernous depths. He was now on a cobblestoned walkway leading to an opulent palace. A light pattering of rain fell upon him, wetting his cheeks and trickling down his collar. It was well past dusk, and orange sodium lamplights lit the street, reflecting glassily on puddles.

He advanced forward, climbing up a few steps onto a broad veranda which sheltered him from the drizzling rain. A short, bald man stood beside the palace’s two massive oak doors, hands clasped behind his back. He gave Nico a penetrating look.

“You are naked, sir.”

“What?” Nico looked down at his body, pleased to see that he was in fact still clothed.

“This is a Masquerade,” the doormman said in his silky voice. “A masked ball. Your face cannot be exposed.”

“Oh, right. Where can I—”

Almost as if on cue, the doorman brought his arms out from around his back, proffering a theatrical mask, blue and gold with rouged cheeks. It had black metal wire frames that looped around the ears like glasses. Nico put it on, and the host opened the door and admitted him inside.

The palace’s ballroom was dazzling and lavish. Glass seemed to be a motif: glass tables, glass statues, glass snifters. Dozens of masked men and women milled around, some of them dancing on the ball’s checkered marble stage. The Masquerade was in full swing, a musical quartert playing a jaunty tune.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

A man approached Nico. Despite the mask Nico could tell he was quite handsome, about six feet tall, his thick black hair perfectly coiffed.

“With me, sir,” he said.

He looped his arm around Nico’s elbow and steered him over to one of the unoccupied glass tables. It was a standing table (no seats accompanied it), its glass surface rising to about waist height. A transparent floral tablecloth covered it, and at the center of the table was a tall decanter filled with brandy. It was surrounded by four glass snifters.

“Aspirant Niccolò,” the man said in a baritone voice, “yours has been a winding journey.” He took two glass snifters and placed one by Nico and one by himself. Then he unstoppered the decanter and poured a small amount of brandy into each cup.

Nico was unsure what to make of this whole scene. Of course, he had never read anyone’s account of an attunement spire, but in his mind he imagined facing a series of challenges, increasing in difficulty as he climbed to higher floors. This… was certainly not that.

“Please, drink.”

A bit reluctantly, Nico raised the glass to his lips and tasted a small sip. It was sweet and fruity, with a flowery aftertaste that lingered upon his tongue.

“I have expected your arrival for some time now,” the man said.

“And who are you, exactly?”

“You will soon know.” The man took a long sip of his own snifter and set the glass down with a clatter. “Niccolò, you have long been a student of illusion, of deceit and subterfuge. In your capacity as an adventurer with the Pathfinders guild, you traffic in false identities — in heists and con games. Recently you and your compatriots donned disguises to infiltrate the Floating Library of Azkaya.”

Nico narrowed his eyes. “I have only ever plundered the rich and the royal. Everything I’ve done, I would do it all again.”

The man laughed. “You mistake my meaning, Niccolò. I am not criticizing you. I am merely commenting on your credentials. Il-ibn, the God of Illusion and Deceit, does not concern himself with the laws of mortal men.” He finished what remained of the brandy in his own snifter and licked his lips. “Now I trust you understand the risks concomitant with this undertaking? Should you fail, you will be subject to the whims of Il-ibn. You may face face death or disfigurement or possibly worse. And should you fail but survive the ordeal, you will be irretrievably barred from making any future attempts in the Illusion attunement spire. Do you accept those terms?”

“I do. Yes.”

“This is your first attempted attunement. There are two components to your examination — theory and practice. We will start with theory. Are you ready to begin?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s begin.”

The masked man unstoppered the decanter and refilled both glasses. Nico did not drink any more, and unless the man prompted him to do so he wasn’t going to. He had never particularly relished the taste of wine, liquor, or spirits. He disliked how it dulled the mind, how it eroded discipline and self-control.

“Question number one. What is the basis of a good illusion?”

Nico was taken aback by the simplicity of the question. This was a fairly elementary principal of Illusion magic. Something that was described in detail in the first chapters of Principles of Illusion Magic.

“Belief,” he replied. “The caster must, by force of will, believe in the illusion that he intends to craft. For instance if I wish to create a copy of myself, I must first imagine that the copy already exist in the material world. I could pretend that I have an identical twin.”

The masked man nodded, seemingly content with Nico’s answer.

“According to Hofstadter, what is an Immaculate Illusion?”

This question was somewhat more esoteric, but the term rang a bell. It took him a few moments to fully recollect… Chapter 6, page 314, subsection B. In his mind’s eye he could see the very words on the page.

“An Immaculate Illusion,” Nico said slowly, “is one which fully engages all of the senses. Sight, sound, scent — everything must be carefully conceived and braided together. An Immaculate Illusion is one which cannot be readily exposed or unmasked. It blends seamlessly with reality, and those who are not adept at dispelling illusions believe it to be real.”

“Hmm… almost,” the masked man said. “Almost correct. But it’s not just sight and sound and scent, is it?”

“No,” Nico said, a slight bead of perspiration blossoming on his temple. In his mind, he flipped forward a few pages of text, quickly scanning and synthesizing the information. “There are other senses as well. An Immaculate Illusion engages taste and tactility, as well as the minor senses. Mechanoreception (balance), proprieception (the location and movement of a body), nociception (the sensation of pain), and thermosensation (heat and temperature). For most illusions, the minor senses can be safely disregarded, but for an Immaculate Illusion, they must be deliberately accounted for.”

“You are reciting almost verbatim from Hofstadter’s text. Rote memorization is a poor basis for knowledge.”

“I can repeat my answer using different words,” Nico said somewhat cheekily.

“Tsk tsk tsk,” the masked man with a shake of his head. “That will not do. Sorry Nico.” He waved his hand and Nico felt the earth shift underneath him. Glass rattled. A sparkling chandelier above him was swaying. Someone screamed.

The illusion was collapsing.