The night sky shone like a million bright torches as the people under it celebrated the decade-long rule of the Strangian republic, a land of dirty snow and cloudy skies.

They had suffered through calamities aplenty- from eking past famine and starvation to marching ahead, united in purpose, towards an imperative release from monarchical tyranny, the people of Stranga had long realized the ugliest aspects of the human mind. They had learned the art of distrust, of when to welcome a stranger into their abode, and whether to treat them with an assortment of gourmet Kivian sweets or a razor-sharp dagger straight through the brain stem.

Yet these same men and women, who would crack a smile at their fathers and mothers without it ever reaching their frigid blue eyes, celebrated under the brightly lit night sky with utter abandon, with strangers and family alike. Twisted crooks and tax-paying citizens swayed and spun arm-in-arm, bottles of most refreshing ale in their hands that they recklessly poured over their overly intoxicated selves to keep themselves from collapsing to the ground in pure exhaustion.

Milov’s city square was alight in a cacophony of torchlight and music. The people crowded every inch of its vast space, tamer celebrations and festivities streaming into the adjacent streets. Little paper banners ran across the roads, hung on little pieces of fabric and tied along roofs in a zig-zag pattern. Businesses exhibited extravagant decorations at their storefronts- hydrangeas and lilacs bundled together in large bouquets posted to the walls, and large sheets of red and white silk embroidered with glamorous patterns hung over and above doors and windows.

The streets sung to the tunes of the Domra; music bewitched the crowd, a sense of controlled chaos surging throughout the city square and beyond. Some people strolled about in apparent satisfaction, some acknowledged life in a blaze of debauchery and lust for human company, and others celebrated in wild merry, intoxicated beyond reason and hooting through the streets like headless roosters. Most of them pranced around, enjoying the festivities in their own way, with a content smile hidden beneath an alcohol-fueled facade.

A further look into the souls of individual persons down at the square, however, revealed a myriad of stark physical and cultural discrepancies. Icy blue pupils peered lovingly into warm brown bulbs, and dark skin like satin, hidden within layers of warm shawls, was caressed by a pale hand as cold as the frozen eyes that led its motion. Lust hung in the air, left unobstructed by grudges and false assumptions.

Joy permeated like sweet essence, affecting all who took part in tonight’s merry celebration.

So thought the young man perched up in the second story of the most important building in Milov, smoking his modest-looking pipe while enjoying the sights and scenes of the celebration outside through a large, extravagant window.

For long minutes he stood there, looking down at the celebration through fog and wet dew. He drew smoke from the pipe, enjoying the sharp tinge of spiced fumes streaming down his throat and throughout his lungs. He exhaled through his mouth, and the smoke hit the window. It stuck, and meshed with the fog to render the window translucent, impermeable with the naked eye. The man frowned in annoyance, yet persisted in smoking through the last of his pipe until the window was stained with a slight specking of black soot. At last he laid down his pipe on the window sill, unable to bear squinting through the properly stained glass. Suffocated beyond belief, he rotated the latch keeping the window from opening, and pushed at the window until it gave way to fresh air and a clear view of the festivities.

Cold air hit the young man with a biting ferocity, ruining his previously combed red hair and ruffling his well-kept mustache. His eyes widened in wonder, as the colors illuminating the city square became ever so vibrant. The houses appeared to be more medieval than ever, the lamplights glowed with a crass, city-like shine, and the people caroused with a vengeance, dancing and singing as if they had been possessed by the spirits of the Ancient Nords.

To the man, there was something special about looking at scenes of great beauty with no obstruction in sight between the object of interest and the naked eye. It felt more genuine, to put it simply. Clearer.

More understandable.

Raking his eyes through Milov city square and beyond, the young man continued to enjoy the sights, the smells, and most importantly, the proud and indulgent tone of tonight's celebrations. But he looked beyond even the joyful sense of unity the gasps of amazed children and the reminiscent smiles of the elderly, as he searched for the source of his concern.

And finally found it, to his lack of surprise.

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There were a plethora of flags strewn about the city proper, posted onto the ground in various streets and often surrounded by a small crowd. These flags held the insignia of the many countries that represented themselves at the city square; a rare show of unity seldom witnessed in this era of troubled hostilities, where even a single word of Kivian would have you lynched and pinned to a pole in the decrepit streets of Rieva, in the land of Tradatul.

Men and women of all ages danced around such flags, alike in color and creed. They contributed to the festivities in their own way, from the Nordian skalds reciting poems of ancient glory with the sweet lull of their birchwood flutes to the Skervians dancing alongside each other to form a circle of healing, paying respects to their ancestors with hands grasping at the sky and feet caressing the earth with gentle footsteps. These men and women showcased their culture with their heads held high, their eyes reflecting years of cultivation under the philosophy of their origins, a proud tilt to their face, unbreaking even in foreign lands.

But no sense of unity. No regard for the men and women beyond the circle.

Aliens couldn’t dare to taint the ancient preciosity of the skald’s poem. Pale skin was pushed and prodded out of the circle of healing, dark skin replacing vacant spots in a matter of seconds.

Similarly, poker faces couldn’t mask cold disdain from antipathetic eyes, looks of distrust and aversion aimed at crowds of people who talked and acted differently with something akin to a sentiment of self-preservation, as if the foreigners could burst into uncontrolled savagery any second now.

A sigh escaped the man’s mouth, hope for a unity- even for as short as a mere night- dashed and in crumbles. He ought to join these people in their convoluted cataclysm of a dynamic, as he was no true noble, at least at heart.

Yet he couldn’t associate with these people, for his world was not spent meandering through narrow streets but sauntering through decorated halls, piles of books in his grasp as a tutor led him to the estate’s private library.

Even now he shared a house with the Diamond Council, greeting illustrious soldiers and politicians as if they were family. Not even some of the other nobles had the privilege of forging acquaintanceships with the council members, and here he believed himself to have the capacity to relate to those living in a world so alien, so strange, to those of his kind.

His world was of dark, reinforced stone, of a castle bereaved of its king and decorated with solemn carvings of a turbulent past; of a moat standing in between the lawmakers and the followers of the law, even after the disposition of a tyrannical king and the installation of a benevolent republic.

“Sir?”

The young man turned his head to find a man in a well-made suit beckoning his attention.

“Could you by any chance be Klaus Weirmann, the owner of this rather ornate domino mask?”

The young man had expected Koldan to deliver the mask himself- he hadn’t seen his grim cousin since graduation- but he was rather unsurprised to see that his cousin had entrusted his responsibility onto one of the palace servants again.

“Yes, my name is Klaus Weirmann,” the young man replied with a little smile on his face, “Could you have been sent by my cousin Koldan Zhukov to deliver this mask to me?”

“You’re quite right, Sir Klaus. Sir Koldan wishes to apologize for not coming personally. He’s a little busy tonight, what with the Speaker requiring his assistance on a rather urgent task.” said the butler, eyebrows pulled together, a strained smile on his face that gave away the weariness he felt on a daily basis, “Here’s your mask, Sir Klaus. The ball is being held in the great hall, directly down stairs.”

Klaus took a look at the inside of the domino mask, seeing his first initial and last name chiseled in neat cursive. Koldan had said in the letter that this particular mask had cost him a pretty penny.

Klaus didn’t enjoy expensive accessories. Especially gifts that he knew had caused the bearer to shed a tear or two to purchase.

“Thank you for your assistance. I will make sure to attend the ball shortly,” said Klaus.

Only then did the butler fashion a genuine smile, bowing briefly as is proper etiquette, “Have a great night, Sir Klaus. Enjoy the ball.”

The butler turned around to leave, and Klaus gazed at his back until he took to the stairs.

Turning around, the young man donned his black domino mask, decorated with wavy black barbs jutting out of the sides, neatly cut slits for the eyes to peek through from. He looked at his reflection in the window, noticing that the mask did a great job at hiding the bags under his eyes, hazel-green pupils alight with a youthful glow juxtaposing against the young man’s fragile frame.

After brushing off a few specks of soot from his expensive coat and straightening up his muffled bowtie, Klaus took one last look through the window.

And smiled-for the first time in a while-as fireworks illuminated the night sky.