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The craftmask

H igh within the spreading petal of the woman’s hall, Amaranth mé Esmail Her Glory, the Moon-Eater’s Mistress, lifts a patch of silk cloth from her vanity.

She found it upon her brother’s bed. Alongside the torn mask of Singix Es Sun. Amaranth took all the pieces, for she suspected what the full craftmask might be.

Now, before dawn, with rays of pale light casting silver stars and diamonds onto her floor as it pushes through the latticed windows, she picks up the silk, her heart roaring with anticipation.

If she’s right, the empire will be spread at her feet. If she’s right, perhaps there is a way forward from yesterday’s devastation.

She stills her breathing, forces her body quiet, and stands before the wide mirror between her wardrobes. With hands that do not tremble, she lifts it until the silk falls down her face.

Pressing the edge to her hairline, she smooths the silk against her skin.

Heat floods her cheeks, spiking through her eyes and bones, scouring her lips and nose like sand.

Amaranth hisses softly as the pain fades, and looks up.

In the mirror, her brother’s face stares back at her.