Isaac Alessandro Stjerne was starting to regret drinking as much as he did.

He gazed out onto the opulent ballroom from his seat, his legs sprawled out on the fainting couch and his heavy-lidded eyes glossed over by the haze that alcohol so often brought when consumed in too large a quantity. If he were sober, he would have taken note of the soaring arches that dominated the hall, the vault that towered above them, the reliefs that lined the walls, the detailed tapestries that had cost a fortune. But now was not the time for thoughts of sobriety. Music filtered into his drunk ears: violins, lutes, flutes and the telltale croon of a harpsichord coming together and forming a trancelike rhythm to which the revelers danced.

Fighting the urge to roll them, he kept his eyes on the writhing bodies of masked revelers occupying the dance floor, all of them in some varying state of undress. From his perch, he could see the sweat glistening on their skins, the rouge smeared on the uncovered portions of their faces. The sights, the sounds, the smells that arose from the congregation all overwhelmed him, an invisible gag that wrapped itself around his head, sealing his mouth and nose, and taking from him the ability to breathe. And yet, in a way, they did not affect him at all, for his mind was somewhere else entirely. Frustration bubbled deep within him. Leave it to his father to throw the masquerade to end all masquerades for his coming of age and not be there to handle it. His parents had told him just the morning before: they had invited everyone who was anyone in the city to the villa but could not entertain them for they had to travel to Galacós on urgent business.

Isaac suspected-no, not suspected, he was fairly sure-that the only business they had in Galacós was to spend a day of peace and quiet in their summer home. They had simply announced it in that manner to make sure that he wouldn't be able to slither himself out of this one. At that, he could not refrain anymore, losing any thought for putting up appearances and letting his irises disappear into his eyelids. The formality and the toasts at the start of the event were torture; this drunken mess was pure stupidity. A thousand curses upon this wretched thing.

"You do not look as if you are enjoying yourself," a silky voice called from out of nowhere, snapping him out of his train of thought.

"And what would you need from me?" he replied, carefully engineering a tone of dead indifference into his voice. Before him was a lady, no doubt one of the high profile guests that had taken it upon themselves to let go of all inhibitions for the night. A silver mask encrusted with gems sat upon her nose, reflecting the light in a thousand different directions and causing him to narrow his eyes at the bright intrusion.

"Only to pay my respects to the guest of honor," she returned, her multicolored gown billowing as she attempted a curtsy. She swayed onto one side, barely keeping her balance as she stood back up. "One celebrates his eighteenth summer but once in his life, after all." She smiled at him, lowering herself, not without mistakes unto the couch.

Drawing himself into an upright position, he asked her, "But how are you so certain that I am the guest of honor?" Feeling particularly brave, (though it might have been the alcohol) he leaned forward, twirling a lock of her brown hair with his finger as he spoke. "I am wearing a mask, after all."

"Do not take me for a fool," she laughed before leaning in as well. "Just because you are masked does not mean you are hidden." Her voice was barely above a whisper by now, and she was close enough that he could feel her breath fanning over him and see every crease on her wine-stained lips. She smelled of wine and poppy. "Same raven hair," she tugged at his shoulder length sweat-stained locks and continued, "same pale milky skin..."

He had taken care of choosing his own clothes before the ball, opting to hide as much skin as possible in the hopes that his defect wouldn't be seen. How terribly wrong he was.

Before he could think some more though, the lady's lips were on him, as if trying to suckle out what bits of energy he had left for the night. Acting as a testament to this, he was by now, too worn out by the evening's proceedings to turn her away. Slowly, he leant back down, deciding to just indulge her until she got bored. He kept his lips on hers, and let it move with hers, despite the fact that they were doing something he had never done before (though he didn't go around proclaiming so) and believed warranted a genuine connection foremost, and not just drunken whims. Soon enough, her hands were on him, her smooth olive skin contrasting with his unhealthy pallor: in his hair, on his arms, on his face, on his chest.

"What is this?" she asked as she pulled away from him, something in her clutch. Of course, he knew what she was talking about, but still looked down just the same. In her hand was a plain glass vial, by its lid connected to a chain which in turn was tied around his neck. In the vial meanwhile was a small lock of hair, dark as a drop of ink.

"Nothing of importance," he dismissed. In reality, he did not know what the vial was for, except for his parents' vague instructions of never letting it out of his sight. It had been with him for as long as he could remember, always dangling from his neck. He suspected that the lock of hair, so similar to his own, was taken from him in infancy and preserved. For what purpose though, he did not know.

To his surprise, her hands wound themselves around his neck, undoing the clasp to the metal chain. "Then you will not mind if I keep it for myself? To remember tonight by." Slowly, she put the chain around her own uncovered neck. He watched the vial glisten dully on her chest.

Before he could utter anything against it, her lips were back on his, picking up on where they had left off. This time, he tried to push her away, but she was insistent. He realized suddenly that he had grown quite tired of the taste of alcohol on her lips. He couldn't stop her though, for the lady, whose strength was undoubtedly enhanced by her inebriation, had pinned both his arms to the couch.

After much effort of inclining his neck backwards, he was finally able to break the connection between their lips. "Are you certain you do not want to stop? Maybe play lip fencing with someone else?" his tone was mocking: he had lost his patience, but she did not notice.

"Shush," she put a finger on his lips. "What else is a night of abandon for?"

He looked around. All over, people were still dancing, though some had taken their masks off by now. Some of them had retired to the dark corners of the grand room to do who-knows-what with whoever of their choosing. Some had sprawled themselves on the seats that had been put to the side at the start of the dance. Some had decided the floor was even better, having passed out from the sheer volume of liquor they had consumed. His nose wrinkled in distaste at the knowledge that somehow, he had joined their ranks in the arena of mindless drunkenness.

"Something save me from this," he muttered to himself. Little did he know-

Once more, she leant towards him, but this time, he tilted his head to one side so that her all her lips made contact with was air. "I am tired," he told her.

"You aren't any fun," she accused lightheartedly, not stopping her assault on him, even though by this time, he had put his hands on her shoulders, holding her at an arm's length. Her eyelids were half shut, and she was slurring most of her words. "Naughty boy. Come on here you-"

She did not finish what she was saying though, for at that time, a loud rumble like something being struck shook the entire room. As if being awakened from a dream, she stopped and looked around for its source.

Isaac stood up cautiously as another quake sounded, sending dust particles from the ceiling floating down. Apparently, the two of them weren't the only ones who noticed, as evidenced by the abrupt sobering of the mood about the ballroom. The music had died out, like a gaggle of cats being put to sleep, their differing chords grating upon each other before silence took over. Everyone had stopped as well, save those who were too inebriated to notice anything apart from themselves. They too though, were quickly hushed by their companions. By this time, a thick blanket seemed to have covered the room, dampening spirits and filling all with a sense of foreboding.

Now awakened to alertness, Isaac strode over from the alcove he had stationed himself at, one of many, to the other end of the room, passing by the dancers who had been frozen by curiosity. Once again, the tour rumble of wood being struck sounded through the room, bringing a collective flinching in all those inside.

The door, Isaac realized, a small seed of fear sprouting inside his chest. Someone was trying to break down the great door. Everyone seemed to realize so as well, their heads turning towards the fourteen foot tall behemoth of an entrance with fear. Some had already begun to slink towards one of the smaller exits, in anticipation of what could happen.

Whispers engulfed the room, not suddenly, but as though they were building up their power and just now overtook the silence that came before. Is this the host's idea of a joke? What is happening? Maybe they've brought a bear to spear! Isaac heard these, but as the de facto host, (he was still quite mad at his father for leaving just then and there) he did not know of any plans as well. Driven by the sense of dread that had been building up inside him and squeezing his heart, he moved towards one of the fireplaces on this side of the room, and took from it a blazing poker. Another shudder from the grand double doors.

Poker in hand, (he was not sure how he would use it to great effect, seeing how most of the other people in the room were either frozen with fear, gossiping or scuttling towards one of the smaller service exits) he wove through the masses, taking care not to impale anyone with the hot end of the rod. A groan emanated from the wood. Isaac remembered his father speaking about this specific set of doors. Made from the wood of the cherry, fastened with the most rigid iron and strengthened with the newest methods, an army would have to push it in order to force it open. He had always been skeptical about the need for an army to push the door open, but did not doubt the sturdiness of the material. Now, he thought to himself, what was on the other side of the door that could strong enough to shatter its defenses?

"Boy," a man nudged his shoulder, trembling so that Isaac could have attributed the building's strange noises to him, "what is this?" His silk doublet was skewed to one side, and the cape he had worn to the gathering had found itself tied around his front, resembling a large bib. It would have been rather comical, had these not been the circumstances.

Isaac could not respond, for suddenly he had found that his throat had run dry. Instead, he brought a finger to his lips before gesturing towards the door.

"Young man, do you find this amusing?" the man was rapidly turning red, his eyebrows raising and his nostrils flaring. "Do you-"

But he could not continue, for the another sound had come from the door, this time much louder than the others that came before. Isaac swore that he heard something in addition to the audible creak of the wood: the clang of metal coming into contact with... something. A new rhythm had begun, though this time, it did not come from the instruments. His heart beat forcefully, as if trying to push itself out of his ribs.

The sound continued, now akin to something hacking at the door. The metal and the wood began to work up a steady beat, each quake louder than the one before. Everyone around Isaac shuffled in discomfort, taking a step backward.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

Then slowly, gradually, the beat faltered before coming to a stop. Silence permeated the space once more, the only sound to be heard the stray occasional shuffling of feet. The guests, who up to now were frozen in their stance, began to heave a collective sigh, some of them releasing a few nervous giggles. That was it?

Isaac tightened his grip on the fireplace poker, taking a tentative step forward.

Groan.

And like sand merely held together by water, the double doors erupted into splinters.