Page 3 of Henrikk’s Masquerade

No family. No living relatives except an estranged half-sister. Not even a pet dog.

It was just a life of being a faithful soldier, looking after his men, and living alone as he helped Henrikk rise to power. Watching him court men and women from afar.

Loneliness was something he’d grown accustomed to. Henrikk and he would never be together, and he’d accepted that.

Until now.

Something had changed, and the hope he’d thought was extinguished had somehow survived like the persistent heat of a glowing coal.

By the time Asher reached the top of the stairs, he was perspiring. He was a fit man, but the sedative had left him groggy, and the weeks of imprisonment had worn him down. He wasn’t sleeping well, and Henrikk’s randomised visits had prevented him from forming any kind of routine.

One of the things he missed most was daily exercise outside in the fresh air. He was sure his muscle tone had suffered from his time away from the training yards.

Inside the suite, Asher scanned the room to ensure he was alone. He threw the pretend fireplace a resentful scowl, longing for a fire to warm himself.

He didn’t want to attend the ball, and he was tempted to curl up in bed and sleep. Except that was a sure way to invite the monster into his room.

And he very much wanted to win Henrikk’s game.

The king’s words drifted back to his mind.

All you need to do is kill me.

Did Henrikk truly expect him to succeed? Or had he set him the seemingly impossible task for pure entertainment? Either way, there had to be a way to win the game without actually killing Henrikk. Surely, there was a way…

Asher stripped out of his clothes and reluctantly donned the red costume Henrikk had had made for him. True to the servant’s words, it was indeed reversible: the inside was dark purple, and the silver stitching was the only flamboyant detail.

Asher stared at his reflection in a full-length mirror that had mysteriously appeared in a corner of the room—another one of Henrikk’s sneaky additions.

Turned inside out, the dark purple was much easier to stomach than the bright red and would attract far less attention. The thick silver thread criss-crossing over the front was a little showy, but any less ornate would have made its plainness stand out at the ball.

He sent a silent thank you to the mystery person who’d designed the red one to be reversible. It gave him half a fighting chance of not being so easily spotted at the ball. It was both strange and heartening to think there might be someone secretly looking out for him.

His gaze fell to the silver sleigh bells that lined the collar, the king worn by court fools.

Although my mystery protector left those for me.

Asher used a small knife to hack off the jester bells. They jingled as he worked, bouncing along the tiles as they fell one by one.

Or cat bells, Asher thought, his lips quirking. Either way, Henrikk was mocking him.

“Very funny,” he muttered, straightening his collar, which no longer jingled.

It wasn’t until he patted his clothes, searching for pockets to conceal weapons in, that he discovered an unusual feature on the trousers: both the crotch and the rear of the pants had been modified with flaps.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, locating the studded buttons that kept the flaps in place. That sort of design had been outdated for at least a century—and to have a flap covering the seat of the pants was bizarre. “Why on earth…?”

He could practically hear Henrikk’s voice slithering into his mind in answer:

Why, for easy access, General. What else?

Asher felt queasy, and he wanted nothing more than to tear the garb off and set it alight.

But no. He would wear the clothes Henrikk had laid out, and he would arm himself with weapons.

He would win Henrikk’s Game, and he would do so following Henrikk’s rules, even if he died trying.

Asher donned the silver, feathered mask, which covered the entire upper half of his face and made him look cunning and fox-like.