The Devil-Masked Man: "Lucien Vale"

Before he wore the devil's face, Lucien Vale was a collector — not of antiques or art, but of promises.

In the secret underworld of forgotten towns, there were places where promises held more weight than gold, and Lucien knew how to trade in them. A whispered vow from a dying king, a lover’s oath never fulfilled, a child’s pinky swear broken in anger — Lucien bottled these fragile things like rare wine, selling them to the highest bidder.

But the longer he trafficked in broken dreams, the more the darkness around him thickened.

 He began seeing things others couldn’t: shadowy figures that mimicked his every move, doors where there should have been only walls, postcards that arrived with no return address—each one inscribed with strange symbols and warnings written backward.

One night, Lucien received a final postcard.

"The last dance was promised to the liar in red."

The stamp is a wax seal, pressed directly onto the paper, still somehow warm to the touch.

It was blank except for a single sentence, burned into the paper as if by fire:

"When the mask fits, the clock starts."

"Jump, and the debts will fly free... or fall forever."

Hours later, when he tried to leave his shop, he found the door opened not onto the street but onto Anjelikka’s parlor.

The mask was waiting for him at the table. Red, grinning, horned. Against every instinct, he put it on — and in doing so, he sealed a promise of his own.

Now, seated across from Anjelikka under the dripping candles, Lucien felt the full weight of what he had done. He had traded too many lives. Sold too many futures. And somewhere in the stacks of postcards scattered across Anjelikka’s table was the receipt for his own soul.

The hourglass spun.

The cards were drawn.

And the clock, as promised, was running out.

...coming up:

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