Discord

Once upon a time, in a world not unlike our own, the holiday season was at hand–a time of lavish, decadent parties for the fabulously wealthy. The snow was falling and winter’s bitter chill permeated the land, bringing added misery to common folk afflicted by rising prices and merciless taxes inflicted on them by robber barons and oligarchic, warmongering politicians, who reveled in their wealth while the poor grew steadily poorer. The holidays brought only nominal relief to most, but inside the mansion of trillionaire Anton Dusk, no one felt the faintest hint of cold or the remotest pang of want..

Tucked away in picturesque, forested mountains, a blanket of snow made the trillionaire’s opulent, sprawling estate appear to be a tsar’s palace from yesteryear. As evening darkness draped itself across the scene, the mansion’s countless windows blazed with warm golden light, and sounds of revelry emanated from every window and door. For within that enormous dwelling, a party to end all parties was well underway.

Guests arrived in sleek, high-end automobiles driven by chauffeurs. The vehicles parked in front of the double doors on a fresh-cleared horseshoe drive, allowing their wealthy and important passengers to alight. Designer shoes, fur coats, and white-tie evening wear clothed most of these distinguished persons, although some opted for unusual, fantastical ensembles, all with at least a nod to the winter holidays through the inclusion of glitter, jingling bells, or seasonal colors. Regardless of what else they wore, however, every guest, without question, wore a mask.

At the door, armed guards checked each newcomer for an invitation–gilt text on heavy, snowy paper. Upon entering the mansion, guests were dazzled by the abundance of gold and precious stones glittering in the light provided by elegant crystal chandeliers overhead. Butlers in tailcoats removed the guests’ outerwear and whisked it away to hidden coat closets. The invitees then made their way down a long, broad corridor studded with lifelike, gleaming classical Greek statues and famous paintings in ornate frames–Anton Dusk’s private art gallery, complete with marble floors and columns, red velvet curtains, and crystalline skylights interspersed with fantastical scenes painted on the ceiling.

From the other end of this hall, music led the guests into a massive ballroom with sparkling, intricate jewel-mosaic floors and soaring gilded ceilings. The music came from an orchestra positioned on a balcony overlooking the dance floor. Endless tables with pristine white tablecloths lined the room, each laden with components of an extravagant feast.

“My chauffeur would be drooling if he saw even one of these tables,” one well-bred woman remarked to another, toying with one of her many bejeweled rings as she spoke. Both women laughed; such concerns as hunger were as foreign to them as life at the bottom of the ocean. They took no notice of the wait-staff around the tables, dressed to the nines and forbidden from taking even a morsel of the feast for themselves or their families.

“Welcome, welcome!” Anton Dusk called to each guest as they entered the ballroom. “Eat, drink, and be merry! We have much to celebrate!”

And they did. The wealthy and powerful gathered in this room had every reason to believe that their prosperity would last indefinitely. The government was firmly under their control; their taxes would be negligible, their industries would continue to bring in record profits, the stock market would soar. Infinite growth seemed perfectly achievable in this grandiose setting. Although they all wore masks, the partiers recognized each other and mingled with one another, comparing profit margins and year-end bonuses and future plans while showing off their jewelry and designer clothes.

Among these Very Important Persons strode a statuesque woman in gladiator sandals with gleaming gold armor over her flowing white Grecian gown. An elaborate gilded mask, itself a work of art, with a towering feather crest disguised her features.

“Who is she?” one guest whispered to another, but no one seemed to know. And if no one knew her, then how did she get in? This was the holiday party of the year, and no one could have even found out about it without an exclusive invitation. A man in a perfectly tailored navy suit with a sapphire-studded gold mask decided to solve this mystery. He approached the stranger with the arrogant self-assurance particular to wealthy white men.

“Vladimir Dedov, Cheka International,” he introduced himself with an oily smile. “And who might you be?”

“Mr. Dedov of Cheka?” the woman repeated in liquid alto tones. “I’ve just heard the most interesting story about you from Mr. Blackstone of MetroBank… Is it true that you’re keeping a dozen mistresses in various safe houses around the globe?”

Vladimir sputtered and his face reddened. “Jason Blackstone said that?”

The mysterious woman shrugged. “So I’ve heard.”

“If you’ll excuse me…um….” By the time Vladimir realized he’d never gotten her name, she’d glided away amongst the revelers, and a red-hot need to confront Blackstone had blossomed in his chest.

“Beg pardon, ma’am, but I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” a snooty woman with a tight perm and a mask dripping in diamonds greeted the armored woman next. “My name is Kamrov. Serena Kamrov, of–”

“Arrington Property Group, I believe?” the stranger interjected. “Were you not recently seen taking unmarked envelopes from men with gang tattoos, down by the docks in Portsmouth?”

“Who told you that?! I would never stoop to such blatant corruption!”

“Mrs. Windsor, I believe she called herself–”

“That wretch! I’ll teach her to slander me!” With that, Serena Kamrov stormed off through the crowd to find Mrs. Windsor, and the unnamed, statuesque woman continued on her way across the dance floor.

So it was every time she was approached: she would have a brief conversation with the one seeking to learn her identity, and then the other person would storm away in pursuit of someone else, convinced that they were the victim of salacious gossip. Sometimes instead the woman in armor would point out that another guest had more expensive attire than the person to whom she was speaking, and that too had the effect of sparking anger and indignation. As she made her way through the ballroom, angry looks and whispered insults followed in her wake.

Meanwhile, in the art gallery entry hall, a butler noticed that one pedestal was lacking a statue: a woman carrying a spear, wearing armor and a fierce expression, seemed to be missing from the display. But he chose not to remark upon it. He was not being paid enough to keep track of Master Dusk’s priceless possessions while managing the rest of the evening’s festivities.

On the balcony in the ballroom with the orchestra, another woman, elegant and graceful, drifted amongst the musicians, who took no notice of her. This one's mask was in the form of a violin; her long white gown was embroidered in gold with lyres and music notes. Around her, the musicians continued to play beautiful, cheerful renditions of classic holiday tunes. Their songs were quite at odds with the atmosphere in the ballroom below, where nasty rumors are spreading and confrontations are starting to erupt.

The woman in armor ascended a staircase to the balcony opposite the orchestra. When she reached the top, she offered a nod of acknowledgement to Aoide, the muse of music who stood among the musicians. Aoide replied with a deep nod of her own, recognizing Eris, the Goddess of Discord. Eris turned and surveyed her handiwork in the ballroom below with a severe, satisfied smile. As if on cue, Vladimir Dedov swung a sharp uppercut into Mr. Blackstone’s jaw.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Anton Dusk demanded, but his words were lost in pandemonium as discord exploded amongst his guests. Before long, blood would spatter the pristine snow outside the mansion. Eris’s eyes gleamed in triumph. At long last, her work here would be done, and those who reveled in ill-gotten wealth would receive their just desserts.