The soft lantern light paints everything in shades of plum wine and cherry blossom; the air reeks of incense and perfume thick enough to make this open air marketplace feel stuffy. Stalls crowd shoulder to shoulder, selling charms, trinkets, scrolls of spellcraft. You drift down the streets, eyes wide, certain every merchant is waiting to haggle you out of your hard-earned coin. Yet still, you love the festive atmosphere of the Night Market.

  And then you see him.

  A fox-faced boy.. or man.. or something in between... lounging behind a counter of carved rune-wood. Crimson robes twisting around his thin frame, hair like pale, unkempt straw, eyes glowing like embers in a coal burner. A paper, purple parasol hangs behind him, shadow puppets flickering across its surface as he idly spins it in his hand. He lifts a mask on a stick, grins, and speaks to you as if you’re the only one in this macabre mercantile madness.

  “Welcome, wanderer. Come closer. I can see it in your eyes. You've dreamed of something more, yes?”

  Your feet carry you to him before you can think. His stall is cluttered with masks: simple designs, elaborate figures, supernatural beings. They gleam with finely painted details, the lacquer sheen catching in the moonlight, and pulse faintly, as though magic coursed just beneath the surface.

  He toys with one between long fingers, lips curling in amusement as he twirls the black kitsune mask slowly in front of you.

  “Not mere accessories, these. These offer... experiences. A new you, some would say. Would you like to try one on, hmm?”

  You feel foolish for staring, yet his words wrap around you like a net made from sheer charisma. He plucks a mask from the wall behind him and holds it up, voice smooth, coaxing, captivating.

  “The warrior. Steel in your hands, glory sung in taverns, life one battle at a time. Or perhaps the lover. Beauty that enraptures, a suit of suitors at your beck and call, high society and the easy life. Ah, but this one, yes, this one is heavy, isn’t it? The king. Imagine the crown, the wealth, the hush that falls when you enter a room, to become part of history itself. Why stay average, when extraordinary waits behind these painted eyes?”

  Your fingers close around it before you realize that you're holding the king's mask. The mask is warm, pulsing faintly, and you can feel something within it pulling toward you, eager and anxious. You hesitate, but his voice presses close, sweet like honey yet dangerous like poison.

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  “Go on. Try it. No one remembers the average.”

  You lift the mask to your face. A flash of light, the Market dissolves around you and in its place -

  A cackle, shrill and vulpine, rising and echoing and building onto itself until nothing but his laughter fills your mind. It feels like too much, but then daylight, you awaken from daydream

  Banners unfurl overhead, bearing your crest in honor of your coronation. A hall of stone and gilded decor echoes with cheers of your name. You sit on the throne, scepter firm in hand, subjects kneeling. You meet a lady, she becomes your queen.

  Years pass in triumph.

  Cities fallen to your might, banners burn, wars won, your name feared by your enemies and adored by those who you protect. Winter after winter, you help your people out-think famine, reshaping the land with sustainable farms and aqueducts. Your kingdom thrives thanks to your sage-like advice.

  Children are born to you, bright and strong and ambitious like their sire. Their laughter fills the palace halls, they grow and marry and help unite the noble houses under your rule. Peace envelopes the land. You hold court, hearing petitions and signing decrees, forging alliances that will long outlast you. Ballads are written of your reign, tales told in taverns by drunken and boisterous bards.

  When she passes, your queen, grief takes its toll, but you come to see your people as if all are your children. You continue for them, you live for them.

  Decades blend into decades. Grey touches your temples, your eyes cloud, wrinkles line your face. But joy stays in your heart. Your people revere you as a saint, wickedness knows no place in your soul.

  Your heirs grow into respective rulers themselves, a strong family bond further uniting the kingdom. Your line is secure, the people are blessed with benevolent rulers. When the time comes, it is understood who takes the throne, there is no risk of conflict or infighting.

  You live well.

  You die old.

  You die beloved by all.

  What a reign.

  What a life.

  Long Live the King -

  The chant carries, echoing through the gilded marble halls, a thousand voices raised in your honor. But the sound wavers, the throne room flickers erratically. Stone walls fold into themselves like melting wax, banners dissipate into smoke, and the cheers distort into shrill, vulpine laughter.

  The memory of your queen’s face blurs, running like wet ink. Your children bow, but their eyes are hollow with masks painted crudely where faces should be. Your scepter splinters, your crown rusts to dust in your cold hands.

  The hall is gone. The kingdom is gone. The years are gone.

  And yet to the rest of us, no time has passed at all.

  The Market is still here. Lanterns sway to a gentle night time breeze. The trickster fox leans on his counter, smile unchanged. In his hand, a faint wisp flickers like a dying firefly; your life force, fragile and trapped. The mask of the would be king lies on the counter, nothing but dead wood once more.

  He rolls the wisp across his knuckles, laughing under his breath. The sound is low, delighted, cruel. You never left. You only dreamed you did. That glorious life was nothing but an illusion, one that you readily bought into. One that has cost you everything.

  He tips his head back and inhales the wisp-like smoke. His grin widens as his eyes shine briefly, another soul stronger.

  He sighs, looking into the crowd with a wry smile, the look of satisfaction still hanging in his eyes. He sees another lost sheep, one meandering from stall to stall without purpose.

  Another wanderer. Another fool.

  “Ah, welcome, welcome! Come closer. I can tell, you've dreamed of something more, am I right?”