The Unmasked wore masks with little in the way of eyeholes or airholes for breathing. Self-harm seemed to be the theme. One had a noose around his neck, the excess length wound tight enough that flesh bulged between the coarse rope. There was one with nails driven between every joint of their hands. The leader, or the one who the rest seemed to be deferring to, had nails driven through the hard surface of the mask and into his eye sockets. Hands had strips of flesh peeled away, scars, or a combination of both where the damage from flaying had been clearly cauterized. Sometimes there were designs, sometimes it looked like they’d just cut and pulled away as much flesh as they could. Five capes.

And then there was Dark Society. White bandages hid their heads and faces, their hands or arms. The rest of them was covered in fine clothing in maroons, forest greens, royal purples and midnight blues. The bandages were marred—not with blood or anything from being hurt, but with what looked like ink applied with thumbs and fingers. A smear for each eye, making each one blurry, inconsistent and vague in the light of the fire.

Three members of Dark Society approached the fire, but more of the bandaged heads stared down from the road above the beach, peering with the black ink eyes. One had a smiley face of the same ink fingerpainting, and something told her that he was the leader, not even attending this meeting in person, but watching.

“A bonfire?” the leader of Morning Glory asked. “We’re going to have to change venues.”

“The last venue burned down,” Detente said. “The culprit was dealt with, but the groups couldn’t decide on a neutral territory.”

Damsel was tense as she watched the groups make their way down the slope. Burning Sensation and his group backed away—they hadn’t been that close to the fire, but they still ceded ground. Taper followed suit.

They were lesser.

The Mullen Brothers were next to walk away. They’d had a voice at previous moots, but they weren’t contenders.

Damsel remained where she was as the villains filled the space around the fire.

“She is?” one of the members of the Mass asked.

“I’m—”

“Damsel of Distress,” Detente said. “Dorchester.”

“I can speak for myself,” Damsel said.

“I wouldn’t,” Rotten Apple said.

“Those of us who have been here for the past two weeks know the state of your common sense, Rotten Apple,” Damsel said.

Rotten Apple smiled. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

“I’m more than a pain in the ass,” Damsel said. “Rest assured.”